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Longsword R: Beginnings
Date: 1 June 2004, 5:21 PM

In celebration of my one-year anniversary here at HBO, I've decided to completely redo my first series, Longsword. I'm also submitting it for the Enkidu competition. Wish me luck, and, as always, comments are welcome!

0932 hours, November 23, 2552 (Military Calendar)Aboard the cockpit of a Northrop Grumman C709 Longsword S Interceptor, Earth local space

      "Break port Swordsmen leader!" came a yell across Major Marcus Easley's COM. He slapped the stick to the left and hauled back on it, which sent his new Northrop Grumman C709 Longsword S interceptor onto its port side and avoided a pulse laser blast from the Covenant battle cruiser Duty and Death. It had jumped in system barely 10 minutes ago, along with four frigates and seven destroyers. They were the first Covenant craft to threaten Earth.
      He, his squadron and the Human Marathon class cruiser, Maverick, one of the last fifteen of such craft, were charged with taking the Cruiser down.
      Not the easiest task.
      He quickly swung his Longsword back into position behind the third of the Triple MAC rounds that had been fired from the Maverick. He was gunning for the huge plasma torpedo launching line along the Duty and Death's port side. The first two MAC rounds slammed into the ship's shields. The shields flickered once, twice, and then disappeared. The third round smashed into the Duty and Death's port side, and ground through her nose; the very infrastructure of the ship itself was exposed.
      At less than 500 meters, Marcus pulled the trigger and sent a steady stream of Falcon Mark I Plasma Cannon (F Mk I PC) bolts towards his target.
      Marcus was the leader of UNSC Naval Fighter Squadron VF-32, the Swordsmen, a fighter group from the 3rd Carrier Wing. It was one of the oldest squadrons in the UNSC Navy, of U.S. Navy descent. They were assigned to the new Marathon class cruiser-carrier, the Maverick.
      Marcus watched as his shots danced across the ship's plasma line and penetrated about a half foot. That meant that the Duty and Death couldn't launch any plasma torpedoes without the chance of an explosion due to energy buildup. Marcus barked: "Swordsmen One, fox one!" as he depressed the large button under his right thumb, which let fly two AMRRIM-24 (Advanced Medium Range Radar Intercept Missile) "Viper" missiles. The missiles, when fired without any radar signature lock, acted like rockets and shot straight forward. He pulled up and saw ambient light from the explosion flash behind him as he skimmed low over the Cruiser's hull.
       Out of his peripheral vision, he saw a second 'Sword with the words "McCall's Monster" stenciled on the side. "Stay close James; I want another crack at this thing," he said as he put his ship through its paces.
      "Roger, lead. Keep your head up. We got twin Covies intent on having us for lunch, over!" Swordsman Two commed as plasma bolts from a Seraph landed on the hull between them.
      "Copy," he replied as he screamed low over the ship's hull with Swordsmen Two tucked in tight behind him. "Brake on my mark; we'll let them overshoot us! Three, two, one; mark!" Marcus ordered. He hit a button on the throttle marked rvsthrst, and pulled back the throttle back. Immediately, small retro jets fired on the nose of his bird and chopped off a cool 50 MPH of his speed. Two followed suit, and the pair of Seraphs shot over them. Marcus focused his eyes on the port bandit, and it the Laser Eye Movement Recognition System (LEMRS, or "lemurs") in his helmet read where his eyes pointed, and achieved a radar lock for his Vipers.
      "Swordsmen One, fox-" Marcus began, but a trio of AIIM-22 (Advanced Infrared Interceptor Missile) "Diamondback" missiles slammed into the starboard Seraph and detonated. The Seraph's hulk slammed into its twin and they both ground into the Duty and Death. Marcus looked at his radar, essentially a three-dimensional cube with a grid to match; bandits were red, friendlies were green and mission specific targets were gold. He saw a green dot flying close behind he and Two, and found that Swordsmen Seven had made the shot.
      Grudgingly, he muttered, "Thanks, Seven."
      Seven either didn't notice the malice in the Major's voice, or didn't care as he haughtily responded, "Glad to help a lesser pilot, lead."
Marcus gritted his teeth in annoyance and arced back towards the Maverick in order to make another pass with Seven and Two with him.
      There was no need.
      The Maverick's hastily fitted four Triple MACs (Magnetic Accelerator Cannon) fired in tandem. Their twelve total rounds smashed through what was left of the Duty and Death and gutted her from fore to aft. She looked like Swiss cheese as secondary explosions crawled along her hull. Finally, something vital blew; the cruiser exploded in a gigantic, azure fireball.
      No Covenant drop ships had been seen launching out of her bays.
      "You know," came a female voice on Marcus's COM. "That would have been soooo much easier had the Big MACs been up."
      Marcus rolled his eyes.
      "Refrain from non-tactical comments on this channel, Four. And besides, we wouldn't even have to be off the Maverick if they were up."
      "Well then, have you got any clue why they're keeping the Super MACs that are already up on the dark side of Earth?"
      "Nope. Not a clue."
      All four Covenant frigates lay in ruins, thanks to the San Jacinto, and the Yorktown, a pair of Human Frigates. They, too, were armed with triple MACs; a pair, each. Several Human destroyers, namely the Thunderbolt and Lightning were responsible for the seven Covenant destroyer hulks floating lifelessly around Earth. They were twin craft, constructed with the same design and at the same time at the Reese and McCleese shipyards above Mars. For whatever reason, the UNSC had recently done an about face on their policy of honeycombing ships with titanium-A and hydraulic reinforcements. They had ordered all ships to be honeycombed with hydraulically operated Titanium emergency reinforcements about a month ago. Even as the battle was being fought moments ago, techs were busy upgrading the Maverick with them. The UNSC had also ordered several hybrid ships, a combination of Marathon class size and power, with a Halcyon's ruggedness and durability.
      After receiving landing clearance, Marcus guided towards the Maverick's starboard aft bay. Small ships flitted in and about the area. Marcus knew they were profiteer ships, ships that were controlled by civilians but were paid by the U.N. to attack Covenant ships. They varied in shape and size: some were pleasure yachts outfitted with a few leftover Archer missiles; others were bigger, such as corvettes, and some carried old, outdated fighters as pocket carriers. Though they weren't strictly bound by law to do so, most of them answered to the military chain of command. The Maverick had several dozen of the things under her control.

      As he passed along the length of the Maverick, he couldn't help but fall in awe of the ship's size and raw power.
      Second only to the Leviathan in terms of size, it was extremely deadly. One of the fastest ships in the fleet despite its bulk, the Maverick had the very latest in nuclear reactor technology to power her. Two small fusion reactors came on line to supercharge the main one. With a normal reactor, that would have immediately resulted in a meltdown. This reactor however, used a slurry of laser-induced ions chilled to near absolute zero to cool the system. In effect, the more juice Captain Reeves put into the thing, the more slurry he'd have to cool it, which made it possible for the reactor's overlapping magnetic fields to do their jobs, and spike the power to 350%.
      Offensively, it could give a Covie fleet a headache. Located on the top, starboard, port and undercarriage of her hull were the new and ludicrously powerful Triple MAC cannons that had been fitted to almost every capital ship left in the UNSC fleet. Those babies fired a special MAC round that had a special ferrous core and carbide tungsten shell. They splintered on impact, which wreaked havoc on a Covenant ship's shields and hull. As if that weren't enough, special magnetic field recyclers were able to recapture the energy field. Coupled with special booster capacitors, they could fire three successive rounds with one charge (As opposed to the normal one charge-one round from a standard MAC). For medium to long-range attack, there were the Spitfire missile pods, which had replaced the old, and almost ineffective Archer missiles. They had several times the punch and maneuverability. The pods were located on the upper aft of the ship, numbering twenty pods across and twenty down. Each pod held thirty missiles. That totaled 12,000 missiles. For some extra punch, the Maverick carried ten SHIVA tactical nuclear missiles and four HAVOK nuclear mines. Finally, the Maverick had eighty sixty-millimeter autocannons arrayed strategically to handle point defense against enemy fighters.
      Fighter wise, it held three squadrons, half of a full wing. Each had its own hangar; there was a squadron of support craft on board, namely Pelican dropships and E97D Eagle Eye airborne control centers onboard, and they were dispersed throughout the different bays. On average, a cruiser held around twelve docking bays, of which seven were devoted to the airborne control centers, fighter and/ or dropship squadrons and the five remaining ones were devoted to maintenance ships and the like. However, the Maverick had foregone five docking bays for Spitfire missile pods. That left the ship with around ten pods per bay for an additional three thousand missiles. Unfortunately, it stuffed the Roughnecks in with everybody else.
      Within the half-wing, Marcus himself was not the top-man on the totem pole. He was a squadron leader, granted, but was third in the half wing command. Along with the VF-32 Swordsmen, there was the VF-154 Black Knights and the VF-302 Stallions; the leaders of those squadrons were Lieutenant Commander Daphne and Major Haines, with the chain of command in the same order. The commander of the ninety-eighth support squadron, VS-98 Roughnecks, was Captain George Rwanda. With the exception of Rwanda, Marcus considered them to be complete idiots. They had a habit of giving he and his squadron the dangerous assignments to keep their butts out of the line of fire. Though, in some ways, it could be explained away tactically.
      The Swordsmen had the most experience out of any of the squadrons on the Maverick. During his fourth tour of duty with the Swordsmen, he had been second in command of the squadron. The group had been serving on the Maverick in the Gethsemane system. Hunter and James had also been serving. The leader of the squadron at that time, Colonel Michael Becker, had been killed when his Longsword L had slammed into the docking bay of a Covenant ship while attempting to deliver a SHIVA nuclear weapon. The resulting explosion hit something vital, and destroyed the ship. The other squadron mates had been killed by the notoriously accurate Covenant triple-A fire or by Seraphs. Marcus had inherited command of the squadron.

      Carefully, he lowered the electrically powered landing gear and guided his Longsword onto an automated landing pad inside bay three. He heard a chunk as magnetic strips on the pad connected with magnetic strops on his wheeled landing gear and secured his Longsword to the pad. The pad dropped his 'Sword down, cycled it through an airlock, and slowly dropped it down into the noisy Hangar Deck. The Hangar Deck was active as usual: mechanics, or "mechs" as most pilots called them, crawled over various Longswords and Pelican dropships and made repairs. Pilots made pre-flight checks, and ammunition stores were loaded onto the ships. Less than half of the Swordsmen had actually gotten airborne during the engagement. Sloppy. Haines or Daphne would surely drop a memo onto his desk for that.
      After taxiing to his 'Sword's parking spot, he unbuckled himself, did a quick post-flight check, popped the hatch and walked down the ramp. He nodded and smiled to his head mechanic, Archibald White, known to everybody as Archie. He spoke with a cockney accent, which made it somewhat hard to understand what he was saying. Archie returned the grin and said, "Ah, if it isn't my favorite squadron leader! So, did you get any more kills?"
      Marcus shook his head, no. He and his wingmate, along with Three through Six, had been assigned to go after the torpedo launcher. He'd had Seven and Eight fly cover for them, a decision he knew he would regret later. He stored his helmet in one of the 'Sword's storage lockers, popped the hatch and gave his interceptor the post-flight look over.
      He liked what he saw.
      The Longsword S was the newest model of interceptor and had all the new perks. For example, it was made of super strong, ultra-lightweight, self-repairing carbon-fiber composites. Any impact from small pieces of metal in space going at several thousand miles per hour could have destroyed first generation fighters; however, these composites could take tons of punishment. The carbon fibers occasionally cracked from stress though the extreme temperatures of space and the wing-warp effects, but quickly repaired itself, since repair fluid was continuously circulated throughout the body of the fighter in micro-capillaries. There was also a mixture of palladium, nickel, copper and phosphorus in the fibers that was, for lack of a better term, "squishy". A Longsword could take several thousand rounds of 110-millimeter ammo, and fifteen seconds later, the composite would kick the bullets out. Projectile weapons had proved useless on the later model 'Swords, and the next step was to make it invincible against energy based weapons. Unfortunately, all the Longswords had were energy refractive coatings of paint on its airframe, but Marcus had heard rumors that ONI was extremely interested in making the fighters practically invincible.
      Its design would make any twentieth century aviator shake his head in wonder. By twentieth century standards, the Longsword was a flying tennis court; all fighters up until it had been as small as possible. Another thing that would have puzzled past pilots, was the fact that the giant had VTOL capability. (Vertical Take-Off and Landing) The fighter could take off without a runway. However, the naval pilots used catapults ninety percent of the time to ensure that their bird didn't get hit by flying debris from their own ship.
      The body was basically a flying wing. Marcus believed that the Longsword's designers had gotten their inspiration from the B-2 Spirit, a stealth bomber that the United States Air Force had developed in the twentieth century. Over the years, tailless designs had proved to be easier to maintain and more maneuverable due to the lack of drag. To further reduce drag, there were no flaps on the plane. Nor, for that matter were there any elevators or stabilizers. Instead, they had been replaced by multipurpose control surfaces and a "Wing-warp" ability. Wing-warp was the ability of the Longsword S to change the shape of its wings in almost any way possible. Plus, there wasn't a single right angle on the fighter as well. Ninety-degree angles apparently reflected radar and sensors, which made any airplane with them easier to spot.
      However, the most exciting fact was that this model had four plasma cannons. All of the previous Longswords had had eight 110-millimeter rotary cannons. For all practical purposes, taking out an enemy Seraph fighter with those was all but impossible. The shells were too hard to aim in zero-g. They were also barely effective against a Seraph's shield. Ammo consumption was a problem as well. In studies, 92.5% of the rounds fired missed. Marcus had done the math. With approximately ten thousand rounds per Longsword, that amounted to about nine thousand, three hundred rounds that never connected. However, these four plasma cannons were found to be easier to aim; he could thunder easily through a Seraph's shield. He had ONI's reverse engineering of captured Covenant plasma rifles to thank for that advancement. Now if only the Longsword had a shield…Marcus shook his head.It's not the cards you're dealt, but how you play them, he thought to himself, ridding his mind of that beautiful shield.
      Another perk were the powerful new AMRRIM-24 "Viper" and AIIM-22 "Diamondback" missiles. As opposed to the now obsolete ASGM-10 missiles that had been in service for thirty years, these babies were lighter, smaller, smarter, more maneuverable, and carried twice the punch. The Longsword S carried forty such missiles, mounted internally with 20 on either side of the cockpit, just beyond the plasma cannons. When launched, they were punched out of one of two bays located on the 'Sword's belly at a force of 40 G's by a Vertical Ram Eject Launchers, (VREJs, pronounced "verges," for short), which was necessary to ensure the missile didn't get to close to the Longsword.
      His 'Sword could also carry other armaments. It could drop smart bombs, dumb bombs, bombs of average intelligence, or even a bag of rotten fruit if it was called for. Rockets and air to ground or anti-ship missiles weren't unexpected, either.
      The S model was also speed demon. It utilized a Boeing PDE-22 Raptor engine, which was based on pulse-detonation engine technology. A small amount of the gases used in a Capital ship's emergency thrusters and a nearly microscopic amount of jet fuel from onboard tanks were put into a several tubes and ignited thousands of times a second. The force was ridiculously powerful. In atmosphere, the turbofans on the front of the engines opened and let in air so that the Longsword didn't have to use onboard oxygen for its propulsion. Together, the two PDE-22's on Marcus's Longsword could propel the craft to Mach seven in atmosphere. The tech had first been explored in the early part of the millennium, and met with nearly instantaneous success. It also had thrust-vectoring capabilities, which meant that the engine nozzle could angle to forty-five degrees and jackknife his fighter through nearly impossible turns. Improvements had come in over 500 years, and they all culminated in this design.

      His 'Sword also had a personal touch. Directly under the cockpit on the port side, were the words," Easley's Eraser." To the right of that was a small cartoon of an elementary school eraser. It had arms, legs and a face with an infuriated expression and stood in a menacing pose. Above it in a dialogue bubble were the words, "I'll rub you out, see!?"
      On the "tail", which was a three-dimensional triangle turned on its side was the squadron's insignia, a large European, "knight" style sword with a jewel encrusted hilt.
      Marcus smiled in spite of himself; whatever Covie ship came into the system would get a nasty little surprise…
      "Nice one Marcus!" came a yell from across the bay. Marcus turned his head to look at his wingman and walked headlong into the wall. He had missed the door by three feet. He grunted with pain. "Do you mind James, not distracting me so that I don't end up with a flat side of my head?" Marcus snarled.
      "Aw, you're no fun!" James whined.
      Marcus faced his wingman.
      A full six inches shorter than he was, James McCall, Swordsmen Two, had olive skin and unruly black hair that would have, under normal circumstances, gotten him court marshaled. It was that wild. He also had a happy-go-lucky scatterbrained sense of humor, and an easygoing attitude that Marcus could only wonder how he maintained in view of the impending invasion.
      As he looked around, Marcus spotted the other Swordsmen emerging from their Longswords. To his left, he spotted the two female wing mates of the squadron, Samantha and Zoë. Samantha Matthews, Swordsmen Three, had a somewhat strong belief in military protocol, and wore her dark hair in a ponytail. Her dark eyes glittered with a spark that Marcus had seen in very few pilots. Her father was Commander Matthews, the captain of the UNSC Destroyer, Minotaur, which was obliterated by the newest type of Covenant flagship at Reach. Most pilots had nicknamed it a "Sniper".
      Marcus frowned; he pitied her. For a moment, he felt a pang of guilt. I've been fortunate; I haven't lost a loved one during this entire war…
      But then he glanced at Zoë. Zoë Park, Swordsmen Four, had dark blue eyes and long blonde hair; she looked like a movie actress. Beautiful, with a lovely personality. She was friendly and considerate…and yet so deadly. Her total kills numbered twelve.
      Then he spotted two of the last six Swordsmen, Hunter and Chase. Hunter Creighton, Swordsmen Six, wore his sandy-blonde hair in a flattop, and his blue eyes showed determination. His face had graced recruiting posters. Marcus liked him; he was a nice guy. Probably, along with James, his best friend in the squadron.
      Chase Warner, Swordsmen Five, Hunter's wingman, had bleach-blonde hair that looked as though a SHIVA had hit it. With Robin-egg eyes, he seemed like a heartthrob to many girls, including Samantha and Zoë…as Marcus thought about it, a wave of jealousy washed over him.
      Swordsmen Nine and Ten had emerged from their 'Swords and were making their way through other ships, techs, and various equipment.
      He looked to his right, and saw the final two swordsmen emerging from their Longswords; Steven and Austin. Marcus felt his expression darken.
      Steven Olive, Swordsmen Seven, was an annoyance to say the least. He acted superior to everybody except Austin, and Austin Tindol, Swordsmen Eight, wasn't any better. Together, they gloated over their superior number of kills, even though their numbers weren't over 20. Everybody else had around ten. They had both been a tremendous pain in the ass, even bigger than the Colonel and Major Hanes, ever since they had been transferred to his squadron. He didn't know why he had gotten them either, though he assumed that he had lost a bet that he couldn't remember.

      "Anybody up for some coffee?" Zoë asked, her hair sashayed from side to side as she walked Marcus and through the door.
      "Sure," Marcus said. "I'm game."

Longsword R: Rally Point Alpha
Date: 6 June 2004, 10:17 PM

0954 hours, November 23,(Military Calendar)Deck Seven of the UNSC Marathon class Cruiser-Carrier, Maverick, in orbit above Earth

      The door out of the hangar deck opened into the corridor. The pilots of the VF-32 Swordsmen walked out into the hall in the direction of the pilots' bar, known affectionately as "Afterburner." Marcus, Swordsmen One, could hear voices behind him and he tried to get the group to pick up its pace. Swordsmen Seven and Eight were close behind the group and everybody wanted to avoid them. No doubt they would rub in the fact that they had gotten some more aerial kills while nobody else had.
      Marcus heard one of the two yell, "Hey, where are you going? Don't tell me our glorious leader hasn't gotten anymore kills!"
      Marcus hunched his shoulders and tried to pretend like he hadn't heard them. He made a good thirty yards before he felt a hand land on his shoulder and an annoying, familiar face appeared beside his head.
      It was Seven, Steven. "Guess how many I got today?" he said, grinning obnoxiously. Without waiting for an answer he said, "Dos. That's two for me, none for you."
      Marcus, more than irritated by this time, rounded on him and spoke through gritted teeth. "Well hotshot, in case you didn't notice, while you were playing Top Gun up there, the rest of us were taking down a Cruiser."
      "Oh, I noticed; all it means to me is that you still don't have another tear victory marker on the side of your 'Sword!"
      Marcus almost continued the hostile conversation, but they had been walking the whole time, and had reached Afterburner.
      The doors opened and the Swordsmen walked, or in the case of Seven and Eight, swaggered into the room. Afterburner was made as a place where off-duty personnel could get food when mess wasn't in session. It was nice, even though it was more of a bar than a mess hall. It was made with all of the crew in mind and had soft, red carpeting. The walls were brass coated and reflective, and had lights with shades sitting half inside of the wall, which gave the room the same amount of light, as they would've gotten at dusk back planetside. The tables were set in booths, and all of them had a vid screen for placing orders, to provide a peaceful view of the stars or a selection of movies that could be played while eating a meal. Gentle Jazz Muzak flowed out of speakers on the side of the vid screens. Ultimately, Afterburner produced a dim, relaxed atmosphere.
      Each branch of the crew onboard had its own name for the room. Afterburner was the pilots' name for it. The Navy called it "After Shift," on account of it was where most of the Navy personnel went there after their shift at their stations. The Marines and Security teams called it the "Dugout."
      Marcus hoped that the smallest booth was available so that Abbott and Costello would have to find their own booth; they were draining his reserves of patience even faster than usual. Unfortunately for him and the rest of the squadron, it was already taken by a couple of security team members chatting merrily over mugs of Coors about the new MA7B Battle Rifle, which had just become standard issue about a month ago.
      The Swordsmen took the booth in the corner, which was the largest; it could hold all eight of them. Marcus typed an order for a cup of Java and a turkey sandwich into the screen then watched as everybody placed his or hers. He leaned back in his chair and sighed.
      The resident braggarts resumed the conversation from before. Marcus tried to tune them out and listened in on the debate between Swordsmen Five, Six, Three and Four. Two was too busy miming throwing up behind Seven and Eight to debate. Marcus suppressed a grin and joined in.
      "...Look, I just don't see the cause for worry. The Big MACs will be up by the end of the day, remember?" That was Zoë, Four.
      "Well, all I'm saying is that I don't trust the two technologies. Granted they have both been tested in combat before, and both have performed well. The triple MACs, as we have seen today, are obviously effective; I have no problem with them. I'm not so thrilled with the Super MACs. They did make a difference at Reach..."
      The name of the planet sparked a memory in Marcus. ONI had kept Reach's destruction hidden for nearly three weeks. The news had gotten through when some pirates made a stop in the system to make a hit on a luxury liner that was scheduled to have been passing there. They were ambushed and almost killed. They jumped directly back to Earth, in violation of the Cole Protocol, and told anybody who would listen that Reach had been destroyed.
"...albeit a rather small one once everything was said and done. After all, they helped eliminated an estimated a two hundred plus Covenant ships. Still, the Covenant were able to get down planet side and destroy the fusion generators powering the Super MACs. They can't be depended upon."
      "Wildcat," Chase said as he referred to Samantha by her call sign. "You're getting worked up over nothing here."

      "No, I'm being a realist, Corsair," Samantha said as the returned the favor and called Chase by his call sign. Her voice turned defensive. "Like it or not, each Big MAC is going to be the size of at least a Marathon class Cruiser. Can the Covenant miss a target that big? The Covenant even slagged some of the Super MACs in orbit at Reach, and they were the size of Destroyers. All that saved the remaining ones from plasma torps were the R&R stations that took the shot for them. Granted, the Big MACs will be three times as effective as the old Super MACs, seeing as how it can fire three shots and still recharge and reload in five seconds. The fact remains that the generators are vulnerable. Cripple those and it's over."
      Marcus joined in: "Like it or not Wildcat, those things might be our only hope for survival. Besides, unlike the fusion reactors on Reach, those things our spread all over Earth. I've heard rumors that one is even located inside Mount McKinley. They'll be hard to locate and destroy. Even then, there are the probably backup generators."
      "What is this, Eviscerator? International call sign week? I'm just pointing out that they can't be depended upon."
      By this time, Steven and Austin had noticed that nobody was listening to them, so they put in their two cents. Marcus felt his eyes glaze over and Zoë suddenly became interested in the star field on the vid screen; Seven and Eights' comments mainly consisted of how the Big MACs would be great, but wouldn't be needed since they were flying.
      The squadron was saved from more torture as their orders arrived. The debate changed topics and slowed, but didn't die as each of the squadron members talked between bites.
      "And what about this small battle group they just sent?" Samantha asked. "Why this small?"
      Hunter, who had remained silent until that point spoke unexpectedly. "Well, from what we know, the Covies are going for the jugular. They've bypassed most of the Inner Colonies, like Holdout. Let's face it; if they take out Earth, it's over. As for the size of this dinky little incursion they threw our way, I think it was just a probe. A test of our defenses..."
      Hunter's analysis fueled the debate, and it grew even hotter. However, after ten minutes, Marcus had gotten tired of the argument. It had degenerated into a putdown parade. People were calling one-another by their call signs instead of names. He sighed as he took a sip of coffee; it was bitter. Very bitter. He almost spit it back out.
      "You know what puzzles me?" he asked no one in particular. "The fact that perhaps the most powerful ship in Human history can destroy dozens of Covie craft, yet can't make coffee that's any better tasting than fresh tar."
      James and Chase overhead his remark and chuckled. Marcus set the cup down on the table and swirled it thoughtfully. He caught his own reflection in the glass surface of the table.
      His blonde hair was cut at standard issue length. Ice blue eyes betrayed sparks of friendliness and intelligence. Except for Hunter, he stood taller than the other members of the squadron. With a medium build to boot, he thought he was handsome, but not a knockout.
      His eyes wandered towards the vid screen. He allowed the slowly spinning star field there to mesmerize him...they were so vivid, not at all like they were on the ground. Thousands upon thousands of them. Marcus thought of the colonies that had wiped out by the Covenant and felt a melancholy mood was over him. Most never had a chance...
      Wait...what the? The Major blinked his eyes rapidly and stared intensely at the screen. Did he just see...
      Yes, he had.
      He downed the remainder of his coffee in one swift gulp, coughed, and then shoved his way out of the booth.
      "What's the hurry, Boss?" James asked, surprised at the Major's abruptness. Marcus pointed at the vid screen. James directed his eyes to it.
      "See the little dots?" Marcus asked. His heart was beginning to pump faster.
      "Yeah, boss. They're called stars if I remember correctly."
      "Looks closer. See any green on that field? Just off the center?" Marcus questioned his wingman impatiently. James squinted his eyes and then opened them wide.
      "What're tho-"
      "Slipspace entry points. A lot of them. That means that another Covie battle group is intent on wiping us out. And, based on the raw number of dots, I'd estimate over three hundred ships." James's eyes bugged out. The group scrambled out of their seats just as the loudspeakers in the ship began blaring, "General quarters, man you station! General quarters, man your station!"
      Marcus and the group bolted for hangar deck and their birds.

1024 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar)Bridge of the UNSC Cruiser-Carrier, Maverick

      Captain Günter Reeves stood in a parade rest on the bridge of the UNSC Marathon class Cruiser-Carrier, Maverick. He wore the standard uniform and the standard issue hat. He had a black mustache that had several streaks of silver in it. His steel-frost green eyes stared at the Maverick's A.I. His expression was dead set and serious. He was in a no-nonsense mood. Though he was of German descent, his voice carried no accent, only deep concern.
      "You're positive, Eagle?" he asked the construct.
      "One-hundred percent positive, sir." Eagle had chosen the form of a twentieth century Navy pilot. His carried his helmet under his left arm. Logic symbols streamed across it constantly. His "hair" was strawberry-blonde and he stood tall due to the advanced holotank on the bridge. His attitude could occasionally be gung-ho; but now, there was no excitement in his voice; only cold, tactical assessment.
      "There are precisely seven hundred and fifty six Covenant ships of varying classes that have entered the system in-between Mars and Earth."
      "Great." A seven to one kill ratio. No way the Humans were going to win this. The Captain stroked his mustache. "Any ships of noted interest?"
      "Can you clarify, sir?"
      "Ships outside of known Covenant designs or at least unusual ones?"
      "Yes, sir; there's one of these," Eagle said as several images swam into focus above the holotank. Eagle enlarged them, extruded them into three dimensions, and showed them in turn beside him. Each image was of a Covenant ship, all of the same design.
      " We do know this design though, sir. It appears to be a flagship. From this range, it appears as it has a number of plasma turrets. Seven, from what I can tell. If I had to guess, those turrets are immensely powerful. One shot from those..." he let the sentence trail off.
      The Captain sighed. "Really great. How's re-supply coming?"
      "We've got the maximum number of MAC rounds and Spitfires, sir. All fighters are operational and our squadrons are scrambling. We also have the regulation amounts of HAVOK nuclear mines, and SHIVA nuclear missiles. That's about-" Eagle stopped in mid-sentence.
      Reeves's expression immediately became concerned. "What's wrong?"
      Eagle appeared surprised, but quickly regained his composure and smiled. "Sir, it appears we have a new addition to our armaments."
      Reeves was puzzled. "Explain," he commanded.
      "Well, sir, I presume you are familiar with Fury tactical nukes?"
      "The closest thing we've got to a nuclear grenade. They're only the size of an over-inflated football. Why do you ask?"
      "In docking bay five, a port side bay and one of the ones we ended up forgoing so that we could in stall more Spitfires, is a machine that will launch Fury nukes at an enemy ship at the speed of a MAC round. I can already imagine the effects...set the timers for ten seconds, fire off a bay's worth of Spitfires into a middle of a Covie formation...follow that up with a three round burst from the launcher..."
      Reeves returned the grin. "How many Furies have we got?"
      "Twenty, sir." The Captain let out a long, low whistle.
      "Any clue as to how we got this thing?"
      Eagle frowned. "No, sir. The only ships that entered the Maverick were standard Laden class supply numbers. Nothing unusual. I wonder if-" Eagle was interrupted as Lieutenant Hayes, the Maverick's Communication officer suddenly yelled, "Sir, incoming transmission from Admiral Hood! It's on alpha priority. You want me to patch it through, sir?" Reeves nodded. The pictures of the Covenant flagships faded, and were replaced by Admiral Hood's face. He was impeccably groomed, as usual. Not a single strand of his silver hair was out of place. However, dark, purple circles of fatigue hung under his eyes. Despite his obvious weariness, he was grinning like a small boy who had a bug that he was going to shove in a girl's face. It was a simile that seemed inappropriate Captain Reeves.
      "Lieutenant Hayes," Reeves commanded. "Get a recording program working on this now. Also, pipe it through to every room on this ship; audio only." The Lieutenant nodded and began to type keys furiously.
      "Okay, boys and girls," the Admiral spoke. "This is it. Our remaining one hundred and fifty ships will be divided between myself and Admiral Stanforth." Hood's name appeared above the holotank next to his image. "The name you're receiving will be your commander for this fight. Now then," he continued. "The plan." The image above the holotank resolved into a map of Earth local space. It was large, and even included the moon. "We have a sallied force of twenty five ships, Destroyers and Frigates, hidden in the moon's shadow. Once the Covenant passes by them, they will make a hit and run attack on the Covenant flank. Half of them will duck back behind the moon; the others will retreat through the debris field located here." A good portion of the map directly in front of Earth became cubed in red.
      "Inside of that field are a dozen HAVOK nuclear mines. The Covenant will follow them and then-" the Admiral formed his right hand into a fist and slammed it into his open left palm. "Bam. We've got 'em. Before the flanking attack, though, all other ships will rendezvous at rally point alpha. We'll hide there and wait for the explosion. If that fails, we'll still be able to protect the Big and Super MACs. Good luck, and good hunting."
      Hood's image snapped away from the holotank. A very big, slimy, gross and disgusting bug, indeed, Reeves though to himself.

1022 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Hangar Bay Four of the UNSC Cruiser-Carrier, Maverick

Marcus sprinted to his Northrop-Grumman Longsword S Interceptor. The hangar deck was the perfect picture of pandemonium. Mechs scrambled over the planes as they made last minute repairs and re-arming on multiple ships. People ran into, over, and in a few cases slid under other people as they dashed to get their fighter or to their station. Almost everyone wore ear mufflers to dull the roar of the Longswords' pulse detonation engines as they started up.
      Marcus was out of breath as he sprinted the last twenty feet to the waiting ramp of his Longsword; Archie wore sound mufflers and ducked below the wing of the ship as he guided a hydraulic arm on a cart that held a rack of five Diamondbacks up into the 'Sword's port weapon bay. The Major noted, with some dismay, that his bird had four ASM-54 Copperhead missiles hanging off of its external hard points, two on each side. It meant that he and his squadron were expected to make ship attack runs like last time. Last time hadn't been nearly as bad, however, due to the fact that they had only been told to go after the plasma torpedo launcher. The Anti-Ship-Missile-54 Copperheads meant that they were expected to bring down the whole shebang. At least the rest of the bird looked good.

      "How is she?" Marcus yelled as he sprinted past.
      Archie replied with a thumbs up without looking at the Major. Marcus ran up the ramp and into his bird. He slapped the close button for the ramp and it crawled upward with a hydraulic hiss. His ears popped as the 'Sword began to pressurize. The Major opened the storage locker and retrieved his helmet. It was a real piece of work.
      The helmet was black with blood-red claw marks that crossed in an "X" shape above his call sign, which was also painted in red, dead center on the front of it. It read: Eviscerator. Marcus had designed the scheme personally. The helmet was quite probably the most important piece of equipment on the fighter. It contained the Heads Up Display (HUD), which displayed his altitude; weapons load outs and selection, attitude; and contained the LEMRS target acquisition system. The faceplate was made out of bulletproof glass that had the ability to polarize to prevent glare from any light sources.
      He all but shoved the helmet down on his head and he scrambled into the pilot's seat. He pulled the latch strap up from below the chair and methodically inserted the two pairs of side-belts and shoulder belts into it; this was a ritual the Major was confident that he could have done in his sleep. The seat automatically reclined to a forty-five degree angle as he did so; lying down at the angle gave him the same amount of visibility, and helped to control g-forces exerted on his body. He connected the air hose from the bottom of the chair into his helmet, and felt air flow over his face.
      The Longsword carried a pressurized cabin, but the pilots wore their helmets in the event that the hull was compromised and decompression occured.
      The HUD booted up and performed a quick systems check. All of the systems showed green, so Marcus fired up the PDEs on his 'Sword. The bird's hull shook as though it were eager to fight. Marcus glanced down out of the cockpit and saw Archie pull away the nose chocks, which held the fighter's front wheels in place. The head mech gave Marcus another thumbs up and grinned.
      The 'Sword nosed forward and Marcus pushed his foot down on the right rudder pedal, which rotated his plane into the main thoroughfare. He found himself behind two other 'Swords as they quickly taxied towards the five landing pads. He was third in line, so he ended up stopping on the center pad. He slowed his engine down to idle, and felt the fighter jerk to a halt as the magnetic strips on the landing pads connected with those on his landing gear.
      The Major flipped on his radio over to the ship wide band. Someone thoughtful had begun to pump music over the COM. It was completely un-regulation, and the person who did it was almost certain to have his rank busted, but Marcus liked it. It was some sort of ancient music, over five hundred years old; he recognized it as a sound called "disco". He did, however snap it off when the lyrics blasted, "This is it! You got your back to a corner!" Easley then turned on music of his own, an ancient song called "Iron Man."
      Pilots whooped battle cries, curses and challenges (Often littered with profanities). The Major, however, didn't offer any of his own. Instead, he let the other pilots' remarks pump himself up.
      The bird shook again, and the floor fell away from him. The pads raised him and five other Longswords up into the fighter launch bay. It was a small space, only 20 meters tall, but it held the Longswords and gave them plenty of room to land. He clicked his COM on again to air traffic control. Thick, battle plate doors in front of him parted and revealed Earth's north pole and a sea of stars. Marcus couldn't see any Covenant, but that didn't mean that they weren't there. They were probably behind the Maverick.
      "Control, this is Swordsmen One; I am on 'cat number three. Request launch clearance." Without waiting for conformation, he began to rev the fighter's pulse detonation engines. They didn't make a noise in the vacuum, but it vibrated everything.
      "Clearance denied, Swordsmen One," called back the voice of Joseph Saldanna, the air traffic controller or "air boss". "All squadrons are to wait until we reach rally point alpha to launch."
      "Control, there are sure to be mucho bandits out there. I can't do anything in here about them. Let me launch."
      "I'm sorry, Major, but these orders come straight from the Captain."

1027 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Bridge of the UNSC Cruiser-Carrier, Maverick

      At rally point alpha, the Big MACs were being constructed. There were over ten in production, and they were absolute monoliths of destruction. There were still Super MACs, around thirty, and they were going to be upgraded to Big MACs soon. The Maverick orbited relative to the Big MAC closest to completion; it was actually larger than the Marathon class Cruiser-Carrier.
      Captain Reeves looked at it with critical eyes. It was really humanity's only hope for survival.
      "Lieutenant Hayes," he ordered. "Launch one of our Clarion spy drones. I want to get a good look at this." The Lieutenant in charge of communications nodded and typed commands into her console and then glanced back at Captain Reeves.
      "Aye, sir; Clarion drone away. It'll be out of Earth's shadow in approximately five seconds."
      "Good. Put up the view on the main holotank." The air above the holotank wavered and resolved itself into a static-pocked picture of the Covenant battle group that was approaching close to the moon.
      "Here we go," Reeves muttered. As soon as the large force of seven hundred plus capital ships had passed the moon, some more capital ships appeared. However, there was one small difference: they were Human controlled.

Longsword R: Desperation, Part One
Date: 18 June 2004, 7:16 PM

1029 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Bridge of the UNSC Cruiser-Carrier, Maverick

      The Lighting, Thunderbolt, San Jacinto and Yorktown were among the surprise attack force. The Human ships spat triple MAC rounds in a fiery volley towards the invaders. Reeves fully expected the first two rounds of each salvo to stop at the enemies' shields...but they didn't. The trios of rounds slammed into the Covenant ships.
      Reeves saw three shots from the Thunderbolt smash into the engines of a cruiser and all of the rounds exit out the nose in a single hole. The cruiser exploded a moment later.
      They hadn't put their shields up yet. Human casualties: zero. Covenant casualties: thirty-eight and rising.
      The Human destroyers and frigates were quick to take advantage of their enemies' error. The Humans split their triple MAC volleys; one shot per ship. The Covenant sat in formation, stunned as the Humans tore into their ranks. MACs fired and arced across the void, and Spitfire missiles left snaky tendrils of exhaust behind them as they slammed into the Covenant ships.
      Reeves glanced at a readout of showing the number of enemy ships. It was dropping at a rate of two to five ships per second. There were, by this point, over a hundred Covenant ship hulks drifting dead in space. One unlucky Human frigate at the head of the attack was rendered "dead in the water" as a Covenant cruiser decided to take the risk and fired plasma torpedo. The torpedo pulsated in the visible spectrum of colors from hot pink to ice blue. It caromed through the Covenant formation towards the frigate. The torpedo glanced off of another Covie ship before it finally slammed into the frigate's engines.
      The engines struggled to stay alive as several Covenant craft became bolder and opened up with their pulse lasers. The frigate's engines finally flamed as the concentrations of energy pounded its aft. The commander of the ship kept his cool, though he'd lost all normal methods of propulsion. He activated his boat's aft emergency thruster, and the frigate leapt away from the Covenant formation, on a vector straight for the debris field.
      A destroyer moved into its wake and absorbed multiple shots from the Covenant's lasers in order to protect the frigate. Then, it too tried to retreat from the enemy formation. Unfortunately, the Covenant flagship fired one of its turrets. The beam of plasma nearly shattered the destroyer; the lance of energy penetrated deep into the hull and sent cracks racing along the destroyer's two meters of titanium A battleplate.
      It ignited in a nuclear fireball that was too large to have occurred naturally. Reeves' eyes actually watered due to the fireball's brightness. He blinked furiously. The captain of the ship must have realized that they weren't going to escape and ordered all of the nuclear weapons to detonate at once. As a result, another two dozen Covenant craft, at the head of the formation, were thrown out of the fight.
      Half of the remaining Humans finished their rampage and shot out the front of the enemy formation. They quickly made their way through pre-prepared holes in the debris field and made it to the safety of the other side. The rest of the group reversed their course and dodged through lifeless hulks of enemy ships; they slid back into the moon's shadow. None of the Covenant ships gave chase.
      "Sir," Hayes intoned. "Incoming message from the captain of the Thunderbolt's A.I. It's alpha priority."
      "Put it on."
      "Gentlemen," a gruff voice chuckled. "I suggest you put on your sunglasses."
      "Sunglasses?" Reeves wondered aloud. "What's he mean by...Eagle, activate the bright light filters on the Clarion!"
      "Sir?"
      "Don't argue, do it!" The picture from the drone darkened to almost ink black. However, that didn't stop an intense flare of white light the size of a beach ball from piercing the filter as though it wasn't there. The Thunderbolt had laid one, if not several HAVOK nuclear mines and fired all of her SHIVA missiles. Unlike the destroyer from earlier, it had dispersed its nuclear arsenal, and the result was a wall of fire that overpowered dozens of Covenant shields and destroyed them. Their explosion added to fuel to the fire and kept it going for fifty kilometers.

      "Report!" the Captain yelled. He was practically giddy at the success of the attack. Eagle grinned as he ran the numbers.
      "Three HAVOKs and four SHIVAs detonated, sir. Over two hundred plus enemy casualties. Only four hundred ninety ships left; sir, they have less than two thirds of their original attack force." The bridge crew let out a cheer, and the Captain clasped his hands behind his back.
      Perhaps we can win this after all, Gunter Reeves thought merrily.
      "Sir!" Eagle suddenly yelled. "I've detected increasing heat levels off to our port!"
      "What!?" Reeves turned to stare at him disbelievingly.
      "The levels are consistent with a Covenant plasma weaponry."
      "Bring us about! Launch our fighters! Scan the immediate area with EMP and radar." And then, under his breath, "Not good..." Without further warning, a lance of plasma came out of nowhere and impaled the nearest Super MAC.

1031 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Cockpit of Major Marcus Easley's Northrop-Grumman Longsword S Interceptor, on top of Number Three Catapult, Launch Bay Four

      Major Marcus Easley tapped his foot against the floor of the cockpit irritably. Annoyance was too weak of a word to convey what he felt. Here he was, sitting all ready to go, and control wouldn't let him launch. He keyed his radio.
      "Now?"
      "No," responded Joseph Saldanna, the air boss. He was responsible for monitoring other ships activities around the cruiser. He oversaw the launch of fighters from it, too, and was doing his job just to well in the Major's opinion. "Not just yet. The Captain wants all squadrons to wait for authorization and--" he paused as he was momentarily distracted. The major heard yelling and screaming in the background noise and Saldanna's voice crashed back into existence. "LAUNCH!!!"
      "Wait!" Marcus yelled. "Not ye--" Marcus's exclamation was cut short as he felt himself being slammed back into his seat as the g-forces pushed against his body; the catapult had activated without any warning, and the Major hadn't been able to grab the joystick. Once he got out of the launch bay, he would momentarily not have control of his ship. The Longsword tore down the straight line in the deck in which the catapult was imbedded and screamed out of the bay.
      As recently as three centuries ago, launching a ship from the 'cat required dozens of personnel. One to check the pressure of the launch from steam generators, another to make sure the aircraft was hooked securely onto the launching mechanism, and more to be on hand in case any accidents happened. These days, however, the delicate operation only required a computer. Power to the catapult was supplied from the fusion generator onboard the ship.
      The Major felt his weight leave him as he left the artificial gravity of the Maverick, and rocketed out into cold space. The g-forces quickly abated; the Major grabbed the joystick on the right-hand armrest and slammed it to the right as he stomped his right foot down on the rudder pedal. His 'Sword snap-turned to avoid what he had tried to tell control about. A corvette had moved in front of the launch bay, and he avoided it almost by pure luck.
      The Corvette must have been too close for the Saldanna's radar to register it. The Major carried his snap-turn into a corkscrew dive that brought him under the ship and he pulled up. His sensors registered an explosion behind him. The Major assumed that one of the other Swordsmen from the catapult had slammed into the corvette, but the corvette continued on unimpeded.
      "Seven is gone, repeat, gone!" somebody—Marcus couldn't tell whom—yelled over the squadron freq. "He slammed into the corvette!"
      "Seven, here. I'm fine; I dodged it."
      "Then who's that cloud of debris?" Marcus checked his radar and realized that only Swordsmen Two, Six, and Seven were out in space with him. Five, Four, and Three were rising on the catapults. That meant that Eight had bought it.
      Oh, well. It wasn't a complete loss. One thing still nagged at the Major, though.
      At the very least, the impact of a 'Sword should have swung the corvette slightly off course. And, as much as Marcus hated to admit it, Eight had been a better pilot than that...no, something else had happened. He brought his Longsword into a lazy port turn, which gradually allowed him to see the debris left by Eight's Interceptor.
      The right side of the fighter was completely intact. The left side, however, was completely destroyed; what remained of it hung in space like so much confetti. There was also plasma scoring along some of the right side. But that shouldn't have been possible. The Falcon Mark One plasma cannons that the Longsword S had used tanks of hydrogen gas as ammo. Batteries contained near the tanks were charged by a nuclear fusion reactor before being installed inside the bird, and they could let loose a tremendous burst of positively charged energy. The burst caused the hydrogen to superheat, and positively ionized it. A positively charged magnetic panel in the back of each of each hydrogen tank propelled the positive plasma out through the gun ports. The power and frequency of the bolts depended on the burst of energy released by the batteries, which was controlled by how hard a pilot pulled the trigger.
      Unless a battery on Eight's bird had released all of the energy stored at once, an explosion shouldn't have even been possible.
      "Sir," Two said and broke his concentration. "Two sets of radar contacts inbound. It's the Stallions and the Black Knights, sir." The other two squadrons rounded the nose of the Maverick and floated in front of the Swordsmen. The Marathon-class cruiser-carrier began to rotate counter-clockwise slowly for reasons that Marcus could only guess at.
      "What happened?" one of the Knights asked, incredulous. Marcus checked the readouts on the bottom of his faceplate. It was Knight Four who had spoken.
      "We're not sure. We thought Eight had hit a corvette, but I'm not so sure that's what happened."
      "If not that, then what happened? Do you think a Seraph got him?"
      Marcus arched an eyebrow under his helmet. "Knight Four, that's preposterous. I don't see any Seraphs around here, do you?"
      Marcus was finishing the sentence when he caught a view of something above and behind Knight Four.
      Crap.
      "Well no, but—" Knights Four's defense was cut short as the Major yelled, "Evasive maneuvers!" He lowered his nose and slammed the throttle to the full open position. What he had seen was a pair of plasma missiles, more commonly known as "teardrops" for their baby-blue coloration and shape. From what the Major knew, a Seraph could launch two of those things at once. They were a pain to deal with, because they could chase a ship around for the better part of three minutes.
      Knight Four met a fate similar to Swordsmen Eight; the two teardrops slammed into the Longsword's tail just as Marcus passed under the Interceptor. The tail armor, all three feet of the self-repairing material, boiled away and the tears continued into the main cabin. Knight Four was visible for a split-second as the plasma outlined him before vaporizing him. The nose of the Longsword melted into an unrecognizable mess. It hung dead in space and then began to fall as Earth's gravity captured it.
      Marcus cursed and brought his nose up to fire on the Seraphs, but there weren't any. He cursed again and swapped his nose for his tail, which brought the fighter back around. The Maverick finished turning, and sunlight bounced off of her armor. It would have blinded the Major had his helmet's faceplate not polarized in time.
      That polarization was exactly what allowed him to spot the Seraphs. They were hiding just off of the Maverick's port upper side. They weren't usual Seraphs, though. These seemed to be a meter or two longer and they were painted jet black instead of the usual purple. Marcus focused his eyes over the nearest of what appeared to be more than a squadron's worth of bogies, but the space around them flickered as they appeared to become part of the Maverick's hull and disappeared. They had cloaking tech on them! The sunlight must have disrupted their illusion...But that would also mean...
      Oh, no. You're not getting away that easily. The Major removed his chin from the radio switch, and gave a command to his Interceptor's computer. "Thermal." The faceplate in front of his nose resolved itself into a sea of colors as the computer used thermal sensors instead of normal radar.
      There—patches of red and yellow, the Seraphs. They were coming just above the Marathon-class cruiser-carrier's hull. Marcus focused in on the closest of the enemies. The computer boxed the fighter in deep green color, and the speakers in Marcus's helmet sounded the keen tone of a clean lock. "Swordsmen One, fox two!" he yelled as he brought his thumb down on the large red button under his right hand twice in quick succession. Immediately, his port side weapon bay opened, and the Major felt twin thumps as the VREJ inside punched a pair of AIIM-22 Diamondback missiles out. The missiles were gray on his HUD, but their engines were a dark red color.
      They snaked away from his bird, corkscrewed in towards their intended target—and connected. The twin missiles slammed into the piscine-like enemy, and it became a large, oversized fireball. Just as Marcus had guessed, like Elites that carried light-bending cloaking technology, they had no shields. That made these phantom Seraphs would be hard to detect, but easy to kill.
      Shrapnel propelled itself from the kill, and the other Seraphs were exposed as the debris hit the enemies and disrupted their illusion. The Maverick's point defense system reacted instantaneously as sixty-millimeter autocannons all over the ship lit up. Marcus watched as one of the teardrop shaped fighters was chewed to pieces as the large rounds slammed into it. Flakes, then chunks of the enemy's hull flew off as the rounds penetrated.
      He keyed his radio for the command frequency. "Maverick, this is Swordsmen Leader. Be advised; we have cloak-capable Seraphs out here. Use thermal imaging to detect them. And if the Seraphs have cloaking, there's a good chance that..."
      "Acknowledged, Swordsmen Leader. And thanks."

1032 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Bridge of the UNSC Cruiser-Carrier, Maverick

      Captain Reeves began issuing orders while the Major's warning was being played over the bridge's multiple speakers. The holotank became awash with colors as Eagle switched over to thermal sensors. The Covenant capital ship was easy to spot. It was completely black on the screen, though stripes of red could be seen in it—probably the ship's weapons. Interesting that the ship could be completely cold, yet still fire plasma weapons without revealing itself too easily. Also, that cloaking tech had to be centuries beyond anything the Humans could develop. It had absorbed the radar and EMP scanning as well...Oh, well. Not that it would matter; it'd be gone in a few seconds anyway.
      Or so Reeves hoped. "Sakura!" he yelled at his weapons officer. "Fire a single MAC round. Let's take it down. I'm willing to bet good money it doesn't have shields up."
      The schoolgirl faced Japanese girl with a petite body to match nodded. "Aye, sir," she said. " Triple MAC one is at eighty percent charge. Full charge in two seconds, sir."
      "Fire at will," Reeves said as he nodded appreciatively. Even though she was just a Second Lieutenant, Sakura Konoko definitely had initiative. She must have begun to charge the Maverick's main weapons when he had ordered the ship to be brought about. The woman had potential with skill and insight such as that. He was glad to have her on his crew.
      The Captain felt the deck shake beneath his feet as the Triple MAC on the top of the ship's hull spat out the fiery projectile. Reeves watched as the bullet shaped round zeroed in on its target—then stopped short. Great, Reeves thought as the round flattened itself against an invisible wall. "It does have shields," he grunted. "Sakura, empty the other two rounds into that assassin. Space its occupants. No, wait, belay that order. Fire one at full power and then one at fifty percent. Target their bridge."
      "Sir?"
      "Don't argue, do it."
      Sakura grinned and tapped commands into her console. The deck rumbled again as the same cannon loosed another two shots. The first one smashed into the shield and crumpled like a coke can being stomped. The ship was revealed as its shields flickered once, twice, and then disappeared, as did its camouflage.
      The ship's size was somewhere between a Covenant frigate and a destroyer. Naturally, it was matte black, almost invisible if viewed normally. The only way to spot it by eye would be to look for a completely black section of space. It was flattened more than a normal Covenant ship, and it had bulbous sections that ran all along its hull. Reeves guessed they were either systems for the ship's shields, weapons, or camouflage. Its engine emissions were not the normal crimson color that Reeves had begun to associate with Covie ships. Instead, they were...colorless, an off-gray color that wasn't easy to spot.
      How in blazes had the Covenant engineered this thing?

Longsword R: Desperation, Part Two
Date: 24 June 2004, 12:14 AM

1032 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Cockpit of Major Marcus Easley's Northrop-Grumman Longsword S Interceptor, Earth local space

      Major Marcus Easley kicked his Longsword S Interceptor onto its starboard side and rolled to keep his enemy in his sights. It had dropped its active camo and brought up its shields once the Major had bracketed it with a few shots. It knew it couldn't hide any longer. A computer-generated female voice screamed at him in his helmet to warn him of a collision with the Maverick's hull. "WARNING!" it screeched. "COLLISION! COLLISION!" it continued, but he paid no heed. This feature of the Longsword S got annoying sometimes; it typically only pointed out the obvious, such as the plasma bolts that sliced in above him ("WARNING: BANDIT, SIX O'CLOCK!"); one of the new kinds of Seraphs was on his tail.
      "WARNING: PLASMA MISSILE LAUNCH! IMPACT IN THREE SECONDS!"
      The Major momentarily abandoned his pursuit and began evasive maneuvers as he jinked his fighter up and to the right. At the same time, his thumb found a two-directional switch on his throttle. He clicked it to the right; instantly, a compartment on his Longsword's tail snapped open and ejected a bundle of chaff.
      Chaff was originally invented in the middle of the 20th century to confuse radar. Chaff was just metal cut into slivers of different lengths, depending on what kind of radar the pilot wanted to fool. During the war with the Covenant, however, pilots had found a new use for it. They used it disrupt whatever sensors the Seraphs had, and, at the same time, used them to neutralize plasma missiles. It didn't always work, but the pilots were glad to use anything to keep from becoming just a loose collection of molecules.
      The teardrop followed the Major precisely, but ran straight into the chaff in the process. The plasma vaporized the chaff and coalesced into an oddly beautiful, blue fireball.
      Marcus resumed his pursuit while ignoring the Seraph on his tail. His target rolled and dove below the Maverick's starboard side. The Major followed closely as he inverted, dove and shot out from under the ship with the stealth Seraph still on his tail. In his mind's eye, he could see the Marathon-class cruiser's sixty-millimeter autocannons rotate to track his foe. He could see the flash as they fired and bullets slammed into their target. It disintegrated as the high explosive rounds chewed through it, and it disappeared from the radar.
      By this point, every Longsword on the Maverick had launched. Twenty-nine Swordsmen, Black Knights, and thirty Stallions had caused the dogfight to go nuts. Plasma missiles were flying everywhere, as were Vipers and Diamondbacks.
      The Major goosed the throttle forward and continued his pursuit. He watched through thermal imaging as the funnel graphic that the Longsword used as a gun sight slithered on his HUD and centered the Seraph in its maw.
       The gun sight was practically flawless. Unlike the pipper-based tech of the past few centuries, this sight displayed exactly where the bullets would go. It accomplished this by bending and twisting the far end to show any drop in altitude or change in direction. The pipper on the other hand, could only show where the bullets were initially going. Pippers couldn't accurately detail bullet drop or help develop a shooting lead nearly as well. Plus, the funnel-shaped sight knew whether it was in space or in the atmosphere.
      The helmet's speakers whistled the high-pitched "shoot cue" that told pilots when they couldn't miss. He grinned as he pulled the trigger under his right-hand forefinger, and the Falcon Mk I plasma cannon spat deadly energy at his foe. The plasma bolts splashed on the Seraph's shield, and it flickered once, twice, and died. It was open for destruction, just begging to be blown to bits. He focused his eyes on the Covenant fighter; the LEMRS targeting system boxed it in, and a small diamond maneuvered and finally settled on the Covenant craft as it gained a solid lock. The speakers in the Major's helmet sounded the lower tone of a clean lock. He depressed the large button under his thumb and sent an AIIM-22 Diamondback missile towards the bandit.
      The Seraph's pilot was smart. The pilot pulled a high-speed immelman, a half loop and a roll maneuver that pointed the stealth Seraph back at the Major. The missile overshot. Marcus winced. The missile was a valuable weapon, and one had been wasted.
      Or rather, it almost had. The Diamondback retained their lock on the heat of the Seraph's engines thanks to the Longsword's telemetry communication with it, and it changed course and came back around. The stealth Seraph was picking up speed, however, and would outlast the missile of Marcus didn't do something about it. Easley saw the snake-like sight slip around the enemy fighter and he fired the Longsword's plasma cannons. He pulled the trigger down lightly, which unleashed a deluge of plasma bolts that wouldn't have come from a full trigger press. The Falcon Mark I plasma cannon was sensitive to how hard the pilot pressed the trigger. A light press would throw out hundreds of lower-powered bolts that would do no serious damage, but it sure as heck looked intimidating. Pulling on the trigger harder would slow the rate of fire and increase the power of the bolts as more gas and air were allowed to become plasma for a split second longer.
      A hit was unlikely at distance to the target, the Longsword's speed, and the inaccuracy of the plasma cannons in rapid fire mode, but it would give the enemy pause and force him to slow down to avoid the damaging bolts. If he held the Seraph back just long enough...
      Bingo. The Diamondback caught up with the stealth Seraph. The pilot of the craft realized what was coming and jinked the fighter. The Diamondback missed by a mere meter.
      And detonated. Its proximity sensors had set itself off. The Seraph became a comet of plasma and escaping gases with a tail of glowing metal. "Splash my bandit!" the Major yelled. That had been the final stealth Seraph. All of the threats around the Maverick had been neutralized. With the exception of, Marcus thought as he glanced out of the cockpit, that capital ship.

1032 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Bridge of the UNSC Cruiser-Carrier, Maverick

      The third and final Triple MAC round ripped through space towards the Covenant Assassin ship. The ship's shields had been shattered by another round only moments before. The third round tore into the smooth lines of the Maverick's foe, precisely at the ship precisely amidships on the port side. Reeves held his breath. For the first time in his life, he prayed that a Covenant ship would hold together.
      The MAC round penetrated deep into the Assassin's armor...and didn't exit out the other side. Reeves felt relief flood through his body. Second Lieutenant Sakura turned around in her chair to face him, her expression confused.
      "If you don't mind my asking, sir, why didn't we destroy it outright?"
      "Well," Reeves grinned. "If you'll notice that they aren't moving, that their weapons have lost power, and that hole is rapidly venting atmosphere..."
      "And?"
      "And I think it's high time we make use of our newest armament. Launch one of our Fury nukes into that giant hole." Sakura's brow creased in confusion.
      "Sir, that's totally unnecessary. It's dead."
      "Who said we were going to kill it here? Set it for remote detonation." Sakura shook her head in confusion, but followed the order.
      Deep in docking bay six, the Fury launcher rotated on its pedestal. The launching device looked like a revolver. It had a long barrel, seven chambers for a Fury, and the slots rotated when if fired. It propelled the Furies by using a magnetic acceleration system similar to a MAC gun, which was the entire reason for the barrel. A circular magazine that would not have looked very out of place on a Tommy Gun sat upon the launcher; it held the nukes and dropped them in, one at a time, into the chambers. The launcher rotated along its X-axis and adjusted its aim. A small computer ran numbers for launch speed, the Maverick's motion, and targets velocity. There was a chunk as the chamber rotated, and a whine as the magnets powered up and an over-inflated football shaped nuclear device sped away from the Maverick.
       "Hayes," the Captain said as he turned to his Communications Officer. "Do we have any tugs near us?" If anything, Hayes was just as confused as Sakura.
      "Yes, sir, a Mule class named Motherload. But why—"
      "You'll see."
      "Sir, I don't get—" Hayes stopped as her console beeped. She spoke without turning from the screen. "Sir, it's Admiral Hood."
      "Put him on."
      The Admiral's face wavered into existence above the main holotank. He looked confused and clearly a little bit angry. "Captain." he began. "Why the devil didn't you finish it?" Reeves smiled and told the Admiral his plan.
      As soon as Reeves finished, Hood smiled as well.

Tenth Cycle, 40 units (Covenant Battle Calendar)/ Aboard Covenant Flagship, Triumphant Serenity, in Covenant battle formation, local Earth space.

      Fleet Master Quarell 'Sulamee stood on the bridge of the Covenant Flagship named Triumphant Serenity. To his right stood a Major Prophet, its body heavily swathed in robes. Its headpiece was broad, tall, and ornate, comprised mainly of metal set with amber panels and gem insets. It had a serpentine neck, a triangular head, and two forest green eyes, which danced with malevolent intelligence. It wore a blue outer robe, and dark gold under robe, and it sat on an antigrav throne, which suspended his body one full unit off the deck. The throne was massive in bulk and silver colored. Though the thrones were rumored to contain weaponry, 'Sulamee didn't really believe it did.
      However, he wouldn't put it past the Prophets to equip themselves with a surprise or two in case of an assassination attempt.
      Further to his right stood the Prophet's assistant, a lower-rank Elite named Ikro 'Paraknulee. The assistant stood at attention, as though evaluating 'Sulamee. His eyes narrowed as another three Covenant frigates disappeared from the battle display, which hung in the air before them. The ships had managed to survive the Humans nuclear devices, but had given way as hull and radiation damage had taken its toll. 'Paraknulee gave a sound that was somewhere between a sigh of frustration and vexation, and a growl of malice.
      'Paraknulee was, quite frankly, a thorn in 'Sulamee's side. The lower ranking Elite assumed a haughty air, and carried himself as if he were a Prophet. He also acted as though he were in command of the fleet. The Prophet itself rarely spoke. 'Sulamee privately felt that it never needed to. 'Paraknulee seemed to be privy to the Exalted One's thoughts and whims.
      "Fleet Master, you disappoint the holy one. We have casualties in excess of half this force. You have only a single kill to show for it, and this fleet only has 481 ships left? Quite disappointing, Fleet Master." 'Sulamee grimaced as a soft tone was issued from the battle display. Blast. Two more frigates and a destroyer had folded. An image in the corner of the display showed the destroyer as secondary explosions chained along her length.
      The Human vermin had been much more organized than 'Sulamee had expected. Ever since the destruction of the Unyielding Hierophant, 'Sulamee had seen surprise after surprise. The Fleet Master who should have led this assault had been killed in the explosion, which elevated him, a Force Master at the time, to Fleet Master. Also destroyed had been many of the Fleet's best ships. Any ships that the High Council and Prophet of High Truth were willing to expend had been sent to the point of the cataclysm of the Unyielding Hierophant, along with another mobile command center, Clairvoyant's Decree, which was waiting in a nearby system...but the ships sent were mostly inferior. As a result, he was here with a fleet that was barely up to par with the original from the Unyielding Hierophant.
       The entire Human attack had only lasted about thirty seconds, far too short for 'Sulamee to counter. . All of the ships had been forced to use their pulse lasers instead of plasma torpedoes. Firing the Covenant ships main weapons would have transformed their formation into a situation that, loosely translated into the Humans' rough, barbaric tongue, would have translated into "hellfire".
      In many ways, this large force was a handicap. After all, the largest or strongest combatant didn't always win. A smaller foe could duck beneath and avoid blows, all the while wearing down the larger foe. 'Sulamee was confident that he would have been better used as a Force Master, one who commanded a smaller fleet. The debris field in front of the planet also presented an obstacle. He would have his ships burn through that...Despite the difficulties, he had been put in charge of this assault, and he would do his best, even with the Prophet and 'Paraknulee constantly interrupting his thoughts.
      'Sulamee rigidly brought a finger down on the holograph key which opened a communications channel with the ships in his charge. He spoke quickly. "Carriers, move in close to the Human world and launch fighters and dropships. Use the fighters as a screen for the dropships. Land as many as possible on the planet. destroyers and frigates, escort the carriers in all the way. Cruisers, you are to engage the Humans ships and keep them from the others. Troopships: wait until the pathway has been cleared for you, and then unload. If any frigate, destroyer, or cruiser becomes too damaged to continue the fight, drop to the surface." He then marked several ships, a selection of carriers, frigates, destroyers and cruisers to escort the flagship, approximately fifty more vessels. 'Sulamee planned to use them in a final, crushing stroke to the Human fleet.
      'Paraknulee clicked his mandibles, apparently satisfied. "Very good, Fleet Master," he muttered. "Perhaps we could have gotten a Grunt or a Jackal to command this fleet equally well. However, I do believe our supply of Grunts and Jackals suitable for commanding a fleet is small. I must admit, I am impressed." 'Sulamee felt every muscle in his body strain; it took all of his willpower to keep from strangling the Prophet's assistant. Who was he to mock 'Sulamee? Could he even identify a single ship? "And what exactly has become of the Imperceptible Truth?" 'Sulamee grimaced. Again with the questions?
      He had sent a new Assassin class ship, the Imperceptible Truth ahead with the scout group. The group's assignment had been to observe the Human defenses and report back so that 'Sulamee could find a weak spot. They had ventured too far in system and had been destroyed. 'Sulamee knew that the rest of the group had been destroyed, and so he had launched the attack anyway, but he didn't know if the Imperceptible Truth was more than a few atoms floating in space.
      The battle display issued another beep. 'Sulamee almost groaned. What know? Had a carrier simultaneously combusted? Or perhaps a destroyer had rammed into the planet's moon? He glanced at the display, fully expecting to see another casualty report along with a picture. 'Sulamee did a double take.
      "What in the Prophets' name?" he whispered. 'Paraknulee cleared his throat.
      "Pardon, Fleet Master?"
      'Sulamee scanned the readout again to make sure that he hadn't misread it. Well, if nothing else comes from this, at least 'Paraknulee will shut up, he thought. He enlarged the hologram of the Covenant ships advancing towards Earth to a poster-size and pointed to a rapidly enlarging ship on the display. "Excellency, you will be pleased to notice that the Imperceptible Truth is rapidly approaching. Its shipmaster will have information about any other tricks the dirty primates have remaining." 'Sulamee felt a surge of satisfaction at 'Paraknulee's stunned expression. 'Sulamee quickly keyed the ships in formation around the flagship.
      "Let the Imperceptible Truth into the center of our formation for maximum protection. We must glean all information on any deceptions the vermin have concocted." 'Sulamee smiled and kept the camera on track as the Imperceptible Truth approached. He sent a communication to the shipmaster, but received no response. Perhaps the electro-magnetic pulse from the Humans' nuclear weapons had knocked out communications.
      Two cruisers slid aside to allow the Assassin-class vessel into the center of the formation. 'Sulamee was puzzled when he saw no glow from the ship's engines reflected on the hulls of the various ships hanging in this area of space. Nervousness began to claw at him. He thought about it for a moment and realized he was just being paranoid; the engines of a stealth craft wouldn't give any glow.
      The Imperceptible Truth glided smoothly, straight towards the Triumphant Serenity. For whatever reason, doubt still bit at him. 'Sulamee exhaled deeply, and increased the magnification on the ship, just to ease his fears and reassure himself.
      What he saw turned his blood to ice. There was an enormous hole in the Imperceptible Truth's port side, right where the bridge should have been. There was no way that the craft could be moving under its own power, yet it was less than three kilometers away and headed right towards them...and it wasn't changing course. They would collide within seconds. 'Sulamee slammed the intership communications console with his fist. He screamed at it, "Shields, all full forward! Turrets, fire! Destroy the Imperceptible Truth before—" but it was too late. The Imperceptible Truth smashed into the Triumphant Serenity's shields. 'Sulamee was thrown violently into the wall in front of him as the floor under his feet jumped. Alarms sounded and lights flashed. Damage reports flowed in from all over the ship.
      Stars exploded in front of his eyes. His whole body felt numb and strange to him. 'Sulamee felt a warm liquid run down his snout and it flowed into his mouth. He tasted blood. Out of the corner of his eye, 'Sulamee could still see the battle display. From his position on the floor, he watched as a miniature sun appeared inside the hole in the Imperceptible Truth.
      Then, everything went black.

Longsword R: Desperation, Part Three
Date: 27 July 2004, 1:57 AM

Tenth Cycle, 43 units (Covenant Battle Calendar)/ Aboard damaged Covenant Flagship, Triumphant Serenity, in decimated Covenant battle formation, local Earth space.

      Fleet Master Quarell 'Sulamee opened his eyes and wished almost immediately that he had kept them closed. The bridge was in ruins. Lighting had gone completely out in some parts of the room. Consoles were smashed, sparks flew from fried electronics, and the battle display alternated between snowy and plain static as the projector tried to show the condition of the fleet. How had he even ended up here? A sharp pain sliced through his head as he remembered.
      The Imperceptible Truth had rammed into the Triumphant Serenity's shields, downed them, and then detonated in a spectacular nuclear fireball. 'Sulamee had been thrown against the wall when the collision occurred and had blacked out when the nuclear weapon inside the Assassin class ship had exploded.
      Despite the pain in his neck, 'Sulamee looked over his chest. Both 'Paraknulee and the Major Prophet had been killed. Though he wasn't conscious enough to fully appreciate it, he did note that 'Paraknulee's face held a look of horror that would have looked completely normal on a young one. He glanced at his feet and realized something was wrong.
      A glow strip was right by his feet. His head painfully collapsed back to its original position as he realized what else had happened. The artificial gravity had gotten knocked out. He was lying on the ceiling. Little balls of blood floated around the room like planets without a system. The sight was almost unbearable. As a flagship, the Triumphant Serenity was one of the most powerful ships in the Covenant fleet. A single trick from the Humans had almost destroyed it.
      Though the pain was staggering, he managed to kick off of the ceiling towards the status console, which displayed a relatively clear hologram. 'Sulamee grunted as he caught the edge of the console with his hands. It felt like his arm was being torn out of its socket. He maneuvered himself into position in front of the hologram and called up a general status report.
      The hologram shifted itself and brought up a new box. It showed a cutaway of the flagship, which was bathed in warning colors; nearly every single unit of the ship was in danger of a hull breach. The ones that weren't had either been melted or had sustained only slightly less serious damage. It didn't surprise him when he looked at the weapons station report. All but one of the plasma cannons had been disabled; turret six was the only one left. Engines could run at thirty percent power, no more. As if to add insult to injury, he could only jump to slipspace once...and it was doubtful that he'd end up where he wanted, at that.
      'Sulamee gave the equivalent of a sigh and called up fleet status.
      Every single ship that had been within a ten kilometer radius had been completely obliterated. Fifty-six more ships, the most powerful ones in his fleet that he had held back for a final, crushing blow had been destroyed as the nuclear weapons had turned the Imperceptible Truth into a giant Human grenade. The ships that hadn't been destroyed completely had sustained heavy damage; when the weapons detonated, they had literally shattered the Assassin class vessel and turned every remaining piece of it into a hypersonic missile.
       At last, the gravity of the situation hit him. Another fifty-six ships gone, gravity gone, engines at thirty percent, and one turret operational.
      With resignation that caused every muscle in his body to go limp, he realized that he had been defeated.
      He had lost.

1032 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Bridge of the UNSC Cruiser-Carrier, Maverick

      "Captain, I want to congratulate you," Admiral Hood's face grinned from its position above the holotank. The first of two admirals for the Human fleet became giddy. "That was a stroke of pure genius. I can't believe it...another fifty-six ships out of the fight...you, sir, have made our job a lot easier."
      Captain Günter Reeves felt his face flush. He was unaccustomed to being talked to in such a beaming tone. "Sir, I just did my duty," he stated simply, though he did feel a certain amount of pride. He had just rendered a Covenant flagship ineffective and taken down an additional nine percent of the opposing fleet without losing so much as a chip of paint from his ship.
      Before he had ordered the Mule class tug Motherload to use its electromagnetic couplers to swing the Covenant ship around the Earth and back towards the Covenant flagship, he had thrown caution into the wind and fired another four of his Fury nukes into the conquered vessel. The result had been more than he had hoped for.
      The Admiral waved him off. "Duty nothing, Captain. Mark my words: you're getting a medal for this one. History books will adore you for years to come. If you get lucky and we finish off these jokers, there might even be a movie deal—" but the Captain cut him off. It felt good to receive praise, but Reeves knew that he couldn't let his ego get ahead of his brain.
      "With all do respect, sir, might it be a good idea to win this battle before we talk about movies?"
      The admiral laughed. "Fine, fine. That always was your style, wasn't it, Captain? You're as sharp as a knife, but refuse to take credit for everything you do. Well, whatever suits you, I suppose. Anyway, there's also been a change of plans." Hood's grin became even broader. "Due to your tactics, I think we can now take them head on. If need be, we can regroup to Rally Point Alpha and let the Big MACs tear them to pieces. Good luck, Reeves" Hood saluted and Günter promptly returned it.
      Reeves sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his dark hair. So they were going to take the Covenant head on, were they? Admittedly, they did have a better chance now than they did ten minutes ago. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was going to be disastrous...
      Hayes broke through the fog in the Captain's mind. "Sir! We're receiving orders to move out of Earth's shadow from Admiral Hood; he wants us in this defensive formation, sir." The holotank changed again to show the formation: it had the Human ships move out of Earth's shadow and set up in a long, thin line. A blinking point in space showed the Maverick's designated hold point. It was right in Earth's gravity well.
      That got Reeves' attention. It was formation triple Charlie, more commonly known as "formation: oh, crap." It was considered to be nearly suicidal. Essentially, if the admiral didn't change his mind, they would be arranged in a honeycomb-like formation, spread out lengthwise as far as they could be to do justice to the term "defensive line". It would be like in the American Civil War; they would line up and shoot at each other from close range. To add to the admiral's apparent insanity, they were fighting in Earth's gravity well. There was almost no maneuvering room in that formation, and ships close to the planet wouldn't be able to move at all. As Reeves examined the graphic closer, he realized that with the exception of two Marathon class cruisers, the admiral had ordered most of the cruisers close in to Earth's gravity well, which left the frigates and destroyers to handle the flank. What on Earth was the admiral thinking?
      Wait...Civil War...something about it nagged him and he didn't know what. Why was he thinking about the American Civil War? Was there some battle similar to this? He dismissed it from his mind. Thinking about battles nearly seven hundred years old wouldn't help...would it?
      "All right, then; move us to our designated spot as fast as we can. Keep our fighters here for any dropships or trooopships they might launch. We can't let any get through."
      Multiple answers of "aye, sir" reached his ears and he tried to relax.

Tenth Cycle, 45 units (Covenant Battle Calendar)/ Aboard damaged Covenant flagship, Triumphant Serenity, in decimated Covenant battle formation, local Earth space.

      422 ships left. Only 422 ships out of 756 had survived. There had been only one kill to show for it. The Human fleet had remained untouched while the Covenant's mighty fleet had nearly been reduced to scrap! 'Sulamee roared in frustration as anger he'd been bearing since the first shot of this accursed battle boiled over. He'd had it with these filthy primates; he activated what few communications equipment the Triumphant Serenity had left. "All ships attack! Take as many of them down as you can! We still have a chance to redeem ourselves to the Holy Ones and Prophets; use any means necessary to land forces on their pitiful planet!"
      He let his clawed hand off of the communications hologram and assessed his tactical situation. The Humans were stringing themselves out and away from the planet what were they planning?
      That debris field...something didn't feel right about that. It had to be another trap. He hit the communications key again and ordered the frontline ships to vaporize the field before they came any closer to the Humans' lines. Was there anything else they could have thought of?
      Of course. The flanking attack from the beginning of the battle. Had all of the Human ships torn through the formation? He racked his brain for the answer. Everything had happened so fast...
      No. Half of them had retreated behind this planet's moon. The Fleet Master recalled ten destroyers from the main group's flank. They had a job to do with him.
      'Sulamee brought the flagship back around and pushed the engines as far as they would go. Warning klaxons screamed immediately, but the Fleet Master ignored them.
      The Triumphant Serenity crawled around the Humans' moon with the ten destroyers. In the moon's shadow, 'Sulamee could barely make out the Human vessels. He took a quick count; seven of the Humans' weaker types of F-IV were there, along with five of their stronger ships, to which the Prophets had given the designation D-VI.
      Normally, he wouldn't have considered the F-IVs a threat, but the Humans had made a dangerous advancement in their weaponry. The intelligence that 'Sulamee had been given had indicated that Human fleet had been reduced to nothing, and that their weapons, the "Iron Fists" would only be able to fire one shot at a time, the "Tendril Missiles" would be ineffective, and their pitiful "Blade" fighters would be no match for the Seraphs. He should have expected a swift and easy victory over the animals. However, the Humans had rebuilt surprisingly quickly, and had twice the force of their estimated size. Unfortunately, they had also advanced their Iron Fists, changed their Tendril Missiles, and upgraded their Blade fighters with plasma cannons. It was a direct affront to the gods.
      Despite the fact that he and his destroyers were outnumbered, they didn't need to completely destroy the Human ships, only whittle down their numbers.
      He called up the battle display and tapped one of the Humans' D-VIs, which had turned to slam the closest Covenant destroyer with its two Iron Fists. It was covered by a shimmering, light blue triangle a second later. The triangle wavered and quickly solidified as the Triumphant Serenity's sensors locked onto the vermin's craft. He brought the communications window back up and pressed the holo-key. "Weapons, Bridge."
      "A target selection has been made. Fire turret number six as soon as it warms up." Instantly, a small schematic of turret six appeared on the display, and he watched as it slowly turned gold due to the damage to the ship.
      "Bridge, Weapons," the communications window spoke back. "Turret number six is charged and awaiting your order to fire, Excellency." 'Sulamee nodded and maintained as dignified as pose as he could with his pain. He took one last deep breath, and then:
      "Fire."

Longsword R: Desperation, Part Four
Date: 16 December 2004, 7:39 PM

Author's Note: I'm sorry for not getting this out sooner. My life has taken up much more of itself than I expected it to. I've just been hit with the flu, so I hope you'll excuse any drops in quality. Also, with the release of Halo 2, this plot is obviously not viable. I'm going to continue it anyway, ignoring things that I can work my way around, and fitting the actual Halo 2 plot in where I can. Cheers. And, Wu, I'm sorry if this is too big. I'll cut it if you want me too.

1035 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Cabin of E97D Eagle Eye airborne control center, Merlin

      "Range to target?"
      "Five-hundred kilometers, sir. Intercept in seventeen seconds." The mission commander glanced to his left.
      "Penny, slow us down. I don't want to run our heads clear up the Covies' butts once we get there."
      "Uh...yes, sir." the pilot said uncertainly. Lieutenant Adam "Tequila" Martinez, the mission commander, nodded his Mexican head in satisfaction. His relatively thick, jet-black hair was tousled, as usual. And not necessarily from being in the largest naval battle in Humanity's history. He fingered his bottle of liquor, which floated in the zero-g environment, and let a few more globes levitate out into easy reach of the straw that had stubbornly refused to move from the corner of his mouth, despite threats from superior officers.
      The E97D Eagle Eye airborne control center (ACC), on loan from the VS-98 Roughnecks, cruised low over the various craters on the moon effortlessly. Its crew was actually assigned to the Maverick, but regulations stated that, unless on a combat cruise, the E97D crewdogs were forced to undergo re-certification of their skills every two weeks. The Roughnecks didn't care. In fact, they craved their re-certification, due to the fact that it let them mostly relax for a week. Armstrong Base, located in a small, unnamed mountain range on the dark side of the moon for security reasons, was a virtual paradise compared to the Maverick's occasionally cramped spaces. It had bigger rooms, better tasting food, and was more relaxing overall.
      The re-certification trials weren't that hard; they went through drills from scrambling for an intercept to basic flight training. The most difficult task was the aerial intercept certification standard, AICS, which the crews jokingly referred to as "aches". It was a test that lasted twelve hours, and was absolute torture. They were forced to do an intercept with several dozen drone aircraft, with some representing Longswords, others representing Seraphs. They were armed with paint missiles and blank-loaded 110-millimeter cannons.
      In its entirety, AICS took them through an intercept on the Earth, in space, and on the moon. This particular crew was on its third hour, and was in the middle of the moon intercept when the Covies jumped out of slipspace. When the battle beyond the lunar perimeter occurred minutes ago, they had been ordered back out to see what had happened since all communications had been lost with Human ships in the area.
      Inside of a Longsword, a twelve-hour drill was enough to put most pilots to sleep or physically exhaust them. Not so with the Eagle Eye.
      The Eagle Eye was considered by its crew to be much less bulky and far more comfortable than the Longswords, and it was. It was about two thirds of the size of the interceptor, and had twice the room to move around, due to the fact that there were no VREJ missile launchers, and it didn't need the bulky PDE-22 Raptor engines. Instead, it used the smaller, more compact version of that monster: the PDE-F14. It had only two-thirds the power, but since the Eagle Eye carried four of them, and all of them were thrust-vectoring capable, the ACC was actually more maneuverable at low speeds than its fighter brethren.
      The only weapons system that the E97D carried was a tail-mounted, single barreled plasma cannon. The Merlin, however, hadn't been scheduled to get the cannon for another two weeks, and still had the standard-issue Browning 70-millimeter chain gun, a duplicate of the chain gun on the Pelican. It packed a punch with its HE rounds, but the DSO would have a hard time actually cutting through a Covie's shields. It wasn't supposed to be a fighter, after all. That was perfectly evident in the E97D's design.
      The Eagle Eye was actually closer to the Pelican in its airframe than it was to the Longsword. Many had mistaken it for an elongated Pelican with a chain gun on the tail. The only real differences came in the wings. The main set of wings was set slightly closer to the front, and lower, right behind the middle of the cockpit. It was swept forward instead of backward, which actually enhanced maneuverability by a magnitude, since air was pulled in towards the body and away from the wings. It resulted in a loss of stability, but stability was something the crewdogs were willing to sacrifice for agility.

      Martinez watched the balls of alcohol waver in the zero-g environment and sucked them in through the straw, right as the E97D swiveled its thrust vectoring nozzles around and braked. Adam's eyes bulged and he coughed violently; he'd accidentally inhaled some of the stuff. The pilot threw him a dirty look, as though the Lieutenant had somehow insulted his flying skill by coughing. The RIO glanced back at him but paid the action no heed. The DSO giggled uncontrollably.

      Adam Martinez had been known by many names, but his contacts had known him simply as El Diablo. Martinez, whose real name was Enrique Castillo, had previously been a smuggler, the leader of the powerful Esparza cartel. It was a large cartel, and a successful one at that. When his father, Ricardo, had been killed by a UNSC sweep into unknown areas to find the Covenant eight years earlier, he inherited control of the organization. His organization had trafficked in drugs, women, artifacts, vehicles, and military contraband. In short, it meant that he trafficked pretty much everything, so the rewards were great: plenty of money, women, and a well-trained, two-pronged paramilitary group that he called The Esparza Marauders...
      And tequila, plenty of it. More than enough, really. It was his only major vice. He didn't crave money, power, influence or women. All that mattered was the tequila.
      And it had nearly gotten him killed. There were members inside his own cartel that believed he wasn't competent enough, and had arranged to have him killed by a rival organization of mercenaries and smugglers operating out of the Eridanus system. The plan failed, however, when loyal men who were forced to be in the plot warned him. He escaped, and quickly crushed the leaders of the insurrection.
      Unfortunately, it tore his cartel neatly in two.
      The leaders had a good portion of the cartel behind them. Their plan was to kill Martinez and merge with the Eridanus organization. Naturally, they would retain their leadership in the new cartel, and they would be at least twice as strong as before. For them, it was a win-win situation.
      The cartel went to war against itself. Martinez was forced to run, so he went to the last place that his former friends would look for him: the UNSC Navy. He changed his name, wore hazelnut contacts (His eyes were actually green), dyed his hair (In reality, it was prematurely gray), and used a number of other methods to conceal his true identity. No doubt that his enemies had informants inside the armed forces.
      Though the suspected he had been a smuggler, nobody on board the E97D had any idea of whom he really was.
      The rest of the crew of the Merlin, however, were noticeably lower key. Anton "Dinero" Penny, the pilot, was a son of a Greek woman and an English father. He had excelled in sports all of his life, and got a sports scholarship to the United States Air Force academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado. He had graduated early, in order to support his family with military pay, in the mid-to-upper portion of his class, and been assigned to the Maverick on its shakedown cruise in the Gethsemane system. Well-built and friendly, with a hardworking attitude, Penny was liked by all of his fellow crewmates.
      Then there was Warrant Officer Jonathon Roy "Rabbit" Goodnight, a son of two New Yorkers, who had light brown hair and a light complexion; he was the radar intercept officer (RIO). His job was to monitor battles around the Eagle Eye on the min-holotank in front of him, vector Longswords into a fight, to a tanker; to their ship, planet, or whatever they needed to meet up with. He was a Southern Cal graduate, with honors. He tended to be quiet, but funny. Present, but not intrusive. The role of RIO fitted him like a well-made suit. His callsign came from the fact that he often brought carrots and other vegetable snacks to eat on AICS and on missions.

      Finally, there was Timothy "Heehee" Macabee, the Defensive Systems Operator, or DSO. He controlled the Eagle Eye's extensive electronic countermeasures (ECM) suite, the chaff and flare ejectors to decoy plasma missiles, and the "Stick": the lone, retractable, semi-active guided 70-millimeter chain gun that was housed in the Eagle Eye's tail. He was four inches below average height, had dark hair that refused to be anything other than artfully mussed, and dark brown eyes. He had a good sense of humor, and never was bothered when anyone made a crack about his height. As a matter of fact, he used his lower than average height, or "vertical challenge" as he called it, to his advantage. One of his most common taunts was "Oooh, you got dissed by a midget!"
      His call sign had been born of the fact that he tended to talk in non-stop sentences without comas or colons. And, if he had made a joke, he faked a high-pitched laugh.

      Despite the fact that they actually got along well with each other, the constant dirty looks that they threw each other and the seemingly random personalities caused the other members of the VS-98 Roughnecks to think of them as "dysfunctional".

      The Eagle Eye hopped over the lip of another crater, dropped below the horizon, then rose out of it, its PDE-F14s growling as they raced to the far side of the moon. Penny slowed the bird down considerably, and set it down in a shadow from the mountains far behind them. Less than thirty seconds later, after a few low-powered scans from the AN/APA-171 Joint Surveillance and Target Attack Radar System (JSTARS) located in a bump on the bird's back, the Combination Infrared, Night Vision, and Electromagnetic Targeting pod (CINVET) swung upward and gazed out into space. The pod relayed the images it found to one of the Multi-function displays located just above Penny's right thigh.

      Nothing. But the ships were up there, or else Goodnight wouldn't have let the JSTARS direct the CINVET pod. Penny upped the magnification to its highest level. Bingo.

      Martinez and Penny found what they had been looking for on the MFD, a sight that succeeded in dislodging the straw from the corner of Martinez's mouth. Through the "greenhouse" canopy, far above them, were millions of pieces of floating debris, most of it Covenant. Shattered bits of Longsword Ls, Ss, and Seraphs were everywhere. Near the back of the debris field, they could see the frigate San Jacinto, its port side melted into and unrecognizable mess from a brush with death from a plasma torpedo.
      Martinez muttered a low, disbelieving expletive before he began to give orders. "Rabbit, are we getting any distress beacons?" Goodnight nodded.
      "Yes, sir. One from the San Jacinto, another one from the Lightning...the ones that aren't completely destroyed are transmitting, Tequila. Looks like honeycombing the hulls was a good idea after all." Martinez nodded.
      "Radar contacts?"
      Jonathon shook his head. "Aside from the debris, nothing, sir. I..." he trailed off as his equipment beeped. "Scratch that. Seven contacts, sir. Directly above us." He audibly gulped. "Profiles match standard Covenant fighter craft, sir. They're Seraphs." Martinez nodded and squinted his eyes. He could barely make them out through the debris high above them, just little moving dots on the background of stars. He bit his lip.
      "Why aren't they trying to finish the San Jacinto off?" he asked aloud. Martinez let another few balls of liquor levitate from his bottle despite a menacing glance from Penny; he sucked them in one by one and thought through possible scenarios.
      "They could be disabled," Macabee offered from the back. Jonathon sighed.
      "I wish. They're still moving up there."
      "Then why...?"
      "Dunno," the Warrant Officer responded slowly, his eyebrows knitting in concentration.
      "Uh...Rabbit, did you have the radar in sniff mode? We're not actively transmitting, are we?"
      Goodnight's only reply was, "Oh, boy..." as the Seraphs suddenly rotated and dove on the projection from the miniature holotank.

Tenth Cycle, 45 Units, (Covenant Battle Calendar) Cockpit of Covenant Seraph fighter

      Mikala 'Muramee allowed himself a small, predatory smile as his sensors picked up the Human craft far below him. It wasn't one of the Humans' fighters, but the Prophets and Ancients apparently wished that he should get this kill, and he wouldn't disappoint them. He grasped the twin sticks that controlled his ship and commanded his fighter into a dive towards the gray surface of the moon.

      The battle behind the moon had been suicide. Even worse, it had been a draw. Never before had such heresy been seen. The Humans were sentient, yes, but the Covenant, with the Prophets and Ancients on their side, should have been able to crush their enemy. Instead, the Humans had put a ferocious fight, like an animal cornered. Most of their ships were merely disabled as they used completely unexpected tactics. While he was dogfighting, 'Muramee had seen one Human ship close to point-blank range and fire one of its "Iron Fists". The three rounds that were fired decimated the Covenant destroyer's shields, smashed through to the other side, and slammed into another one of the Covenant ships. The second ship had dropped its shield to fire a plasma torpedo, and had been destroyed as a result.
      Their "Tendril" missiles had been changed, their "Blade" fighters upgraded with plasma cannons...had the Ancients betrayed the Covenant? Even upgraded, all of their fighters had been destroyed, but nine out of every ten Seraphs had been obliterated completely; the normal kill ratio was four Blades to every one Seraph lost. The change in figures was discouraging but hardly mattered; the war would be over soon, anyway.
      Though 'Muramee didn't know exactly how many of the Covenant's holy fighters were left in this group, there were at least several hundred. Estimates on the number of fighters on Human ships were unclear, but most said anything from thirty upward per ship.
      'Muramee had seen many friends die in this battle here, and the Humans were going to pay. Specifically, the ones inside of that craft.

1035 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Cabin of E97D Eagle Eye airborne control center, Merlin

      "Sir, we've got to get moving; those Seraphs have got us on their scopes. We're toast if we hang out here much longer!" Goodnight began to get panicky. Martinez nodded.
      "Let's get moving Penny." Penny grasped the dual sticks that controlled the Eagle Eye like a twentieth century helicopter. The left stick controlled the angle of the PDE-F14s, and allowed the Eagle Eye to brake, hover, or jump up with surprising speed. There was a single, sliding button on the top, which controlled the throttle. The stick on the right operated normal flight controls such as pitch and roll. Penny controlled yaw with the pedals beneath his feet.
      Penny brought the E97D up off of the ground, rotated back towards Armstrong Base, and mashed the throttle forward as far as it would go.
      "Yes, sir!"
      "Macabee, get the Stick online! We're going to need it!" Macabee reacted instantaneously and immediately began flipping switches. The small but powerful AWG-9 attack radar concealed in the Eagle Eye's tail began to warm up. A pair of doors on the underside of the Eagle Eye's tail opened, and the 70-millimeter chain gun unstowed itself. The computer switched gears to defense mode as it switched Macabee's screen from standby and status to combat and targeting, which consisted of a feed from the Stick's camera with computer graphics superimposed on top of it. While not as complex as Goodnight's miniature holotank, the screen did a good job of showing bullet paths and aircraft positions.
      The system ran a quick diagnostic; all systems checked green.
      Macabee grasped the joystick located on the right of his console; the Stick could be guided by the AWG-9 radar, but Macabee preferred to go manual. The computer wasn't terribly good at anticipating which way enemies would slash in at from at their hypersonic speeds. He gave the joystick several experimental jerks. The Stick responded handily and without hesitation; it was ready to play. After a few deep breaths, so was Macabee.

      The Seraph was much faster than the E97D, and Goodnight knew, just by glancing at his scopes, that they would be dead if he didn't do something. It was going to overtake them before they could reach the mountains and get back to Armstrong. There had to be someway to stall this chase just long enough...and then it hit him.
      He activated his communications suite and began to get to work.
      "Armstrong, Armstrong, this is Sierra 352. We are being pursued by multiple Covenant fighters and are RTB. ETA is two minutes. Request that you warm up the Anacondas, and scramble fighters for escort." There was a moment before the reply came back.
      "Sierra 352, Armstrong. Negative, escort not possible at this time; fighters are being scrambled for base defense only. Anacondas are being armed. Please proceed to waypoint Victor, and await further orders." Jonathon just gawked. What did they mean it wasn't "possible at this time"? What a load of crap! Waypoint Victor was in the middle of the plain they were going to fly over in thirty seconds. If they stopped there, they would get blown to bits almost immediately. The only way to get back alive was to get fighter support. What else could they use to help them get past the Covenant? Nothing, there were no fighters coming to their rescue...
      Wait... Goodnight began keying instructions into his console, and hoped that he wouldn't lose his wings for this if they survived.

Tenth Cycle, 46 Units, (Covenant Battle Calendar) Cockpit of Covenant Seraph fighter

      The Human was playing it smart, which just frustrated 'Muramee further. The pilot of that craft had begun low and stayed low, forcing the Covenant to follow him through the veritable maze of craters and gullies. They were getting closer and closer to the mountains, and though the Humans would have to fly over the plain, it would only be for a few seconds at this speed. He might very well lose his prey if he didn't catch up and destroy it right now.
      He pushed forward on his left stick, which sent the sleek fighter into a steep climb. The Elite barely felt it; unlike the Humans' Blades, the Seraphs used gravitational fields to compensate for the extreme g-forces exerted on a pilot in combat. It was far more efficient than whatever the Humans used.
       He held its nose up for several seconds and then leveled out. 'Muramee was tired of playing this Human's game, and decided that he was going to break a few rules.
      The Elite activated his fighter's sensors, waited a few sweeps, and then shut it down. He didn't want to give his exact position to the Humans, not just yet. They gave a good return, and he found his target. It was making S-turns in the craters, and occasionally doubled back to throw its pursuit off. If it wanted to get back to the mountains so badly, why didn't he just meet it there?
      'Muramee grinned and gently stroked the stripe of smooth material that was the equivalent of a throttle, and tried to decide just how he wanted to take down his foe...

      Several plasma bolts cut in above and behind the Eagle Eye as Penny skidded it around another corner. They weren't going fast. Only the winding canyons between the craters had kept the alive and out of the Seraph's guns.
      Penny braked, and the PDE-F14s swiveled around to bring the aircraft to a dead stop in a narrow canyon between the walls of two craters. He stomped on the right rudder pedal, which spun the Eagle Eye clockwise until the ACC was facing the direction it had come from. He dropped the bird to just a few inches above the surface of the moon and held it there through judicious use of the thrust-vectoring engines.
The jet blast tore through the moon's thin atmosphere and created a giant, swirling dust cloud.
      A Seraph that had been tailing them closely rounded the corner and shot over their heads, right through the dust cloud. The Seraph's pilot emerged from the cloud obviously disoriented, because it slowed down and leveled out, unsure of where its pray had gone; a perfect target.
      Macabee squeezed the trigger, and the chain gun roared to life, barking out the 70-millimeter HE rounds. The rounds smashed into the Seraph's shields, making big explosions, but doing no real damage. It scared the pilot enough to make him jerk his controls out of surprise, however, because the Seraph snap rolled to the right...
      ...right into the canyon wall. The fighter's shields were knocked off line immediately, and the impact sent the alien craft bouncing around the walls like a racquetball. It continued its pinball-like ride in the moon's low gravity for several hundred meters until it finally plowed into the canyon floor and exploded in a ball of plasma and moon dust.
      Penny brought the Eagle Eye up, rotated her towards the mountains and slammed the throttle full on. The Eagle Eye shot out of the last of the craters and out onto the lunar plain. The battle for survival had now become a race. With any luck, the remaining Seraphs would be so disoriented that it would take several seconds for them to come back after the Eagle Eye.
      The tactic appeared to be working as they raced past waypoint victor and straight towards the entrance to the mountains...right up until a high-pitched squeal issued from Macabee's console, the lock-on warning.
      "Lock warning, twelve o'clock!" Macabee screamed as he sent his hands flying over his console. "Trackbreakers going active! Chaff, chaff!" Macabee yelled as he activated the ECM and punched chaff out of the compartment on the Eagle Eye's tail between the two PDE-F14s. It wasn't any use. The lock-warning continued to scream.

      'Muramee sat grinning predatorily in his cockpit; the tactic he employed had worked perfectly. The Human vermin had raced across the plain for the safety of the mountains, just as he had predicted. All he had done was race ahead of his prey and hover in front of the canyon he guessed the Humans would go for. He had been correct, they had gone for a canyon that had several large, sharp rocks that would have crushed any craft not navigating the canyon's entrance carefully.
      The plasma missiles launchers were standing by. 'Muramee chuckled to himself as he began to pull the trigger on the right-hand stick to fire the missiles...
      But was instead surprised as hismissile launch warning began warbling.
      'Muramee didn't hesitate; he slammed the left stick forward and slapped the throttle. The Seraph rocketed straight up, but the missile lock warning kept warbling. It was then that the Elite saw it, a quickly growing dot in the distance...above him! The missile had been launched from above him!
      He flipped his fighter onto its back and sent it into a steep corkscrewing dive in an attempt to shake the missile. No good, it kept right behind him, moving much faster than the Human's missiles normally moved. 'Muramee tapped a button on the left stick to begin a scan for his attacker. The Covenant craft's advanced sensors picked it up immediately, a high speed foe that was almost darting from position to position. It began a dive that would intersect the Seraph's flight path several hundred units from the surface, where it would either finish him off or ram him. The second choice looked like a genuine choice on his foe's part, especially since it was "coming down the ramp", using this moon's gravity to gain speed.
      'Muramee began to slam his fighter back and forth...still no good, he couldn't shake the missiles or his attacker.
      Then the pitch of the warble changed. Another missile had been launched. The Elite continued to maneuver and directed his fighter towards the mountains. Maybe he could shake these...these things in there.
      But it was no good. Just before he made it to the mountains, the attacker caught up with his fighter. It darted over him, far too quick for the Elite to shoot at. Strangely, it wasn't the normal Human fighter; this was a thin, compact machine, something that 'Muramee didn't recognize. Whatever it was, 'Muramee heard the warbling grow in intensity and knew that it had launched a third missile. He felt it impact against his shields, saw a ball of dark red explode around his fighter, and knew it was over.

1037hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Cabin of E97D Eagle Eye airborne control center, Merlin

      "What the heck was that all about?" Penny asked, completely bewildered as to why their opponent had suddenly bugged out. He kept the Eagle Eye going as fast as he possibly could through the mountains, still desperately trying to get to Armstrong Base and the safety of the Anaconda umbrella.
      "Dunno," Macabee muttered loudly. "My jamming couldn't have done anything, could it?" Everyone knew the answer to that, and it was no. The jamming couldn't have possibly caused the Seraph to do that.
      Martinez glanced over his shoulder at Goodnight. "Did Armstrong send us some Longswords?" Goodnight simply shook his head and smiled. It took Martinez about four seconds to catch on.
      "Oh..."
      Goodnight's grin grew wider as he grabbed a carrot from the Ziploc bag under his seat and placed it in his mouth. He bounced his eyebrows up and down, leaned his chair backwards and said, "Ehhh, what's up, doc?"

      The ball of red continued to grow outside of 'Muramee's cockpit. Death surely awaited him...and awaited...and...what? The first thought that popped into 'Muramee's head was a rather strange one. Why haven't I died yet? the Elite asked no one silently. He opened his eyes. The ball of red had quit growing and had become static. Suddenly, the Seraph's computers yanked the fighter into a steep climb as the collision alarm went off. The Elite was puzzled for several seconds. Had the Ancients somehow intervened? Had they somehow stopped the explosion? He ran over the engagement in his mind...first had come the launch warning...then the second launch from above him...then finally the near-suicidal dive on him by that strange craft...
      That was far too small to contain a Human. A drone! He had been outmaneuvered by a drone! He fired his plasma missiles, which caused his shields to drop momentarily. The Elite watched as they vaporized a strange red liquid that had been clinging to his shields. As soon as the liquid disappeared and allowed him to see clearly, he almost wished that he wasn't able to. The computer had just managed to avoid smashing him at the tooth-like rocks near the canyon's entrance. Had the shield not momentarily dropped as he fired his missiles, the shield would have caught the edge of one of them and knocked his fighter out of the sky.
      'Muramee felt his rage growing. He was going to destroy his foe very surgically, once he got the shot.
      He pushed the throttle higher than he normally would have in the confined space. The Humans' path was not difficult to follow; they had stayed low, so their craft's engines pulled up a dust trail that obscured two thirds of the canyon. 'Muramee was slightly surprised; so far, they had played their game well. Were they laying a trap for him...?
      The question answered itself seconds later as the collision warning sounded in his ears. The safety system automatically pulled the Seraph up again, just in time to dodge a high ridge in the middle of the canyon.
      Clever, very clever indeed. Paradise would be very good to him if he killed these vermin.
      He pushed his Seraph to its highest speed and began rocking back and forth a bit in his seat, as if the momentum would help him catch up. He noticed something about the Human's trail: it didn't seem like a series of random dodges like their evasions in the craters had been. Their route had far fewer abrupt movements, and they seemed to be trying to reach something...
      The thought was still going in 'Muramee's head when he reached Armstrong base. It was set in a larger than normal crater, up against the wall the Muramee's right. The base itself didn't seem to be anything special. The front had no windows, it was camouflaged in a moon dust gray, and angled precisely to the point where it would have looked like a part of the crater. The only thing that seemed noticeable was that an overhang to the base's right had a large, hollowed out area that was under and ran just inside it.
      It took the Elite a moment to realize what had happened; the Human's had been racing for the safety of this place the whole time.
      Then he caught sight of his prey again. It was flying directly at the slit to the façade's right. 'Muramee slowed his Seraph down and turned as tightly as he could, trying to get at least one volley of plasma cannon fire off before his prey disappeared inside the slit and was safe. His missile launch warning toned and then jumped pitch quickly; two missile launches. He ignored it as the Human's craft dropped within lethal distance of his plasma cannons. It was a drone again, just like be—
      The Elite's head slammed into the control panel in front of him as a large object slammed into, and brought down, his shields. He was too stunned to do anything, so a second later, the second PAC-93 Anaconda Surface to Air Missile smashed into his fighter and turned it into a cart wheeling ball of plasma.

      The PAC-93 Anacondas had been warmed up for several minutes before Sierra 352 arrived. As soon as the controllers at Armstrong received Sierra 352's distress call, the Anacondas emerged from their hiding places inside of rocks, or behind false pieces of the crater's walls. The one that downed 'Muramee was located at the entrance to the crater from the mountains. It had been a surprisingly easy shot.
      The Anacondas launchers, nicknamed "wishbones" by their operating crews because of their unique shape, were the UNSC's primary SAM system. They were accurate, tough to jam, and the missiles themselves were agile. The launcher set on a pedestal that could rotate 360 degrees, and the top part of the launcher, the "wishbone", carried eight missiles, stored in two separate polycarbonate "magazines", which could be rapidly reloaded by hand. The magazines were stationed parallel to each other at a height of ten feet from the ground and were rectangular. They could move independently of each other, in one dimension only; but one dimension was all that the Anaconda needed to spin around and launch missiles at an insane rate.
      Armstrong's radar detected more incoming bandits, right through the same entrance that the first Seraph had come through. The Anaconda operators readjusted their seats and readied their fingers above the COMMIT buttons...

Tenth Cycle, 50 units (Covenant Battle Calendar)/ Aboard damaged Covenant Flagship, Triumphant Serenity, in decimated Covenant battle formation, local Moon space.

      Fleet Master Quarell 'Sulamee cursed silently as his fighters dropped off the hologram from the status console. He keyed a hologram key, which allowed him to speak directly to a half commander. "Load every dropship we have left; leave enough on the ship only as a rear guard and whatever number is necessary to ensure that it does not fall from the sky. Launch whatever fighters this group has left."
      "The response was an immediate, "Yes, Excellency," from the half commander. "To what location shall I send the dropships?" 'Sulamee enlarged the hologram to show him the locations that his fighter's had gone down at. He zoomed in on the crater which had Armstrong Base and tapped it.
      "I want these filthy primates' base."

Longsword R: Desperation, Part Five
Date: 31 March 2005, 11:46 PM

1033 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Bridge of the UNSC Cruiser-Carrier, Maverick

      "Yes, sir. It was confirmed less than thirty seconds ago by a report from Armstrong. Twelve destroyers and frigates, dead in the water above the dark side of the moon." The captain of the UNSC cruiser-carrier Maverick nodded his head slowly.
      Great.
      Another twelve human ships gone. They weren't destroyed, but were now combat ineffective. The captain looked at the tactical display again: the UNSC was spread out in a thin defensive line...almost like something about the American Civil War...
      What was bugging him about that war? Captain Gunter Reeves swore silently and tried to figure out a method to Admiral Hood's untold plan. But something kept distracting the captain; the formation itself. Something kept pulling at him from the recesses of his memory...had he seen this formation from somewhere before? One memory kept pulling at him in particular: the American Civil War. But what...?
      He shook his head to clear his mind. Thinking about a war nearly seven-hundred years old wasn't going to help win this battle. Staying on the ball would.
      "Sir," Lieutenant Hayes, the Maverick's communication officer said just loudly enough to get his attention. "We're receiving firing times and locations from the Bunker Hill's AI." Reeves nodded. The Bunker Hill was Admiral Hood's flagship, a Marathon-class cruiser, like the Maverick. It was five years older, had only three triple MACs, and still hadn't received the titanium honeycombed hull upgrade that was now standard on all UNSC ships, something that Reeves thought was strange for an admiral. He would've expected Hood to make sure that the Bunker Hill had the upgrade as soon as it was available. Perhaps there was some politicking going on behind the scenes. Perhaps not. Reeves knew that he could not possibly know what went on at the highest levels of command, especially if ONI was somehow involved.
      "Upload it to the holotank, Lieutenant," the captain ordered. Hayes nodded and tapped some instructions into her console. The holotank shimmered and quickly formed itself into a picture of the UNSC defensive line. Each ship had a box next to it containing countdown timers relative to the number of triple MACs on each ship. Eagle, the Maverick's AI, enlarged it and displayed it for the captain. Four countdown timers in that box alone, one for each of the triple MACs on the Maverick. The smallest countdown was at a 1:15, with each of the following increased by five seconds.
      Reeves nodded his head. He still didn't understand Admiral Hood's plan. Was it feint? A way to draw the Covenant in close before the fell back to rally point alpha and let the Super MACs pound the crap of them? For Reeves knew, there was no plan. The Covenant still had over four-hundred ships left, and most of them were burning their way through the debris field that the UNSC had left as a trap, hoping that the Covenant wouldn't be able to spot the dozen HAVOK nuclear mines hidden there until it was too late. The Covenant, however, obviously weren't taking any chances. So far, only one or two had gone off, and they had failed to destroy any Covenant ships.
      "Uh-oh," Eagle muttered to himself. He added a new group to the tactical assessment on the holotank; the Covenant had just launched hundreds of fighters, dropships, and boarding craft. They began to move quickly towards the UNSC defensive line. "Captain, it looks like they aren't going to risk any more of their big ships..."
      Reeves readjusted his standard-issue hat so that it sat more firmly on his head and took a few deep breaths. He watched on the holotank as the head of the Covenant formation broke through the debris field. The captain nodded and muttered to himself, "That's right...come and get us."

1033 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Cockpit of Major Marcus Easley's Northrop-Grumman Longsword S Interceptor, Earth local space.

      When the Major glanced at his radar in the upper right corner of his vision, he nearly wet himself. What greeted his eyes was the biggest...blob, for lack of a better term, that he had ever seen on a radar return. He activated his radio; "Swordsmen, report by flight!"
      Each fighter squadron on the Maverick was broken down into different flights, or teams of fighters, which were further broken down into wingmen. This allowed each different squadron to have a group of six flights of five.
      Had he not been scared out of his wits by the huge formation of Covenant craft, he would have said something about the reporting being in order of flights. Unfortunately, the tactical channel was flooded with reports from the different flight leaders all at the same time, making the tac channel into a complete mess.
      "Break, break!" he called angrily after he realized his mistake. The channel quickly quieted down. "Two flight, report first!"
      Steven Olive, Swordsman Seven and the leader of flight two, quickly spoke up, his normally obnoxious tone anxious and scared. "Lead, this is Seven. We lost Austin to one of the stealth Seraphs at the beginning of the fight. I've got some engine trouble, sir; my starboard Raptor might've caught some of the debris from Eight's bird, but otherwise, I'm okay. No other faults on Nine through Eleven." The remaining four flights reported in, all combat ready.
      Marcus keyed his radio again. "One flight, report status by ship."
      James kept his report to a simple, curt, "Two," signifying that there were no problems with his fighter. Next was Zo‘ Park.
      "Lead, I have a slight fault in my targeting system. I'm recycling now, and if that doesn't work, I'll reset. Otherwise, I'm fit to fight, sir."
      "Three."
      "Four."
      "Five."
      "Six."
      Marcus nodded as he brought his fighter around to face the incoming swarm of Seraphs and Phantoms. He removed his chin from the radio switch, allowing him to communicate to his fighter rather than the others, and spoke into the helmet's microphone. "Lock-up closest bandit." Immediately, the Longsword's computers bracketed a single target among of the wall of purple coming at him. It was hard for the computer to make a good identification at this range, especially with the radar clutter added by the other ships in that monstrous formation. The computer was only ninety-five percent sure that the target was a Seraph.
      "Time to intercept?" the Major queried. "Thirty seconds," the computer responded in its trademark, flat tone of voice. Marcus squinted at his radar again. The Covies never charged in a swarm like this...they were always so orderly. Were they planning something different...?
      Marcus had one suspicion, but he knew it was highly unlikely.
      Or was it?
      He gave a final command: "Slave target to CINVET; Zoom". The Combination Infrared Night Vision Electromagnetic Targeting pod (CINVET) located on the chin of the Major's Longsword swiveled around, locked on to the target, and zoomed in. Marcus glanced at the Multi-Function Display above his right knee, which confirmed what he had guessed.
      They had no clear chain of command.
      Seraphs and other boarding craft were racing to be the first to crash into the UNSC's defensive line. Even while Marcus was watching, he saw the fighter his CINVET was locked onto accidentally bump into a Phantom, causing both of the craft to spin out of control and explode as they rammed into their comrades.
      He grinned inside his helmet.
      This was going to be sweet.
      He placed his chin back on the radio switch; "All right, guys, the Covies are coming in fast and unorganized. Stay in your flights, watch your wingman's tail, and let's get to it! Form up behind One Flight, lock one up, and fire on my mark."
      "Two Flight here, understood."
      "Three Flight, roger."
      "Four Flight's ready, sir."
      "Roger, sir. Five Flight is forming up."
      "Lead, Six Flight is standing by."
      The Major let Two through Five form up on him and checked his radar; the rest of Swordsman were grouping up as he had commanded. He started to slowly pull the throttle backward so that he and the rest of the Swordsman could pull around and get behind the Covenant more quickly after the first pass. He pulled his chin off the radio switch.
      "Missile select: Vipers. Radar, lock up closest bandit," the Major ordered, and the computer instantly complied, boxing the closest craft—a Seraph—in a red lock-on box. The speakers inside the Major's helmet gave off the high-pitched tone of a good radar lock.
      He quickly queried the computer about intercept time—ten seconds—before putting his chin back on the radio switch. "Swordsman Leader has sweet lock, launch in five...four...three...two...one..."
      "Mark!" the Major yelled as he smashed down the largest button on the top of his joystick. Instantly, the starboard VREJ missile launcher slammed a single AMRRIM-24 "Viper" missile out of the starboard weapon bay.
      The radar guided missile leapt away from the Major's bird, and went straight for its intended target, followed a split second later by the missiles from the other Swordsmen.
      The target Seraph dodged—as did twenty-nine other craft around it—in an attempt to shake the incoming missile.
      The Major's plan had its hoped for result as the Covenant craft slammed into each other at tremendous speeds, creating a domino effect as the craft that slammed into each other in turn slammed into other craft, and those that were fortunate enough, managed to dodge away, but were separated from their groups. Dozens of fireballs erupted while the Swordsman shot through the newly formed, gaping hole, as some unluckier Covenant craft were obliterated by blunt force.
      That wasn't to say that it was completely safe for the 'Swords and their pilots. "Holy crap!" one of them screamed as a fireball detonated a little too closely.
      The entire squadron of human fighters shot through the thin Covie line without as much as a scratch. The Major kicked his fighter onto its right wing, applied a small amount of brake to get an extra edge in the turn, and brought his fighter back around.
      It appeared that Christmas had come early for the Swordsmen; none of the Covenant were thinking. Most of them continued to race for line of UNSC ships. The anti-aircraft guns on the Human craft leapt to life, filling the void with hundreds of rounds of HE material. Some Covenant stupidly held back, apparently hoping to break out of the pandemonium.
      As soon as Marcus saw one drop back, he spoke into the radio, "Swordsmen, clear to engage all bandits. Fire at will!"

      "How're they holding up, Eagle?"
      "No further losses, sir. A total of fifty-seven kills now recorded among our Longswords squadrons, thirty-two going to the Swordsmen."
      "Good. Now, how close are those ships?"
      "Thirty seconds until firing time, sir. Fifteen seconds until they reach maximum effective Triple MAC range."
      "Excellent," Captain Reeves said as he turned to the Weapons Officer, Sakura Konoko. "Lieutenant?" She nodded.
      "Triple MACs one and three are fully charged. Two and four will attain full charge in ten seconds." Reeves nodded.
      "Fire when they hit zero."
      "Aye, sir."
      Reeves sat down in his chair, trying to do the action not so heavily and failing. He was surprised at how much his legs hurt; he must have locked his knees up tight for the past ten minutes. He took his cap off and ran a hand through his dark hair. It came away feeling extremely salty. The Captain looked down at his uniform, and wasn't exactly surprised to see that it was soaked with sweat.
      He looked at the holo tank, which was displaying the countdown timer, watching it in an almost bored fashion as the adrenaline from the earlier phase of the battle began to wear off. He put the cap back on and vaguely wondered about the Fury launcher that had mysteriously appeared on his ship; something just didn't feel right about it, but what? He had received no warning, no notification of an upgrade, not even a simple note from the admiralty. Odd, very odd indeed.
      Was he just imagining things? No, there had to be something else...but what?
      He glanced at the countdown timer: ten seconds were left.
      That was when all hell broke loose.

Longsword R: Desperation, Part Six
Date: 5 September 2005, 4:12 am

1034 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Bridge of the UNSC Cruiser-Carrier, Maverick

      Ten seconds. That was when Captain Reeves glanced out of the bridge and past the holo tank
      Ten seconds. When he thought back on it later, it had seemed as if time had stood still for a few moments. In his mind's eye, he could see everything in minute detail: the timer on the holo tank, the way Lieutenant Hayes's blonde hair seemed to hang in mid-air as she turned to enter some instructions into her console, the exact formation of the Covenant ships as they charged towards the Maverick like a herd of mad elephants.
      Ten seconds. Reeves didn't know it at the time, but those ten seconds were going to change his life in a way that he would never have even imagined was possible.
      Ten seconds. When he glanced out of the bridge, all hell broke loose.

      Reeves saw them in the distance and off to the far left of the Maverick: small green dots that had appeared from nowhere.
      Slipspace entry points.
      Eagle reported it almost immediately, "Sir—", but Reeves cut him off.
      "I see them."
      The dots quickly expanded to massive sizes and allowed approximately five Covenant ships back into normal space in a diamond formation; their lights were off and their engines had a subdued glow, meaning that the Covenant still hadn't figured out how to avoid losing power after a jump, something Reeves hoped they would never figure out.
      They had jumped to the left flank of the Human defensive line, straight towards the majority of the Human cruisers. But why would they jump towards the strongest part of the UNSC's defenses, let alone near "the point of no return", the point at which ships could no longer overcome a planet's gravity and would fall towards the planet? All it took was for Reeves to recognize the ship they had jumped in front of: the [i[Bunker Hill, Admiral Hood's flagship.
      But how had they known?
      The Bunker Hill fired its three triple MACs at the same time, two rounds each at the three foremost ships. They were instantly gutted from nose to tail as a pair of MAC rounds punched through their unshielded hides. The one on the Bunker Hill's right had small explosions occur over before it finally detonated in a fireball, the pressure from the expanding gasses pushed the other two ships in opposite directions. The leading ship was thrown "downward", away from Admiral Hood's flagship, and away from Earth. The leftmost Covenant craft was spun like a football off of a drunken pro quarterback's hands, spiraling in towards Earth. It began to break up easily as it hit the Earth's upper atmosphere, eventually grinding itself into a fine dust against the friction.
      But that still left one.
      The Maverick's deck shuddered, signaling the first salvo of human MAC rounds against the approaching Covenant fleet. Captain Reeves barely registered the action.
      The final Covie ship, the Covenant equivalent of a destroyer, was left untouched by the explosion; the Bunker Hill, on the other hand, had other plans. Its triple MACs fired again, sending their last round into the void. The first MAC round closed quickly and was a sure hit, and Reeves started to breathe again. Unfortunately, about twenty-meters from the ship's surface, the MAC round hit something solid. It shattered into spiraling, spinning, fragments as the Covenant ship's shields shimmered their usual silver color. The destroyer had just barely managed to get them up.
      The second MAC round came in slightly high as it was from the triple MAC on top of the Bunker Hill's hull. It fared better than the first round, flattening itself against the struggling shields, and deactivating them, setting up the Covenant frigate for the third and final round.
      The third round punctured the Covenant ship right on its nose. As the MAC round broke up inside, it sent pieces anywhere from a few inches to several yards in diameter flying through the rest of the ship, like some sort of giant shotgun blast.
      Reeves saw most of the destroyer's flickering lights vanish a second later as they lost power. He also saw the plasma torpedo launch line go dark.
      Unfortunately, the engines did not. They continued to glow angrily, powering the ship towards the Bunker Hill's nose, even though it had no…
      Reeves gasped. They had no weapons. Even the power to their pulse lasers had been destroyed, but that still left the Covenant with one option.
      The Bunker Hill opened up with her Spitfires, which fell upon the Covenant destroyer's exposed skin without mercy, ripping pieces of its armor from its superstructure. But the destroyer continued to zero in on its target.
      There was nowhere for the Bunker Hill to run. It was locked into the formation, another UNSC ship on every side. Activating the fore emergency boosters would only delay the inevitable as the Covenant destroyer was moving too fast, and was too close for the cruiser to slip by. They couldn't fire a nuke for fear of damaging the other allied ships in the area, and there was no way to make a slipspace jump from a standstill.
      They were dead.
      The Covenant destroyer plowed into the Bunker Hill head on, crushing both ships with the impact. Secondary explosions rang out on both ships' hulls, many more so on the Bunker Hill than on the destroyer, as there was little left of the Covenant boat.

      There was dead silence on the Maverick's bridge, except for Eagle dutifully calling out hits and misses on the looming Covenant fleet, but Reeves did not hear him. His whole body was numb from anguish.
      No! Reeves's mind screamed. Not again! No, not again!
      For the second time in as many years, an Admiral had died, and Reeves hadn't been able to do anything about it.

1035 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Cockpit of Marcus Easley's Northrop-Grumman Longsword S Interceptor, Earth local space

      The COM was a complete mess as Marcus pursued another dropship, words constantly pouring into his ears.
      "Swordsman Four, splash one bandit!"
      "This is Flashback Nine, I've got two on my—"
      "Ghost Seventeen, fox two!"
      "Checkmate Two, this is Renegade Twenty-Four! I'm coming to help, just—"
      "Slugger Twelve, I'm hit! I'm hit!"
      The Major ordered the computer to limit incoming chatter coming from his own squadron, the Maverick, and the Fleet frequencies as the dropship made the same snap-diving corkscrew maneuver for the third time in a row, jinking the Major's latest volley of plasma. Each time he had fired at it, it had used the same maneuver, down and to the right, down and to the right.
      He had the VF-32 Swordsmen running a circuit from the edge of the Earth's atmosphere to the edge of the main furball, picking off dropships or fighters that were stupid enough to make a run at getting to Earth.
      The Major used voice commands to select his AMRRIM-24 "Viper" missiles. He focused his eyes on the older model dropship and the LEMRS system in his helmet locked onto it with its piercing tone. As Marcus expected, the droship performed the snap-dive again once its lock-warning sensor picked up the 'Sword's radar, but the Major was ready for it this time. As soon as the LEMRS system locked onto his target, he had adjusted his aiming funnel to the bottom and right of his target…and his prey passed straight through it.
      The Major pulled the trigger like he was trying to strangle the joystick, loosing yet another volley of plasma, hammering the dropship, which didn't explode like Easley expected it to. Instead, he managed to open a large hole in its right mandible, which spilled oxygen and Covenant out into space, their bodies flailing in panic. As its engines went out, it began a long, slow dive to the Earth's surface. The bodies continued to flail as Marcus shot by them.
      Unfortunately, this was when his threat sensor lit up like a Christmas tree. A Seraph had managed to drop in on his tail while he had been chasing the dropship…that was why it hadn't made more of an effort to escape him! It was waiting for help!

      The Maverick flashed by below, still in the dock; the Seraph was hot behind him. He screamed over the COM for help, and he managed to get the big guy on the horn, first try. Michael Becker's voice floated in over the radio, lighthearted, even in the heat of battle. How did he keep his voice so calm at a time like this?
      "Roger, Seven. I'm sliding in behind him. Bring it right, help me engage."
      "Roger, bringing her right!" Marcus slammed hard on right pedal, slapped the stick to the right, and pulled on it like he was trying to strangle it. The Seraph followed perfectly; Becker dropped in right behind it and fired an AGSM-10 missile from the center bay. It homed in on its target like some kind of weird slider, and smashed into the target. The Boa's power was unbelievable; it obliterated the Seraph's shield in a single shot, and the concussive force was enough to tear a hole in the back of the fighter. It slowly arced down towards the planet, leaking gases. Was it a good shot, or was it just Colonel Becker's luck, the same thing that seemed to win him no small amount of card games? Whatever the cause, Marcus was safe.
      "Thanks, Lead."

      It was close behind him, only a few hundred meters away. Marcus hauled the throttle backward, hit the rvsthrst button, and yanked his interceptor into a tight left turn, leading his pursuer back through the midst of the battle. It was a risky move at best. Most would have called it suicidal. As Marcus had hoped the Covenant pilot decided that it was too risky and pulled up, climbing "over" the battle.
      As soon as he lost that bandit, however, another one picked him up, sliding in from overhead. The Major took it to the right this time, calling for help over the squad freq; it was no good. Everyone else had their hands full with the dropships.
      Easley blew out of the other side of the engagement, wondering how he hadn't hit something on the way through. He swung his Longsword towards the line of Human ships, continuously jinking his fighter, never making the same move twice in a row, but it was still no good; the bandit hung tightly on to his tail. In desperation, Marcus began to weave wildly through the Human fleet…and the Seraph suddenly disappeared from his radar! He flew over the Maverick at full speed, puzzled by his enemy's sudden disappearance. He was about to drop back into the patrol pattern, when his lock warning horn went off again. The first and second bandits that had been pursuing him had performed a low speed yo-yo, which had sent both of them under the Maverick, and allowed them to get a firing angle on him! With the Maverick in the way, there was no way for Easley to perform a counter; he would have had to snap-turn back towards them, dive, and go under the cruiser to break away, but at his speed and relative altitude, that wasn't happening.

      He knew he was dead; he was surprised at just how calm he felt. The Major could see the plasma beginning to fire in the lead Seraph's gunports…

      "C'mon, Marcus, why not?" James's face was puppy-like, pleading.
      "Because I said so, McCall." James's face fell. He knew that when Marcus used his last name, he was dead set on his decision. Marcus's wingman decided to make one last ditch attempt.
      "What could it hurt? It's only an hour. You don't even have to sing." Marcus's frown deepened.
      "We've been over this already, James. I've been to church before. Believe me, not going is no big loss."
      "Boss…"
      "Don't give me that. I used to believe it, you know. My parents used to take me every Sunday. I went every Wednesday night. It's all just a comforting illusion."
      "No, it's not, Marcus. It's not just an illusion."
      "Yes, it is, McCall. Look at the historical evidence: there were Jews at Mount Sinai, sure. I'm sure that the Ten Commandments existed. What I don't believe is that they came straight from God himself. It's obvious that Moses got the ideas from Hammurabi and his code. Besides, it's not like the Jews even really believed their own stuff. Even while Moses was coming down the mountain, they were worshipping Bale."
      "They just lost faith, Marcus. People lose faith all the time—"
      "Yeah, just like I did. Besides, the oldest Bible known, the 'Sinai Bible', has a staggering 14,800 differences between it and the modern Bible. And this still qualifies as the word of God?" Marcus flicked his gaze down on the book on the table.
      "Marcus…"
      "Save it, James. Save it for someone else. I doubt that God would want me back anyway." Marcus stood up rigidly from the table in Afterburner, his uneaten hamburger remaining on the table. The Major strode to the door angrily, only stopping when he heard James mutter something behind him. He stopped without turning around.
      "What was that, Two?"
      "I said, 'what would it take to make you believe'?" Marcus sighed angrily.
      "A miracle, James. It'd take a damn miracle."

      …and then the entire fighter exploded, just as it began to fire.
      What the hell!?
      Then, a familiar voice on the radio.
      "Hey, Marcus. Long time no see. Swing it back to the right and help me engage, just like last time."

Longsword R: Becker
Date: 18 September 2005, 4:20 am

1034 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Cockpit of Marcus Easley's Northrop-Grumman Longsword S Interceptor, Earth local space

      How? The Major's mind felt numb.
      How? How could he…? Marcus could find no answer. He swung his bird back to the right, just like he had the last time Colonel Becker…
      Colonel Becker…
      How?

1345 hours, July 4th, 2550, (Military Calendar) Cockpit of Marcus Easley's Northrop-Grumman Longsword L Interceptor, Gethsemane local space

      "Lead, it's getting too hot here!"
      "Keep it erratic, Two-Four!"
      "I can't! They're boxing me in! They're—" Twenty-Four's COM signal went silent as his Longsword L exploded less than one-hundred feet away from Lieutenant Easley's 'Sword. The turbulence from the explosion slapped Easley's bird to the side, forcing him to barrel-roll around yet another pulse laser turret before keying his COM.
      "Colonel, are you sure about this?"
      "Positive, Lieutenant. I'm one of maybe five birds out here actually armed with something. I've also got the only weapon out here that can...well, take that thing down."
      "Why couldn't they load the Maverick up with real ammo from the get go?" Marcus asked as he jinked his bird to avoid a pulse laser shot that had seemed to come out of nowhere.
      "Because," the Colonel grunted from the strain of the g-forces as he kept his interceptor moving unpredictably, though his voice was still as calm as ever. "This was just supposed to be a ceremony. You knew the drill as well as I did."
      Marcus did. The Maverick was a brand new Marathon class cruiser, fresh out of the Reese-McCleese shipyards above Mars. It had been sent out to the Gethsemane system for a simple morale raiser. At the end of the ceremony, the Maverick was to have one of its fighters fire off a SHIVA missile with a delayed timer, and then jump into slipspace for the finale while the nuke exploded safely behind.
      But the Covenant had showed up, only one ship, but enough to destroy the Maverick quite easily. The Maverick was totally unarmed, with the exception of a few fighters that were to have put on a stunt show with live loadouts. The Colonel had been one of them, and he also happened to be the one with the SHIVA nuke attached to his fighter, loving named "Lady Luck!" after Becker's signature trait.
      The entire fighter compliment of the Maverick had been scrambled if for nothing else but to provide a distraction while the Maverick left the dock. Becker had already saved Marcus's butt several times today, and had called in the favor immediately for his crazy plan. He had dogged Twenty-Four into it too, and Twenty-Four was now nothing more than a collection of free floating atoms in space.
      They had come in towards the Covenant cruiser at high speed, risking their lives on what was only guesswork timing by Michael, hoping to avoid the shields of the cruiser. It was common knowledge throughout the fleet that the Covenant had to lower their shields briefly to fire, and with the rate of fire that the Covenant were using their pulse lasers at, it wasn't extremely difficult to get under their shield. They dove into the forest of pulse laser turrets like the fighter pilots had dived into the trench in the neo-ancient movie he had watched recently, Star Wars. He now knew what they must have felt like, dodging the turrets and trying to reach their target, knowing that the odds of their survival were small.
      The Lieutenant had been lucky many times in this battle. A Seraph had failed to fire on him when it was in perfect kill position; Becker had been exactly where he needed to be to scrape another bandit off of Marcus's tail; yet another had been hit by friendly fire. Was Becker's luck rubbing off on him?
      Easley hoped so as he continued to break every rule in the book while he wove in and out at a relatively slow speed, doing everything the instructor's had told him not to do; he was flying on instinct now, the only thing that would keep him alive. The two were flying on top of, and in the same direction as the cruiser, which was now chasing the Maverick above Gethsemane, which made their flight seem all the slower and more dangerous. The Maverick was using its emergency thrusters with reckless abandon, desperately trying to keep away from the Covie cruiser. It had been able to do that so far, but it was only a matter of time before the Covenant found their mark.
      Becker radioed in suddenly, "All right, my radar's back up. Transmitting nav point now."
      "Roger," Marcus replied, sweating profusely in his g-suit. They raced as quickly as they could to the port side of the ship, finding what they had been looking for: a mid-line docking bay. They continued toward it, keeping their movements as random as possible.
      "All right, I'm entering the launch code. Standby."
      "Roger, Swordsman One. Make it quick, sir." It was only a few more seconds, and then Michael radioed back.
      "Code confirmed. Sending launch warning on all bands…Launching!" Becker's Longsword L rocked as the heavy SHIVA missile was released from the center bay, significantly lightening the fighter's weight. Its motor ignited, speeding it towards the Covenant docking bay, where it made a sudden dive, and lanced into the belly of the beast.
      It smashed through the bay's wall, creating a thirty foot wide hole before continuing on though several more bulkheads, and finally lodging itself in the reactor room, right where it needed to be to land a knockout blow.
      "All right, let's get out of here!" Becker yelled as he shoved the throttle forward and commanded his Longsword into a steep climb when he saw that a pulse laser turret right in front of him had fired.
      And his luck finally failed him.
      A pulse laser shot from the side nailed the rear-right part of his Longsword, destroying his number two Pulse Detonation Engine, and nearly lit off a few off Becker's missiles in the process. The hit spun the Longsword like a top on its X-axis, flipping it over, and sending it straight towards the cruiser. The Lieutenant saw Becker eject, saw the smoke as he seat shot away from his damaged fighter. Unbelievably, he didn't hit the shields on his way up. The Colonel continued to fly away from the cruiser and towards his death in the vacuum of space.

      "That's the one?"
      "Yes, that's him. Retrieve him."
      "Roger, moving into EVA retrieval position. I have the controls."

      "Fox two." The second bandit on Marcus's tail exploded in a purple fireball as a pair of missiles literally appeared out of the vacuum and smacked into the Seraph's tail.
      How?
      "That was a little close. Stay out of trouble from now on, okay?" Marcus managed to shake himself far enough out of his stupor to say a single word across the radio.
      "Colonel?"
      But the voice didn't respond. It had vanished just as quickly as it had come.

Longsword R: Breakthrough
Date: 15 November 2005, 6:54 am

1035 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Cockpit of Marcus Easley's Northrop-Grumman Longsword S Interceptor, Earth local space

      How, a voice in his head asked.
      He's supposed to be dead, said another. Marcus checked his radar box. Nothing.
      But you just heard him, the first voice objected.
      But he's dead! Marcus checked the rearview camera. Nothing.
      Impossible!
      A moment of silence, and then both voices, simultaneously…
      God…?
      Could James be right? Could God really…exist? But then why, asked the doubting voice in his head, did he allow that to happen to you, let alone twice?
      I don't know.
      Why didn't he stop Nix if he really exists?
      I don't know.
      What kind of caring and loving—and above all, just—God would let that happen to you when you were five years old? Five years old! No true god would allow something like that to happen! the doubting voice continued with heavy sarcasm. Five years old! Some loving God. Another moment of silence and then the other voice responded:I don't know. But how do you explain the Colonel being alive?
      …I don't know.

1035 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Bridge of the UNSC Cruiser-Carrier, Maverick

      Reeves managed to unfreeze just in time to hear Eagle utter a curse, followed by "They're jamming the admirals!"
      "Can you tell me which one of them?"
      "Every single one of them, sir! We can't get any transmissions from Admiral Stanforth! Not even anything from Admiral Harper!" How did they know which ships to jam…?
      "Then who's the highest ranking officer left?"
      "You are, sir. Twenty seconds until the Covenant hit our line." Reeves's head snapped up. He was the highest ranking officer? That meant that every single ship in the UNSC fleet was now under his command.
      "Are they jamming us?"
      "No. Fifteen seconds; we're getting requests for orders…" Reeves glanced at the holotank again. It showed the remainder of the UNSC fleet spread out in one long, thin defensive line, with the Covenant fast approaching, mostly on the inside of the line, close to Earth.
      What had Admiral Hood been thinking? He was dead now, Reeves couldn't ask him. Then suddenly, he made the connection.
      The American Civil War…Gettysburg…the swinging gate maneuver!
      "Eagle, order all allied ships from this point out," Reeves jabbed his right index finger at the last Marathon class cruiser on the line, the Dragon Lady, "to swing in and hit them from the side. Do it now!"
      "Yes, sir! Ten seconds to intercept! There's still quite a few of them left, sir. This may be too little too late."
      "I know. Sakura, what's the status of our Triple MACs?"
      "Way ahead of you, sir. All four are above eighty percent charge and climbing. They're ready whenever you are."
      "Release locks on all Spitfire missiles and fire at will."
      "Incoming plasma torpedoes!" Eagle said loudly enough to gain the Captain's attention. Reeves looked out of the bridge; the Covenant had fired from close range, hoping that the Humans would have no room to maneuver. Unfortunately, if Reeves's plan was to work, they couldn't. The ships on the inside of the line had to hold their ground so that the gate could close and hit the Covenant hard.
      "Understood. Keep us right here unless one comes straight for us. As soon as one does, hit the fore emergency thrusters and back us up so we can move a little."
      "Yes, sir. None appear to be tracking us at the moment." Reeves returned his attention to the holotank; the Human ships began to move, agonizingly slow at first, but rapidly gaining momentum.
      "MACs are hot, firing now!" Sakura yelled as the Maverick shook mightily, creating a buzzing, rumbling sound. Twelve MAC rounds out in space, bound for four separate targets. Eagle began calling out the hits again, but Reeves was to intent on the holotank to notice. By now, the frigates and destroyers on the line had come around and opened up, creating a hellish crossfire. Reeves saw ships hammered by four, five, six simultaneous MAC rounds nearly disintegrate from the force of the impacts. Many simply exploded or broke in half.
      The Covenant's confusion was immediate. A few ships tried to reverse their course in vein, running into their mates; several warmed up their plasma torpedo firing lines, but were destroyed before they could get more shots off; fewer got lucky and managed to avoid getting hit at all, though they were trapped by the debris.
      The smallest group of Covenant ships was neither hit by fire nor trapped by debris—or was able to get around it –and continued towards the line at a suicidal pace.
      "Eagle," Reeves ordered, "order all ships to break and attack. It's a melee now. How many are left?" Eagle "exhaled" deeply, his representation of dumping a few subroutines in relief.
      "Just over ninety, sir. We're almost one-on-one with them, now."
      "Excellent," Reeves replied as a flaming Phantom suddenly shot by the bridge, causing everyone to jump. Apparently, the point-defense system was doing its job admirably. What was revealed when it left made the bridge crew realize that Phantoms falling from the sky were the least of their worries.
      A Covenant frigate with small fires all over it and four giant holes in it was racing straight towards them.
      "Where'd that thing come from?" someone screamed.
      "No idea! Eagle get us—" Reeves said, but his sentence was cut short by the explosion of the fore emergency thruster. Reeves was pitched forward, thrown through the holotank, and into a low wall, which barely prevented him from being catapulted into "the pit", a seven foot deep area that held the COM and NAV stations. He managed to twist his head out of the way in order to avoid breaking his neck, but he heard something snap as his left shoulder hit hard.
      "Spitfires away!" reported Sakura, barely audible over the collision klaxons that Eagle had activated. The Spitfires leapt away from the Maverick on their white, smoky contrails. Explosions weaved along the Covenant frigate's hull, but it continued on, possibly on momentum alone as the bridge might have already been taken out.
      Reeves tried to haul himself up by grabbing the wall, but his left arm wouldn't move. The captain managed to swing himself around and pulled himself up with right arm, causing stars to explode in his vision as the pain, which had been dulled momentarily by adrenaline, hit him full force. He staggered to his feet, suddenly woozy, and he realized he was bleeding. The deck began to rock beneath his feet. It hurt to turn his neck, so he felt his left shoulder with his right arm; he felt bare bone, which sent another blast of pain and stars into his eyes. And blood. Lots and lots of blood. A wave of dizziness hit him, causing him to stumble back to his chair, where he collapsed.
      "No good, it's still on a collision course!" someone yelled. Reeves realized he was beginning to lose consciousness.
      "Fire another thruster," Reeves commanded, hazily. "…and get me a medic…"
      "Sir, we can't! Doing so at this speed and direction would send us into a spin, no matter which thruster we fire. We can't risk going into a spin this close to Earth!"
      Then…Reeves thought slowly. What can we do?
      "Get us out of the way…as best you can."
      "I'll try, sir, but it's going to at least graze us."
      "Right…" The captain was vaguely aware that someone was desperately trying to patch his shoulder up, but Reeves knew he had lost too much blood. His vision slowly began to fade to black. Reeves barely heard the scream of the collision klaxon, and was even less aware of the shattering of the bridge lights and screams of bridge personnel when the frigate collided with the Maverick…and then was aware of nothing.

1037 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Cockpit of Marcus Easley's Northrop-Grumman Longsword S Interceptor, Earth local space

      It took Six yelling, "The Maverick! She's hit bad!" to shake the Major out of his stupor. He brought his Longsword back around, to observe the damage. What he saw made him gasp. The frigate may have landed a glancing blow, but that still meant that the Maverick was, for all intents and purposes, out of the fight. A good portion of the Maverick's rear-port deck had been ripped completely away, revealing the ship's superstructure. The engines were beginning to darken from their characteristically white color as the wound down.
They engine were out of commission, probably along with its weapon systems. She was dead in the water. With the Maverick and the Bunker Hill gone, the Human line began to falter.
      The shock took a few moments to register for Marcus. The Maverick was one of the most powerful ships left in the Human fleet, and had really been the anchor of the line during the swinging gate maneuver. Covenant ships were making a beeline for the hole left by the Marathon-class cruiser, and were beginning to leak through, casualties not seeming to matter to them. At this point, they were desperate to get to the planet, regardless of losses. Their tactics went out the window, along with their caution.
      Marcus was only marginally surprised when the Cairo, one of the thirty Super MACs left above Earth opened up, literally shattering the first Covenant ship through the line. It had to be careful, though, as a miss could too easily wreck a Human ship.
      With the way that the Super MACs were arrayed around Earth, only the Cairo was able to fully open up on the Covenant fleet, which was a problem. The Covenant now had a direct shot at getting to the surface. As if that weren't enough, some Seraphs and Phantoms had broken through the Longswords' screen, and were now threatening the Super MACs. Marcus keyed his COM.
      "One flight, report and stores check."
      "Lead, this is Two. I'm running with ten Vipers, seven Diamondbacks. Copperheads are all still here. Fuel and control are fine."
      "Three here. I've still got a lot of fuel, but I'm running low on missiles. Four Vipers, six Diamondbacks. Three Copperheads are still with me, sir. I saw a troopship heading planet side, so I took it out. "
      "Four, same."
      "Five is Winchester, Lead," Chase reported, meaning that he had used up all his Vipers and Diamondbacks. "But I've still got Copperheads."
      "Good. Unfortunately, the Maverick's out of the picture, and I—" Marcus's sentence was cut short as he was interrupted by a blast of static.
      "Marcus, can you hear me? This is the Maverick."
      "I read you, sir, but you're shaky. Is that you, Saldanna?"
      "Yeah, it is. Listen, your squadron is now under the command of Admiral Harper. Your assignment is to keep any more Covenant ships from getting past the main Super MAC, the Cairo; it's the Super MAC that's already opened up. One assault carrier's already broken through the line, and slipped past it by using the debris as cover. You're going to take out any more that even think about getting by it." Saldanna's voice began to fade back into static.
      "But what about the Maverick? You still need our protection!"
      "Negative, Swordsmen Leader. I don't know how bad the damage looks from out there, but it doesn't look so bad from in here. We can still limp through this fight. Engines are gone, but power didn't take a serious hit, so the MAC can still go a few more rounds. We've still got most of our Spits and whatever that new weapon is. Captain Reeves is unconscious and has lost a lot of blood, but Eagle's handling it. Point defense is good. Get going."
      "Are you insane?" Marcus asked, but he received no response. He uttered a low curse under his breath, and then, "All right, let's get us an assault carrier. Swordsmen Squadron, this is Swordsmen leader," he spoke into the COM. "For all intents and purposes, the Maverick is dead in the water. Our new orders are to take out any more Covenant ships that try to slip past the Cairo. Starting", he said as he held his gaze on an assault carrier in his radar grid, "with that one right there."

Longsword R: Casualty
Date: 23 March 2006, 3:35 am

1040 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Cockpit of Marcus Easley's Northrop-Grumman Longsword S Interceptor, Earth local space

      "All right, Swordsmen, here we go. Your target is squarely in the center of that thing: the bridge. Get close, launch your Copperheads, and get gone. Don't bother trying to cover for the others; you'll be blown to bits. Keep it fast and loose. Don't let them box you in, but don't get isolated, either. Flight leaders, break your flights up into an echelon and a fluid two and get creative." The Major breathed deeply and glanced at the assault carrier out to the left of his cockpit.
      It was the moment every pilot dreaded: taking on an enemy capital ship with only his or her squadron. The Stallions and Black Knights were too embroiled in a massive furball that had gradually drifted towards the MAC stations as the Covies tried to board them and do Heaven knew what inside.
      "Two flight acknowledges."
      "Three flight, roger."
      "Four flight."
      "Five."
      "Six flight, understood."
      Major Marcus Easley checked his stores briefly as one flight began to form up on him. They were moving towards an assault carrier that was trying to slip past the Cairo Super MAC. Currently, flights one, two, and three were far "below" it and were prepping to go after it. Flights four, five and six were above the carrier, doing the same. He briefly checked his own stores: all four Copperheads, six Diamondbacks, and eight Vipers. Not nearly enough missiles for the task at hand, but he'd have to make do. He keyed his radio again, selected the One flight frequency, and spoke.
      "Two, you're with me in the fluid two. Three, you're in charge of Four and Five. Cover us on the way in, but don't get too close."
      "Gotcha, boss."
      "Roger, Swordsmen Leader," Matthews said, her voice still unfazed by the battle.
      Marcus waited a few moments for Two's Longsword S to slide up to him and then spoke again.
      "Ready?"
      "Ready as I'll ever be, boss."
      "Good. Here we go."
      Marcus kicked his bird further onto its port wing, held it there for a second, peeled off in a near vertical climb, and shoved the throttle forward; Two followed a split second later. If everything went perfectly, the other squad members would all be coming in from separate angles, hopefully overwhelming and confusing the Assault Carrier's point-defense system.
      As usual, however, it wasn't that simple.
      "Swordsmen Leader, this is Cairo control. Be advised, the assault carrier is launching Seraphs. All of our assets are currently engaged. You're on your own."
      "Roger, control. How many?"
      "Unknown. Radar's having a hard time picking them up through that debris. Estimated strength is ten plus bandits, over."
      Great.
      "Understood, control. Much appreciated." This made things several times as tricky, and called for a change of tactics.
      "Change of plans, Swordsmen," Easley said, his Longsword still streaking for the assault carrier. "This thing's launched fighters. Flights Four, Five, and Six, your responsibility is to keep them busy while flights One, Two, and Three attack the ship."
      "Four flight."
      "Five flight."
      "Six flight."
      By this time, Easley and James had reached the edge of the assault carrier's defense envelope. Pulse laser blasts started as a trickle, but soon became a torrent as they dove in. If they continued to fly straight in, they'd be obliterated.
      "Two, go scissors!"
      "Roger, Lead!"
      Marcus sent his craft into a wide, counter-clockwise corkscrew, trying to keep his flight path as loopy as possible. James cut his throttle slightly, swung his Longsword out to the right, pushed the throttle back to its original level, and then began corkscrewing in the opposite direction. The move created the appearance that the two Longswords were the blades on a pair of scissors, henceforth the name.
      In order to get under the carrier's shields, the two pilots had to pick their moment carefully; they'd have to dive at a pulse laser turret as it was firing, but be far enough away from it not to get fried. The two Swordsmen continued their dive, both of them angling towards a particularly active turret; it rotated, apparently tracking them. Marcus pulled back on his throttle, hoping to throw of its timing.
      It worked. The pulse laser turret fired, but its shot went wide. Easley and McCall slipped under the shield and slammed their sticks forward, inverting their birds only a few yards from the assault carrier's hull then they immediately barrel-rolled to the left, barely dodging another pulse laser turret. Marcus flexed his lower body muscles in order to keep blood in his head, then grunted, "You still with me, Two?"
      "Yes, sir!"
      "Lead, this is Three. They're concentrating everything they have at us, sir; we're breaking off to help the other flights with the bandits."
      "Understood, Three."
      They were now underneath the worst of the fire from the pulse-laser turrets, but that didn't mean that all of it had stopped. They would constantly be dodging fire until they got to the launch point: directly over the middle of the ship. It was relatively slow going, but they got there within thirty seconds. Marcus armed the Copperheads by voice command then keyed the COM.
      "All right, Two, launch on my mark. Three, two, one, mark!"
      Two of the heavy ASM-54 Copperhead missiles dropped off their rails and ignited their motors, making Marcus's Longsword significantly lighter. The pair of anti-ship missiles sped away from the interceptor in an upward arc before suddenly diving straight towards the assault carrier's hull.
      Marcus passed right over the two missiles as they penetrated the hull, leaving six foot wide rents in the armor. The Copperheads drove deep down into the Covenant ship before exploding, but even so, there were two pillars of fire that burst from the holes. They had apparently damaged something critical, because they saw the shield above them flicker once, twice, then it was gone. A success by almost any measure. There was only one problem.
      There should have been four explosions.
      "Two, what happened!?" Marcus screamed over the COM
      "I don't know, Boss! The Copperheads were armed and I hit the button, but they didn't launch! I think the problem's with the rails, not the systems!" Marcus greeted the news with a silent expletive. That was the first time he had had something go so seriously wrong on White's watch, but things happened.
      "Two, get out of here and dump the Copperheads if you can. You're a flying fuel air bomb right now."
      "Yes, sir," James responded before letting loose an expletive of his own.
      They flipped their birds on their backs simultaneously, then moved out to the assault carrier's right side before making their escape "upward", back towards the Cairo. They shoved their throttles forward to get out of range of the pulse laser blasts, but they weren't as worried about Covenant gunners as they had been on the way in; it was a lot harder to hit something moving away from you than something moving towards you, after all
      And that attitude was what cost Two his life.
      James had relaxed too much on his jinking while evading the fire from the assault carrier; a lucky shot from a pulse laser turret nailed his number two engine, in between the third and fourth Copperheads. The explosion was caused by the missiles cooking off almost instantaneously, less than three seconds after the damage had been done. Marcus saw the ceiling of James's cockpit blast up and away from his second in command's 'Sword as he desperately tried to eject, but Marcus never saw if he made it.
      James McCall's Longsword S exploded with what seemed to be a hint of malice, a bit of the universe laughing at Marcus as the fighter became a beautiful comet, burning over the Covenant assault carrier.
      Inside his Longsword, Marcus screamed, cried, not thinking at all, only feeling immense loss; an irrecoverable piece of him was gone, along with any hope that he felt he had of finding peace.

      After James had walked into the room, Marcus shut the door behind him. The Major's quarters were only slightly larger than the Lieutenant's own, and that was really the only thing that marked it as special. Otherwise, it was the same somewhat poorly lit room. A bed took up the far wall, right next to the door that lead to the bathroom. A desk with a computer terminal was on the right, adorned with a small model of a Grumman F-14D Super Tomcat, a picture of Marcus's family, and a picture of his high school football team hoisting their state championship trophy high over their heads. Marcus was among them, grinning wildly, with a freedom and joy in his green-blue eyes James had never suspected he'd been capable of. It threw him. James had seen the boss smile widely and laugh heartily, but there was always something about his eyes that made it seem that he was feigning his enjoyment.
      He didn't have long to puzzle over the picture, though.
      "Sit down," Marcus said, his voice completely without emotion. James sat on the bed, unsure of what the Major was going to do. He had called him in here without any explanation, but he knew the Major well enough to tell when something was troubling him.
      "I've never told anyone else what I'm about to tell you. Do you understand me?" James nodded, still confused, and now vaguely worried.
      "Yes, sir."
      "Good." Marcus took a deep breath, apparently gathering the strength to begin. He let it out slowly.
      "When I was five years old, my family was having Christmas at our house. It was the night after. Everyone except for me and my uncle, Guy Nix, had gone out to look at the lights that everyone had put up. We had both caught the flu, or at least I had. I felt awful. I was asleep in my room when Nix woke me up by calling my name. He called me into the living room. When I got in there, he was standing there in his jeans and t-shirt smiling at me. He was only twenty-four. He had a weird smile and was looking at me funny, which worried me a little. But that was the way that Guy was: he was always the funny one, cracking jokes, making faces, doing impressions…"
      The Major's voice suddenly became strained. He swallowed several times, then coughed, his head hanging on his chest. He pulled his head up and stared at the wall. James saw a few tears hit the floor below.
      "He told me that he had forgotten to give me a present. I got really excited because there was a video game I had really wanted that I hadn't gotten. He told me to turn around, close my eyes, and count to ten. I got to nine before…before he…" Marcus trailed off, now sobbing.
      James hesitated, unsure of what to think, and finally said, "Before he did what, boss?"
      "Before that bastard grabbed me, threw me to the floor and raped me, damnit!" Marcus screamed. He balled up his right hand into a fist and punched the wall again and again and again. James was too surprised to stop him; blood was forming as Marcus's knuckles slowly tore open from the repeated impacts.
      Easley stopped abruptly and began speaking rapidly in between his sobs.
      "Five years old, and he raped me! My own damn uncle! I was crying and pleading with him to stop but he just laughed, said I wanted it!" The major punched the wall several more times, now dripping with blood from his knuckles. He coughed violently before continuing at a high pitch.
      "Every year at Christmas, he'd wait until we were alone and he'd do it again. I never told my parents, I felt like it was my fault, he told me he'd kill me if I told anyone. When I hit puberty I started getting weird feelings around other guys. I got to where I had a cycle for dealing with my grief. I'd work myself down to a nub, then I'd withdraw for months at a time. I hated myself. I thought there was something wrong with me."
      Marcus's words were raw now, a mixture of hatred, sadness and self pity. His voice had dropped in pitch but not intensity. Sweat was clearly visible through his flight suit.
      "I was sixteen when I finally stood up to him. The rest of the family had gone out to Sunday night services. I didn't go because I was in a rebellious mood. I didn't believe in God anymore. How could He let something like that happen? I was in my room brooding when he yelled at me from downstairs. I found out later that he'd told everyone that his office had called him and there was some business he needed to take care of. He told me it was time for my 'present' as he called it. I grabbed my metal baseball bat out of my closet and waited. I was a member of the football team and had been working out furiously. I had been taller than him since I was fourteen, but he had always been stronger, but I was equal to him by then." Marcus's voice descended to a soft, dark level.
      "When he walked through the door, I swung as hard as I could. Broke his nose. He stumbled backwards to the second floor landing, clutching his face and screaming. I knew that if I didn't finish him, he'd come back and do something even worse to me, so I chased him out onto the landing and swung again. I nailed him in the ribs that time. Broke two of them outright, shattered and fractured two others. By then, I just wanted to hurt him for everything he'd done to me, so I swung last time, like I was chopping wood. Fractured his skull and knocked him down the stairs. Fifteen steps." He let out a low, sick chuckle.
      "I still didn't tell my parents. He told them from his hospital bed that he'd fallen down the stairs. I told them that he had tripped coming up them, asking if I wanted something to eat. They let it go." The Major had finished talking, but James could tell that he was holding something back. A few minutes passed in silence while McCall digested what Marcus had just told him.
      "Boss…" Marcus turned around, his face full of regret.
      "That's why I never went to church, James. I'm gay. I never went because I'm gay…"

1042 hours November 23, (Military Calendar) Aboard Cairo Super MAC station, Elevator A3, Earth local space


      "I know what you're thinking, and it's crazy."
      "So…stay here?" the Spartan asked as the elevator continued to descend.
      "Unfortunately for us both…I like crazy." Inside his helmet, the Master Chief grinned slightly. Whether he admitted it or not, he'd always liked Cortana's sense of humor.

      "Swordsmen Leader, this is AI Cortana. Respond, over."
      Easley, though still in shock at Two's death, had climbed far enough above the carrier that he could give Cortana his attention, however divided it may have been.
      "Swordsmen Leader here. What can I help you with?" he managed to choke out.
      "The Master Chief has managed to secure a Covenant bomb, and we are going to plant it on this assault carrier. What I need you to do is for you to use your Copperheads to blow a hole in both sides of the carrier's hull."
      "We're halfway done already, then. There's a hole on the bottom of it right now."
      "There is? Excellent. I've contacted the captain of the destroyer Manchester, and he will distract the carrier while you attack. Sending targeting information now," Cortana said as she sent his interceptor's systems the exact coordinates that she wanted the Copperheads to hit.
      "Understood," Marcus answered, his voice still restricted by the softball in his throat. He checked his radar through his bleary vision. Five and Six had just pursued a Seraph past one of the launch bays on the Cairo and blown it to smithereens. The Major switched to his squadron frequency once more and spoke, "Five, you're with me. We're going in fast. Everybody else, cover our backs."
      "Roger, Swordsmen Leader," Chase responded as he joined up on Marcus's starboard side. They looped their Longswords around the bottom of the Cairo and began their dive, the Manchester and the Covenant assault carrier below them. The Manchester slid over the carrier, causing the Covenant gunners to concentrate their fire on it. Fortunately for Marcus and Chase, that left a massive hole in the Covenant defense envelope. They dove straight past the Manchester as it was nailed by a fusillade of fire from the carrier. There was an explosion along the ship's midline; the destroyer's engines flickered, and then darkened as they passed, the Human ship dead in the water.
      Chase jinked suddenly in order to avoid a small purple and green object also diving towards the carrier.
      "What the—?" he blurted out over the COM. "Was that a Spartan?"
      Marcus didn't care. All he even thought about was delivering his missiles and paying them back. All of his frustration and anger that he had carried since his was five boiled over into a wild rage. He wanted to hurt something, to fight back at fate. For some reason, Marcus's mind suddenly accused the Covenant as the source of all the suffering in his life. Nix, his personal struggles, God, losing James. He felt he could solve all of them by destroying that Covenant ship.
      With the Covenant gunners so focused on the Manchester, it was easy to dive straight at the carrier, their throttles at full military power. Marcus fired his missiles without bothering to give Chase a countdown, instead screaming in rage. He hauled back on his stick, a full fifty meters from the surface of the Covenant ship, his missiles continuing their dive.
      All four missiles impacted, leaving a long gash in the ship's armor. The small purple and green object entered it a few seconds later.
      Marcus and Chase pulled away and continued jinking their birds to avoid pulse laser fire, but none came. Less than thirty seconds later, plumes of azure hell blossomed amidships and quickly spread, devouring the Covenant ship from the inside out.       Marcus had somehow expected to feel relief once the ship was destroyed but all he really felt was an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. Cairo control called him on the COM and gave him new orders to attack a pair of ships that had breached the Human defensive line, much in the same manner as the assault carrier, but they were a cruiser and a destroyer. Marcus, despite his exhaustion, acknowledged the orders and turned his bird towards the oncoming enemies.
      "Swordsman, form up on me. We've got a new job..."
      His orders were interrupted when a loud siren suddenly blared in his speakers and his Longsword was slapped into a wild and multi-axis spin, along with all the Longswords in the immediate area. Alarms and several members of his squadron screamed in his ears as the flight control computer fought desperately to level his bird. At first, he couldn't figure out what had happened; COM chatter was a mess.
      "Is everyone okay?" somebody asked. The major checked his master caution, but nothing was on. His bird had been knocked around, but it was okay. Marcus started to reply, but he blinked as he realized that words were being played across his visor in large, red, block letters.
      WARNING: SLIPSPACE RUPTURE
      What the hell?
      As his bird stabilized, Marcus was able to view the gathering green motes of light as they grew larger and brighter, and then discharged a Covenant cruiser, its lights still on, apparently not having lost power after its jump. What Marcus found bizarre was that it had no IFF tag. It was marked as neither a friend nor an enemy, but it had jumped right into the thick of the fight.
      First, stealth Seraphs, Becker wasn't dead, and now a Covenant cruiser just jumped into the middle of the fight?

TIME: DATE ERROR, Estimated 1226 hours, September 17 (Military Calendar) bridge of Covenant cruiser of unknown origin.

      "Sami, what the hell is going on?"

Longsword R: Norah
Date: 29 June 2006, 5:39 am

TIME: DATE ERROR, Estimated 1226 hours, September 17 (Military Calendar) Bridge of captured Covenant cruiser Norah.

      "Lieutenant Commander Cunningham, sir, I wish I knew what's going on," the Human AI responded. Cunningham bit his lip in annoyance. What had happened? More importantly, how had they managed to jump into the middle of a space battle right above earth?
      Sami interrupted his thoughts from the Covenant equivalent of a holo tank. "Sir, we're getting hailed by the Covenant. I'm sending them a proper response." Cunningham arched an eyebrow.
      "And what exactly would that be, Sami?"
      "The finger." Cunningham and several of the Marines around him snorted loudly, including the newly promoted Sergeant Colin Thompson. Thompson was perhaps the best fighter left with the Marines. Despite the fact that he carried the rocket launcher that had killed Kall 'Kanamee and finished off a Hunter Killer, he laughed harder than anyone else. The sergeant was always wearing a smile or laughing; it was, frankly, a little bit disturbing.
      "I'm also hailing UNSC ships and informing them that we're a friendly vessel," Sami continued without missing a beat. "They're surprised, and a bit skeptical. A video of you guys on the bridge ought to be enough to convince them…there. We're set up and are now officially identified as a friendly. And…" Sami's eyebrows jumped and the logic symbols flowing across her body increased in type, speed, and number.
      By now, Cunningham was almost unaffected by unexpected developments. He'd seen too many within the past two months to even show surprise anymore. He sighed.
      "What now?"
      Sami grinned mischievously "Sir, the Covenant cruiser in front of us is demanding that we cover its descent to earth. Apparently, they didn't get my message. No surprise, really; the Covenant battle net is in shambles. It would be a miracle if they were able to get anything that I sent out, even if it was narrowband…This gives me an idea, sir; if we—" Sami continued, but Cunningham cut her off.
      "Sami, you're the naval AI here. Do what you have to." She nodded.
      "Understood, sir. And sir?"
      "Yes?"
      "Hold on to something."
      Cunningham was about to reply when he was thrown off his feet and backwards into the nearest console as the Norah suddenly tilted upward. Several men came tumbling past the lieutenant commander, weapons and equipment falling off them like fur off of a shedding dog.
      Whatever Sami's was up to, Cunningham thought, it had better be good.

      Finally, she was back in her element. No more dealing with Spark. No more dealing with treacherous Elite commanders. No more messing around with Scorpion tanks. She was finally back in her element: ship-to-ship combat.
      It was about freaking time.
      She had been bored beyond all compare during the two month long trip it had taken to get from Halo's ruins back to Earth. Or, at least, that was the best estimate of time she had been able to figure out by checking the Earth's position around the sun. The original plan had been for the Norah to jump far outside of human controlled space and approach slowly, constantly transmitting signals so that they were not attacked by the UNSC. What was bizarre was that, even though they had jumped multiple times, they had come straight to Earth. Also, according to her internal clock and measurements she had taken in between jumps, they had arrived two days before the Battle of Reach had occurred! How could they arrive here before they left, let alone taken two months to do so? It was physically impossible. There was no way it could have happened. And yet, here they were.
      However, the unusual radiation readings that they had received before one of their jumps…no, that couldn't have possibly affected them, even though the radiation had seemed like a beacon of some sort, they had chosen to ignore it for fear of delaying their arrival at Earth. An intact Covenant cruiser was far more important than anything a curious radiation reading could produce.
      Sami returned her attention to the battle at hand. She knew that the Norah, even though it was a cruiser, could not afford to take on two enemy capital ships at once, especially not when the Norah might have sustained some damage from its fall through Halo's atmosphere. As powerful as the Norah was, it would be easily outmatched by the two of them, especially since the Norah was in a position to be broadsided by the two of them. So, she simply decided to narrow her goal to taking down only one of the ships: the following destroyer.
      She fired off a quick compliance message to the Covenant cruiser, named Great Penance, and powered up the Norah's weapons. Sami had monkeyed around with the weapons systems during the jump, too, and had been able to increase the weapons' output by a staggering additional thirty percent, including plasma torpedoes and pulse lasers. By streamlining the energy distribution throughout the ship to only critical sectors, she'd also managed to reduce the charge time required for the weapons. Another benefit of updated power system was that the cruiser gained the ability to maintain power after a Slipspace jump.
      Unbelievably, the Covenant, for their entire technological prowess, were incredibly inept at energy management. Too much was simply wasted on heat alone to create the plasma. The reactors on their ships could produce almost half again what the engine on the Pillar of Autumn could create but the reactors were woefully under-utilized. Amazing.
      As the Great Penance passed the Norah on the left, the AI maneuvered the cruiser as if she was going to attack a squadron of Longsword fighters that were trying to harass the destroyer's port side. Several Seraphs were making their job harder, though, as they tried to engage them and draw the Longswords away from the capital ship. The furball was compact and intense, a fact not helped by the occasional salvo of triple-a that the destroyer was letting loose at regular intervals. Frankly, it was a miracle the Longswords were surviving at all given their proximity to the destroyer.
      Time to change that, Sami thought as she began to open up with pulse lasers and the plasma torpedo launcher began to glow. The pulse lasers created a golden wall of death amongst the single ships, completely obliterating anything in the way of the blasts. And the only things that got in their way were Seraphs. Most of them were smashed in the first volley. She could tell by the Longswords' sudden maneuvering that they had been expecting pulse laser fire, but certainly not against the Covenant. Sami let her hologram grin in spite of herself; everything was going perfectly.
      The Norah plowed through the debris created by the Covenant fighters before arcing up and to the left and rolling, which brought the cruiser's port side to face the top of the Covenant destroyer. The destroyer's skipper, quickly realizing what was happening, tried to roll his ship to bring his guns to bear on the Norah, but it was already too late. Sami's armaments were already at full power and nothing was holding her back. She opened up with a plasma torpedo and every single weapon on the Norah's port side, unleashing a blinding hellfire of acid colored plasma down on her opponent, almost as if it were fire from Heaven and she was an angel of The Lord.
      The destroyer didn't stand a chance. Its shields were positioned mainly along its side in order to keep the Longswords from doing any damage, but that proved to be its undoing. The weak shielding on top of the vessel gave way easily under Sami's expert fire and the hull was pounded into a molten, steaming pulp. The Longswords, sensing an opportunity, took their good fortune and ran with it, launching several ASM-54 Copperhead missiles, which punched through the melted metal easily. Their entrance points left geysers of liquid metal soaring into the abyss; their gray-white contrails looked almost like straws smashing through purple Jell-O pudding.
      The effects of the missiles were instantaneous. Explosions started at multiple points inside the ship, one starting the destroyer on a flat clockwise spin, another sending of bits and pieces of the hull into space like they were dead skin. The small fragments were immediately captured by Earth's gravity and began to fall towards the Earth, a million little meteors serving as an honor guard for the Covenant that remained on the ship as it literally shook itself apart on its one way trip to hell.
      Give, and it shall be given to you. For whatever measure you deal out to others, it will be dealt to you in return, Sami thought as she watched the Covenant ship begin its final journey. As it did, it seemed to grow brighter and brighter quicker and quicker until the ship began to disintegrate in the hellish friction of Earth's atmosphere. It continued to spiral downward in a flat spin until finally, the ship seemed to vanish into Hades itself, simply disappearing from existence.
      Sami could hear cheering over the COM from the Longsword pilots and she smiled. Regrettably, she could do nothing about the cruiser that was now descending towards Earth in a controlled manner, but the Marines would be able to take care of that. It was a shame that they had gotten into the battle so late, really; it was practically over. Sami could see that many of the remaining Covenant ships were beginning to turn tail and run back towards the moon. Human ships pressed the advantage and were happy to chase them all the way there, continuously firing Spitfire missiles and Triple MACs.
      Even the Covenant cruiser was being followed down to the surface by a small UNSC frigate, In Amber Clad.
      It was over.

Tenth Cycle, 58 units (Covenant Battle Calendar)/ Aboard damaged Covenant Flagship, Triumphant Serenity, in decimated Covenant battle formation, local Moon space.

      Shame.
      That was the only thing that Fleet Master Quarell 'Sulamee felt, and it was intense. The entire assault had been a total disaster. The force had been absolutely decimated with a comparatively small loss in human ships. Over ninety percent of his ships had been destroyed; his flagship, the Triumphant Serenity, had taken major damage; the Prophet on board had died; his forces had even been repelled from the humans' base on the moon. Really, they hadn't been repelled, but had been slaughtered. The humans' missile defense net was far too effective; there had been no gap in their coverage to exploit, and as such the missiles had successfully shot down over half of the dropships he'd sent to capture the base. Even the few fighters that he'd been able to launch were totally ineffective. They not only failed to destroy a single missile launcher, but were taken out by even more of the humans' new fighters. The warriors on the dropships that did manage to make it inside were immediately dispatched to Paradise in the landing bay by a surprisingly stalwart defense.
      He'd done as much as he could, but it simply wasn't enough…
      No,, 'Sulamee thought. It's not because I did not do enough. I am unworthy. Unworthy of this command, unworthy of the Ancients, unworthy of The Great Journey...
      He knew what custom demanded. Slowly, he reached down and detached his plasma sword from its place on his waist and raised it high above his head where he finally ignited it. It formed its characteristic shape with the usual thunderclap. 'Sulamee could feel the heat radiating off the Ancients' weapon. He muttered a low prayer for forgiveness for his intolerable failure. When he finished, he grasped the hilt of the sword with both claws…
      …and found that he couldn't find the courage to take his own life. His arms began to quaver as his will to survive struggled with his honor, the two forces screaming at each other inside his head.
      I must kill myself! It is commanded by the Hierarchs for a failure of this magnitude!
      No! his instinct screamed yelled back. What purpose would that serve?
      It will erase the shame that this defeat has created!
      Who will know that you've erased the shame? The dead Prophet? Ikro 'Paraknulee? No one will care if you're dead or not!
      I do!
      So do I, you fool! What good would killing yourself do? Restoring the honor will do nothing to hurt the humans. Find something that will!
      No, they've beaten me far too soundly to do anything to them now. The fleet is completely shattered…The honor was weakening.
      That's my point, instinct said, sensing the advantage. You can regroup with your ships.
      And then what?
      Attack again.
      No, I can't do that. The Triumphant Serenity is too badly damaged to fight anything, let alone take on the human fleet again.
      Well, if you're not going to kill yourself, what will you do?
      'Sulamee deactivated the plasma sword and let it drift away from him. He was no longer worthy to even touch the sacred weapon. Instead, he floated over to the communications console and instructed the computer to let him address every single ship that was left in the fleet. As soon as he connected, he was bombarded with requests for orders from the forty-nine ships left in his fleet. He began to talk, low and sluggishly, the shame nearly stopping him several times.
      "My brothers," 'Sulamee began slowly, "we have failed. We have failed completely and utterly. The humans remain in control of the planet. There is no chance that we can win. For those of you brave enough to follow what custom dictates, do so. To those who, like me, are too cowardly to do as the Ancients demand, I will send you coordinates for our next destination. We will live among the Heretics, separating ourselves from the truly noble and righteous…"
      Immediately, more messages came in to the bridge. Some, to 'Sulamee's surprise, were acknowledgements. There were a few death threats from the more honorable captains who wished to destroy him for his sin. A few others didn't respond at all, but simply turned their ships around for a suicidal charge against the human's pursuing force. Among the dozens of voices, the Elite could clearly hear a few commanders impaling themselves upon their own swords.
      He transferred the coordinates to the ships that had given acknowledgement messages before finally shutting off the ship-to-ship communications. Without another word, 'Sulamee entered the coordinates into the computer and simply let himself hang limply in mid-air like some sort of puppet without a master.
      The once-grand Triumphant Serenity didn't enter Slipspace as easily as it used to. Instead, the cruiser clawed its way through into the other plane. 'Sulamee could hear shrieks from distant parts of the ship as the superstructure gave way in a few spots. The whole ship began to shudder, creating a loud buzz and causing all of the droplets of blood and fragments of glass and metal in the bridge to shake in sympathy, somehow reverberating with 'Sulamee's inner cries of pain. Cries of shame and dishonor, cries of questioning fate, cries for why nothing seemed to matter anymore. Cries that were created because the Elite knew his life no longer held any meaning, no guiding force.
      He was leading a life without purpose.

      James had lost track of how much time had passed since he'd ejected. He checked the clock that was projected onto his helmet. It had been only ten minutes but his oxygen supply was low. His suit and seat were designed to be able to circulate oxygen for a much longer period than that…but James could feel himself getting light-headed. A piece of shrapnel from the explosion of his Longsword must have hit something important and caused some major damage. His chair's retro-rockets had failed to ignite, too, which meant that he continued on the same trajectory that his ejection had sent him upon. He'd tried using his radio to contact some sort of SAR crew, but it didn't really matter. He reasoned that, with the battle raging dozens of miles below him, nobody was going to deem him a necessary risk.
      His thoughts turned to other things, partly through a weird, melancholic sort of boredom, partly from the lack of oxygen.
      His thoughts turned to Marcus. The way the boss had explained why he never went to church, how James had barely been able to convince him that he wasn't really gay, really had a choice. Even then, James knew that Marcus wasn't totally convinced. He remembered how he had explained it to him, the Major standing at the bloodied wall, the crimson tears of his pain trickling from his tattered knuckles.
      Boss, all it would take to get a guy excited is a couple of potholes on the road on the bus to school. It doesn't really mean anything. Your uncle was a pervert, but that doesn't mean you are, not by a long shot. Just because you got weird feelings around other guys doesn't mean you're gay. It's a mental decision, Marcus. If you think you're gay, you are gay. If you don't think you're gay…
      Marcus.
      James suddenly felt more of the oxygen leave tanks as they sprung another small leak, gently spinning his heels back over his head before the seat's small stabilizing jets finally kicked in, freezing him one-hundred and twenty degrees from his original position.
      Marcus…
      He had failed. He'd never convinced the major to accept God. The feeling of disappointment rapidly spread through him. He'd always cared about the major, wanted to help him…why wouldn't he listen? He was in so much pain...
      James began to cry silently, letting tears form in the corners of his eyes. All he'd ever wanted to do was help the major. So why couldn't he see? Why couldn't he…?
      Lord…I'm not ready. I can't go yet. I've got to help Marcus. I have to help him…
      He blinked slowly. The tears separated from his eyes and floated around inside his helmet, fragmenting the light from the stars. The stars were so beautiful from here, so much more beautiful than on earth, so much brighter, so much more numerous. James had noticed it dozens of times before when he was flying, but now the stars seemed to take only some sort of ethereal beauty.
      An alarm sounded in his ears, warning him of the last bit of oxygen leaving the tanks. James shut it off by issuing a few vocal commands. While he was at it, he shut off his HUD, too.
      It was funny, the buzzer, normally a noise that caused panic, seemed to be only soothing, seemed to be only lulling him into sleep. James closed his eyes again.
      Father….please, comfort and protect Marcus. Send someone else to help him. Send someone better than I was, Lord. Send someone who will finally lead him to you. I…James felt the oxygen completely leave his flight suit, which slowly smothered all sounds. All that remained was perfect silence.
      All right, Lord. I'm ready. Take me home.
      James opened his eyes one last time, wanting to see the stars. They were as bright as ever at first, then began to become blurry. James couldn't tell if it was from lack of air or more tears. Slowly, however, darkness crept down from the top of his vision, slowly devouring the stars until it covered everything. The darkness seemed to last an eternity.
      God?
      Then, a razor thin line of light burst in the middle of the darkness, outlining a door. The section of blackness outlined by the light slowly opened downward. A being stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light. James could make out none of the person's features.
      The person reached out a hand to help and James extended his own hand to grasp it. The being slowly undid the straps that held him to the ejection seat, and then slowly pulled James through the doorway and into the light.

      Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…

1040 hours, November 23, (Military Calendar) Cockpit of Marcus Easley's Northrop-Grumman Longsword S Interceptor, Earth local space

      Major Marcus Easley could hear the cheers of victory on every single COM channel, but he didn't join in. He couldn't, really. He was in far too deep a stupor to display any emotion, despite his early rage at James's death. It was only now that the grief began to hit him, and it was simply too much. His orders to his squadron came in a low monotone, but no one seemed to notice. Most of the other members of the squadron had been hardened by war and weren't affected by the loss of James as Marcus was. Events seemed to blur together as the major landed by on the Maverick wrecked as it was. It was being towed to one of the repair stations in orbit around Earth, named Forrestal.
      And what a wreck the Maverick was. It would take the station at least forty hours to repair the boat, and that was if they could give it their full attention, which had no chance of happening.
      The major parked his interceptor, completed his post-flight checks, popped the hatch, and walked down the ramp to the deck without bothering to give his bird a once-over. The sheer number of people would have prevented it anyway. They were everywhere, dancing, yelling, and screaming in joy. Marcus was nearly knocked over several times by the jubilant crowd but he barely noticed. Not even Archie White yelling at Marcus in his cockney accent or several Swordsmen slapping the major's shoulders could shake him from his daze.
      Instead, he walked straight out into the corridor and then took a lift to his room several decks below. There in that hallway, there were no revelers. It was completely empty, the number of pressure doors seemingly stretching into infinity.
      He walked forward until he reached his stateroom before unlocking it with his service number which he entered into a keypad. Easley walked in slowly as his stupor finally wore off. He looked around his room, unsure of what to do next.
      The major moved to his desk. The model of the Grumman F-14D Super Tomcat had fallen off the desk, but was still in good shape. The glass in the frame of his high school football team had completely shattered from the abuse it had no doubt received during the battle. He'd clean up the bits of glass later. What surprised him was the fact that the picture of his family was gone from the top of his desk and a cursory search of the floor turned up nothing. Panic began to set in as the pilot abruptly found himself without the last bedrock of his life. The squadron leader whipped around wildly only to see the picture lying on his messed up bed, and, much to his shock, completely unharmed.
      Reverently, Marcus walked over and gently picked up the picture. He set it down carefully on the desk, desperately wanting to keep something concrete in his life. Out of the blue, he remembered something in his desk drawers, something given to him what seemed like a long time ago.
      He opened the bottom-most right hand drawer and withdrew a small paper package that he had only opened once. He set the package on his desk, untied the white string that held it together, and then peeled the paper away.
      Inside the paper was a Bible. It had been given too him by his parents at his baptism when he was eighteen, right before he had been drafted. Honestly, he didn't know why he had kept it; he'd never read it, not even once. But the battle had shaken him to his core. He'd seen James die and heard Colonel Becker's voice…was it possible…?
      He opened the Bible when something caught his eye as he began to move towards the Books. The major flipped back several pages only to find his mother's stylistic handwriting adorning the inside cover. He began to read.

      Marcus,
      Your father and I can't tell you how proud we are that you've decided to give your life to Jesus Christ. We've been waiting for this day for eighteen years, son. We're thrilled to know that you've dedicated your life to Jesus Christ and we pray that you will receive his many wonderful blessings. Most of all, we pray that he will watch over and guide you as you go into the military.

With love,

Your Parents

      Marcus quickly realized that a softball sized lump had formed in his throat and he had to work to choke it down. They had never known. For all they did know, he was attending church on the ship every Sunday morning. He'd been living a lie for the past four years, at least as far as his parents were concerned. No, it had been longer than that. He'd been living a lie since he was five years old, since the day that Nix… He, their own son, had never told them the truth. Why hadn't he told them that he was…but James…
      Marcus buried his face in his hands. It was all so much to take in. Why now? He'd seen others die before. Why did James's death hurt him so much? His eyes drifted back towards the Bible, whose still crisp pages had caused the book to simply fall open after the major quit reading the note from his parents.
      It had fallen open to the thirteenth chapter of the book of John in the New Testament. Marcus, for reasons unknown even to himself, began to read again. He made it halfway down the page before his eyes read verse thirteen:

      Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.

      Marcus began to cry; he couldn't stop and found that he didn't want to. He wanted to let it all out, to get the grief over with. He continued to cry even though his tears were landing on the Bible, and then continued to do so, even as conscious thought gave way to the merciful peace of sleep.

Longsword R: Requiem
Date: 5 January 2007, 9:43 am

      Marcus was awakened by a buzzing noise, feeling as exhausted as he had been when he fell asleep. His head was resting on the Bible that his parents had given him, the pages ruined by his tears. He felt slightly hung over, and was as miserable as ever. The major groaned; all he wanted to do was fade back into the oblivion of sleep, but the buzzing was persistent. He pulled his head off the Bible and rubbed his eyes before he activated his computer terminal, his fingers sluggishly tapping away at the keyboard.
      The screen popped to life after a second or two and asked for his username and password. Marcus entered his name and rank followed by his serial number. The computer processed the information slowly as it always did, which was one reason why he'd always hated using his computer. It was always time-consuming to operate, a result of the UNSC not willing to spring for high tech ship-board communication. He clicked on the e-mail icon which did not open for another three seconds; there was only one new message indicated by the icon, a shiny new envelope, brightly outlined in yellow to show its urgency. The cheeriness of the icon was altogether too happy to his current mood, but he opened it up and read it at a snail's pace.

UNSC Maverick Internal Communications
Encryption Code: Green
Public Key: file /thunder-hand-six/
From: Lt. Commander Joseph Saldanna, Air Boss UNSC Maverick/ (UNSC Service Number: 19472-`04391-JS)
To:Major Marcus Easley, Commanding officer UNSC VF-32 Swordsmen/ (UNSC Service Number: 01837-18437-ME)
Subject: ORDERS FOR AIRCRAFT TRANSFER
Classification: NORMAL

/start file/
      Marcus,

      Great flying out there yesterday! I swear, I have never seen a single pilot get twenty kills in a single furball let alone take out an enemy assault carrier and assist on a destroyer! Your group was unbelievable to watch on the sensors. It was like you guys were some sort of scythe, cutting down Covies like wheat. Great job once again, Major; you ought to be proud.
      I was sorry to hear about your losses, though they are admittedly light. Two members…some squads have been totally decimated, like the VF-114 Aardvarks and VF-124 Gunfighters.
      Look, Steven Olive and James McCall were both good pilots (even if Olive was an asshole). This is why I'm notifying you of your new orders. As soon as you can, you need to board the next supply shuttle to the surface to get a pair of Longswords to replace those that your squad lost. They're stationed at Ellsworth NAS in South Dakota. They're running everything from shuttles to E97Ds to get up supplies; go ahead and grab a ride down with one of the Roughnecks' birds out of your home bay.
      I would normally ask someone else to do this, but you probably need a breather from the ship. Don't tell anyone I said to, but go ahead and grab a squadmate and get a little shore leave down there. The head mech down there, Jividen Reno, is an old ballplayer friend of mine from college. I've fired off a message to him through non-UNSC channels and called in a favor. He's an unusual man. Played middle-linebacker in high school and college and nearly went pro, but his number came up. "Captain Red Ass", we used to call him. Real taskmaster and he's not the friendliest mech you'll ever meet.
      And if you're worrying about records, don't be; books are more easily fixed than you might think. The Longswords will have a slight "maintenance problem", if you know what I mean. See Mount Rushmore or go to a show. Enjoy yourself, Marcus.

      P.S. There's some major stuff going down planet side, too. The Covenant landed in New Mombasa and things got ugly real fast. There was some sort of massive explosion that wiped out a good part of the city, including Commander Keyes's frigate, In Amber Clad. Nobody knows what's going on down there now. Covenant are all over the place, too. Some more ships jumped in and made a beeline for the hole in the defensive net. They barely squeaked through. I'm not too worried, though. From what I hear, Spartans are everywhere.

      Sincerely,
      Joseph Saldanna

      Marcus rubbed his eyes again. He appreciated what Saldanna was trying to do, but he knew he'd rather just get the work over with. His old habit for dealing with stress was beginning to kick in again: bouts of being a workaholic followed by bouts of extreme aloofness. The major knew it was happening and he didn't care. In a bizarre way, the familiarity of the routine was almost comforting on its own.
      Robotically, he opened up and wrote a message to the first Swordsmen that popped into his mind: Chase Warner. While he waited, his gaze drifted down to the Bible on his desk, still open to John thirteen. Impulsively, he wanted to grab the book and heave it across the room like a tomahawk, but was stopped by the buzzing noise again. Warner had responded almost immediately, good-naturedly joking about how few hours of sleep he had gotten since he had helped Marcus take out the assault carrier. Marcus glanced at his watch on his left hand; it ran on Zulu time as was the standard for all UNSC ships operating in Sol.
      It's 1730? He'd been asleep for about seven hours, so why was he still so tired?
      He shoved the thought out of his head as he stood up and walked to over to his closet on stiff legs. It had, unsurprisingly, very few articles of clothing as the major didn't wear much besides his flight suit and dress uniform. The only other items of clothing in the closet were a few pairs of jeans, shorts, shirts, underwear, socks, and his bomber jacket, all of which were stored in boxes that were bolted to the wall, saving the need for hangars.
      He detached a small briefcase from some clips on the left wall of the closet and then stuffed in a clean t-shirt and jeans. After thinking for a moment, he grabbed his bomber' jacket, too. It was probably pretty cold in Rapid City.
      As soon as he had finished packing, he made for the door, only to be surprised by a loud, brusque knocking. Marcus opened the door to find Chase already packed and a Cheshire-cat like grin reaching from ear-to-ear.
      "Ready to go?" Chase asked.
      "Yeah," Marcus muttered, not really sure that taking another squadmate was such a bright idea. But, then again, how would they get both interceptors up to the Maverick?
      They traveled to the Swordsmen's home bay, number four, which was located on the port side of the ship, passing the occasional giddy partygoer. Nobody was smashed, though. Somebody had shown some prudence and made sure that no one managed to get more than about two drinks. The Covenant had been beaten pretty badly, but that did not mean that they weren't sending a second wave in soon; the UNSC couldn't afford to get drunk on its success.
      They arrived after only a few minutes of walking. Chase moved to open the door to the bay, but it slid open before he touched the controls and both pilots were gruffly knocked out of the way by a cart that was carrying a large assortment of foods. More carts followed, the personnel pushing them panting from the exertion. There were dozens of them, many so overloaded that food nearly spilled off with the slightest jolt. Others followed with electronic equipment, spare parts, and assorted odds and ends. Chase glanced at Marcus, one eyebrow arched in a confused look.
      "I guess you weren't kidding when you said they were running everything up here. I lost count after forty of those things."
      It took several minutes for the men to pass through and leave the door clear enough to get inside the bay; another group of men was off-loading from an Eagle Eye, racing towards the door without any hesitation.
      Both men were thinking it, but Chase was the one to voice the question: "What's going on? Were we that low on supplies?"
      It wasn't unheard of to see the occasional supply run by a Pelicans, but it was unusual to see them done by the E97D ACCs. The runs were mainly done by supply shuttles from the surface that ran on a regular schedule, but for whatever reason, it appeared that every single VS-98 Roughneck Eagle Eye was flying supplies up to the Maverick.
      Chase spotted one on the closest landing pad right as it was about to launch; the two pilots could clearly hear its engines spooling up with a loud whine. The Eagle Eye's pilot clearly intended to simply skip using the landing pad elevator and simply fly up through the air lock if for no other reason than to show off his skill. Chase reacted first, dropped his briefcase, and ran towards the Eagle Eye, his arms pin wheeling wildly in an attempt to gain the pilot's attention. It didn't seem to do any good; the Eagle Eye lifted off the deck, swayed a little, stabilized, and began to climb. By this point, Chase was jumping up and down and yelling like a madman to no apparent effect.
      However, at the last possible second, the Eagle Eye's pilot happened to look down at the deck briefly and noticed him. The pilot shook his head in evident frustration, and powered down the engines. The Eagle Eye dropped much faster than it should have, actually bouncing off its landing gear as it came down hard on the deck. The boarding ramp came crashing down with a loud clang in much the same manner. As Chase and Marcus clambered aboard, Marcus caught a bit of the Eagle Eye's nose art: there was a small, bearded man in magician's robes waving a small radar antenna about.
      Great, just what I needed, Marcus thought, instantly regretting the fact that he had woken up and gotten his orders.
      He and Chase were flying down on the Merlin.

      It didn't take long for it to start. From the tales Marcus had heard, it never did.
      The pilot glared over at the mission commander irritably as the MC loudly slurped a globule of liquor through a straw.
      "Sir," Anton Penny said as he threw an extra-menacing glower in Adam Martinez's direction, "I can't concentrate on flying with you sucking on that straw!" Timothy Macabee immediately began to giggle at the unintended double entendre while Jonathon Roy Goodnight simply shook his head in abject annoyance.
      Martinez laughed. "And I can't enjoy my tequila with you yelling in my ear from two feet away, idiot. So why don't you jusht be quiet and fly the bird? You agree, Jonathon?" Martinez asked as he glanced over his right shoulder. In response, Goodnight simply raised his left hand which had a carrot sticking straight up, clenched between his middle and ring fingers. It took Martinez a full second to catch on.
      "Hey!"
      "Look," Anton said as he threw the MC another intimidating glare, "for all I care about your precious tequila, you can take that straw and shove it up your—"
      Goodnight broke in mid-sentence as he swiveled in his chair to give them an ugly look. "Blast it, I can't concentrate on my scopes with the two of you talking, so why don't you both just shut up, okay?"
      "What the hell do you need to watch your scopes for?" Penny jabbed. "We're the first flight off the Mav this time around. Your scopes are empty."
      "If there's nothing out there, then you obvioushly don't need to be worried about flying this bird, do you, Penny?"
      "This is different! You never know when something could pop up out of nowhere!"
      "Well if my scopes are totally empty, you shouldn't be so worried about popping up, should you?"
      "The scopes are totally empty?" Martinez questioned aloud. "That makes it just a little less empty than your love life, doesn't it, Dinero?"
      "No," Goodnight jumped back in, "it's about as empty as your stomach after you've puked everything up from sucking down about seven of those bottles through that straw!"
      Martinez slowly arched an eyebrow at Jonathon before answering in a slightly slurred voice, "Tell you what, Rabbit," Adam said as he looked over his right shoulder again, "why don't you forget about the shtraw and just shuck on my—" Adam was cut off as a carrot that Goodnight had thrown zeroed in on his right eye, nailed it, and caused Martinez to yelp in pain.
      "Arr right you little frrickin' ninja, when we set feet on sholid ground again, I'm taking you out!" Martinez yelled drunkenly, clutching his right eye in pain.
      "Taking me out?" Goodnight asked in a mocking tone. "To where, Taco Bueno?"
      "That does it! I'm going to kick your—"
      "Al right, all right, enough already!" Chase half-yelled from his jump seat behind the cockpit to stop what could have easily become a fist fight in a few more seconds. "Save some for the Covies guys, come on."
[inden]The ride continued on for several seconds in a tense and uncomfortable silence. Finally, Chase, wishing to get the crew members' minds on another track, tried to get a conversation going.
      "So," he began, "what do you guys think of the progress they've made on the Maverick? Another day or two before she's ready to go, right?" Martinez turned himself around in his chair to face Warner, unbuckling his restraining harness in order to do so. His left eye regarded Goodnight threateningly.
      "No, not that long. Maybe another couple of hoursh." Chase blinked in surprise.
      "Are you kidding me?"
      "No, I'm not kidding you. Another ten hours and she'll be good ahsh new," Martinez said, rolling his eyes slowly. "Penny, why don't you turn thish bird around and give our passengersh a good—" Martinez was cut off as the Eagle Eye suddenly spun completely around and flung from his seat. He rocketed past Marcus and Chase, clipped Goodnight with his arm, bounced off the opposite wall, and finally crashed into the back of Macabee's chair with a loud thump. Instead of getting mad, however, Macabee laughed harder than ever; Marcus gave him a low, sidelong look. Just what was wrong with that guy, anyway?
      Penny caught the two Longsword pilots' attention with a curt whistle as he pointed out the front of the "greenhouse" cockpit. Both pilots' jaws dropped an inch or two as they gawked at the Maverick, which was still docked at the Forrestal repair station.
      Only seven hours earlier, the Maverick had been a mess all along the rear-port quarter. The Covenant frigate that had collided with it had literally torn the titanium-A battleplate from the Maverick like a fisherman would had removed a fish's scales; the last either pilot had seen of her, her superstructure had been exposed. Marcus rubbed his eyes to make sure that he wasn't seeing things, and when he realized he wasn't, he shook his head in utter amazement.
      The men aboard the Forrestal had done some amazing work; the ship appeared practically undamaged aside from a few traces of plasma scarring on her hull. Most of the damaged section of the ship had brand new battleplate covering it. If Marcus hadn't seen the ship before, he knew he couldn't tell how the damage had been done. The sheer speed and exactness with which the repairs had been made was mind boggling. Martinez had been right; it would only be about another ten hours before she was space worthy.
      That left some questions: why had the repairs been completed so fast? And for that matter, how? The ship was modular, of course, which allowed damaged sections to quickly be replaced by identical ones, but the speed with which this repair had been done was almost inhuman. Why?
      As if he had read the major's mind, Penny spoke up in an irritated tone. "Honestly," he began, "I think we're about to ship out. Repairs were way too fast, even for the situation we're in." Chase blinked in surprise.
      "Move out? Where to? They know where Earth is now; it makes no sense to pull us out from Sol."
      "Look, I agree with you," Penny grunted. "But stuff's been happening way too fast. The Maverick suddenly got some sort of new weapon that appeared out of nowhere, the Covies immediately jumped in, a Covie cruiser jumped in and fought for us, and the Mav will be repaired, re-armed, and re-supplied in less than a full day."
      "The Covies just got here," Chase countered. "Maybe they just rushed everything a bit."
      "Yeah, they did, but why would they repair the Mav ahead of the Bunker Hill?"
      "Less damaged, maybe? The Bunker, from what I saw of her anyway, was a total mess. She had her nose crushed back in on herself. All the Maverick had was a gash, albeit a big one."
      Penny began to reply, but was interrupted as Tequila groaned and hauled himself into a crouching position before forcing his dazed eyes to lock on to Penny in a look of contempt.
      "Anton, you shorry shon of a—"
      Martinez was stopped short as yet another of Goodnight's carrots lanced into his mouth like a dart and lodged itself in the back of his throat. Adam's eyes went wide as he gagged and reflexively stiffened up by locking all of his limbs out. Unfortunately, his feet were still in contact with the floor, so he was sent sailing into the ceiling, headfirst, with a solid thwack. The impact knocked him out again, but, amusingly enough, dislodged the vegetable from his mouth. Macabee snorted and Roy fingered another carrot like it was a Cuban cigar. The RIO tipped it in Adam's general direction like some sort of mafia don, mocking him. The display was even enough to get Marcus to give a weak chuckle.
      Laughing nearly as hard as Macabee, Chase leaned over and whispered to Marcus: "Hey, you think maybe I could get him to teach me how to do that, later?"
      "Why not?" Marcus asked in a dry voice. "After all, who needs throwing stars when you've got high-velocity vegetables?"
      "Cool beans," Chase said, nodding his head appreciatively.
       After he finished laughing and wiping the tears from his eyes, Penny continued. "So, uh, anyways, as I was saying…I could buy that if the Mav was a flagship, but she isn't. The Bunker was."
      "The Admiral is also dead."
      "No, actually he's not."
      "What?"
      "He and the bridge crew barely managed to get sternward before the ships collided. But the fact remains that she's still pretty darn powerful. I'm just saying that they should've worked on 'em both equally."
      "Which would you rather have, though: a cruiser at one-hundred percent, or two cruisers at twenty-five percent?"
      Penny dropped the point. "Okay, you're probably right, but if we aren't shipping out, then why are we dropping off food supplies?" The question caught Chase off guard.
      "I…"
      "What's more," Penny continued, "is that she was filled to the brim with food already. She's way overstocked now, and we shouldn't be concerned with food, us being right here in Sol. The only conceivable reason for us overstocking is that we're deploying. Plus, we've taken up a few tech guys, which is bizarre; there're plenty on the Forrestal as it is."
      "Maybe they just needed some extra—"
      "Did I mention that we had to detour to Sydney to pick these guys up?"
      "Sydney? You're sure?" Chase said, the first hints of uncertainty beginning to creep into his voice. Tech guys from Sydney could only mean one thing: ONI.
      "No, we picked them up at Disneyland Outback. Of course we picked them up from Sydney."
      "Okay, let's say they are deploying us…where to?"
      "Your guess is as good as mine, Warner." Chase leaned back in his chair, digging through his mind to get an idea of where they might deploy to, but came up with nothing. Nothing he could think of made any sense. His deliberations were interrupted as a buzzer sounded from the cockpit.
      "Okay, we're about to hit the atmosphere. Tighten your belts," Penny ordered. Chase stared over at Martinez, who was floating in mid-air, completely limp.
      "Uh…shouldn't we buckle him in?" Penny gazed over his right shoulder at Chase and grinned.
      "…Nah, I'm sure he'll enjoy the ride," he chortled as the first major turbulence hit the cabin, knocking Martinez around like a super-ball, and the "green-house" canopy gained the characteristic hellish coloring around its edges as the Eagle Eye plunged to Earth.

      Twenty minutes later, the Eagle Eye had touched down on the flying line at Ellsworth and Chase and Marcus disembarked from the Merlin, leaving that particular flight crew to its own squabbles. It had been an unusually warm winter in the City of Presidents, and that meant that it was only about fifty degrees; cold enough for long-sleeve shirts and jackets, but not cold enough to get seriously bundled up.
      They hitched a ride aboard one of the trucks that hauled supplies to the Eagle Eyes from the depot. The first thing that struck the two as they rode toward the hangars was the flatness of the land. Save some hills in the distance to the west, the land was totally unremarkable, somewhat resembling the vast concrete tarmac they were driving on. The only things of note about the area was that there were deep, black thunderheads gathering in the western sky, slowing blowing in over the hills. Lightning was faintly flashing in the distance, and a few seconds after each strike, they could hear a low rumble as the thunder reached them.
      A few minutes later, the truck reached the hangars and the two pilots hopped out. Chase asked if he could use the truck's radio to help find the mechanic, but the truck driver shook his head.
      "He hardly ever turns it on. It'll be faster if you just go inside and search. He'll be easy to find, though. Look for a shaved head and a mad-as-hell expression." Chase chuckled as he and Marcus walked off.
      "Thanks for the lift, private," he said over his shoulder. The driver looked warily at the pilots as they entered the hangar.
      "You won't say that to me after you've met him," he muttered before putting the truck into gear and driving off towards the flightline.

      When they entered the hangar, the pilots were worried that they might not be able find the head mechanic within the miles of square feet that t the hangars provided. The space was a relic from the Cold War. The original hangars had been built in 1957 to service the massive B-52 Stratofortress bombers. The "BUFFs" as they had been known, short for Big Ugly Fat Freaks, had been powerful machines, but in general, bombers' time had come and gone, replaced by strike fighters and orbital bombardment. It was sad, really, Marcus reflected as he entered the noisy, vast hangar. Bombers had been interesting planes. Big and slow at first, they had quickly evolved to become supersonic and stealthy demons, raining death from above, from the legendary B-17 Flying Fortress and B-24 Liberator to the B-1B Lancer and B-2 Spirit. The hangars bore tribute to the birds' size as the original hangars had been torn down centuries ago and had been replaced several times by increasingly high-tech and comfortable buildings. The new hangars still used some of the old foundations due to the enormous amount of floor space that it offered. The room that the structures offered had become an advantage as fighters became bigger and bombers began to be phased out. The UNSC still had a couple of the "big heavies" sitting in flyable storage in one of the hangars, though every UNSC pilot knew that "flyable storage" was the greatest oxymoron invented by mankind. Those few remaining bombers had most likely been cannibalized for spare parts.
      As he looked around the hangar for Reno, however, something caught his eye in the back, over three-fourths of a mile away in the mile-long hangar. Marcus squinted, trying to make out the poorly lit shape. It was massive, around half as tall as the hangar itself. After a moment, Marcus let out a long, low whistle. Huh. Who knew they still had those in storage?
      At the back of the hangar was a bird that should have been retired years ago: the Rockwell B-763 Cutlass. It was big, bad, ugly, and, for lack of a better term, a bit of an anachronism. Unlike the Longsword, the Cutlass was not made with maneuverability in mind, but rather to bring the stick at hypersonic speeds from the upper atmosphere. Watching a Cutlass fight against ground fire at lower altitudes was like watching a pack of wolves attack an enraged elephant.
      Its design was large and squat, though the lowest point of the airframe still hung thirty feet off the ground. Its only resemblance to the Longsword was in its flying wing design, but it was so much thicker that no one could mistake it for the fighter. The Cutlass's four gigantic Pratt and Whitney PDE-OV10 Bronco engines were built straight into the airframe, extending flush from the front of the flying wing to several feet past the trailing edge. No thrust-vectoring nozzles were equipped to the engines as the Cutlass didn't need maneuverability but relied on its insane speed to outrace AA fire and enemy fighters. Some pilots had compared it to the classic comic book character Juggernaut because of its ability to fly over things in straight lines.
      Though to the untrained eye it appeared like an easy target, it compensated for its maneuvering shortcomings and large size with more than mere speed. Its radar-deflecting design, large ECM suite, self-defense weaponry, excellent A/G weapons systems, and absurdly large payload made it one tough bird. Indeed, a single Cutlass could carry more munitions than half a squadron of fully loaded Longswords.
      What was it doing here? It didn't appear as if it had been cannibalized…
      Right then, however, Chase tapped Marcus's shoulder and directed his attention to a bald man who was screaming at some subordinates halfway across the cavernous hangar. As they walked towards him, the ex-football player's face turned an ugly shade of purple that matched the flames belching out of the malfunctioning pulse detonation engine he was repairing. The color provided an odd contrast with his shaved head and weathered face.
      The pair managed to get the head mech's attention and he walked over to greet them with a brusque, "Who the hell are you?"
      If either pilot had doubts as to whether this man was the head mech, that greeting removed them.
      Marcus shook his head and sighed, "I'm Major Marcus Easley and this is first lieutenant Chase Warner. We're here to transfer two 'Swords up to the Maverick. We were instructed by Joseph Saldanna to seek you out and discuss the so-called maintenance issues that the Longswords are having."
      The rugged, purple face didn't change expression at all, though the color did drain out of it, returning the head mech to an almost human complexion.
      "Oh," he said gruffly in a way that seemed to indicate their very presence offended him. "Well, follow me outside." Without another word, the mechanic abruptly spun around on his heels and marched off towards the tarmac. The two pilots traded looks with each other as they followed. Saldanna hadn't been joking when he'd called Reno "Captain Red Ass". As angry as Reno had been a moment ago, neither pilot particularly wanted to consider how hard the man could hit in his college days; the man must've been a terror on the field.
      Reno stopped a few feet outside the hangar, his arms crossed and still wearing the same expression. As soon as the pair caught up, he informed them, in a tone usually reserved for discussing ex-spouses, that the Longswords they were supposed to take actually were having "maintenance issues", and that one of them could take some time off.
      "Why one?" Chase asked.
      "Most of our pilots have either been re-assigned to a ship-borne station or are running supplies. All the ones we can grab for maintenance, we've grabbed. We've got six or seven working on the 'Swords right now. Standard procedure for a maintenance problem dictates that we need at least one pilot who's checked out on the bird in order to make sure everything's fixed, and only you guys are actually available."
      "Even if it has nothing to do with a pilot's knowledge?"
      "Not for minor problems, but we couldn't, uh…look, we're having to yank an engine apiece off of these things in order to buy a few hours for you, okay? You're lucky that there was actually something wrong with 'em in the first place, or else I'd have told Saldanna to go screw himself. We need a pilot; it's demanded by the rules, and we're stretching those as it is."
      Warner beat Marcus to the offer, "Don't worry about it, Marcus. I'll stay behind. Marcus tried to protest.
      "But—"
       "No buts, sir. You look even more tired than you think you do. I know you were close to James, Marcus, and it shows. Go to a show and have some fun." Reno looked up in surprise.
      "That's your plan? To go a show?" Marcus sighed.
      "I suppose so."
      "Well, you won't have any trouble getting tickets. Downtown's almost completely deserted. The Covenant have everyone spooked. Can't say that I really blame them."
      "Any suggestions as to shows?"
      "No," Reno said, his tone still unchanged. "You might want to take a look at Mount Rushmore or the Crazy Horse monument. They're both just amazing."
      "Well," Marcus said as he turned to leave, fully intending to simply get wasted at the nearest bar, and to hell with the consequences. "I guess I'll just see what I find." He got about five yards before Reno suddenly spoke up again with an unnerving—and possibly malevolent—gleam in his eye.
      "On second thought, if you get the chance, go see La Cage aux Folles at the Black Hills Community Theatre. They're at seven-thirteen, on Seventh Street. Go ahead and catch the matinee if you get the chance." Marcus nodded.
      "Good show?" he asked, but Reno had already huffed off back into the hangar, all but dragging Chase behind him.

      Marcus changed into a pair of jeans, a black long sleeve t-shirt, and sneakers in the barracks and stored his flight suit in an empty locker. He did, however, remove his M6C pistol and its holster from his flight suit and strapped them on under his bomber jacket. Carrying it wouldn't be a problem. His military I.D. allowed him to carry the sidearm into just about any venue he wanted. He knew it was probably paranoid, but if there was one thing his abusive uncle had taught him, it was he could never be too careful amongst strangers.
      He called in an auto cab and was off towards Rapid City a little while later. He tried to remove his memories from his mind and stare out the window, but it didn't work. The clouds he rode toward reflected his mood as they tossed and swirled about as if they were in a dark, bubbling cauldron, and when he realized it, he became restless. His thinking kept returning to his deceased wingman, his friend…
      Had he been? The concept gave Marcus pause. He'd been able to keep his emotions—his secret—bottled up inside himself until James had come into his life, way back when Becker was reconstructing the squadron before the incident at Gethsemane. They'd both been requested by Becker personally after he'd had a look at their service records. Both of them had just completed training, both were fresh, eager pilots. James had been more eager of the two, though. In fact, he'd been something of a wild man. He'd loved to pull near regulation defying tricks in his bird, listen to hard rock…he even enjoyed the occasional beer.
      At first, that had surprised Marcus. He'd always viewed Christians as wussy, backwards hicks who went to a social club each Sunday morning. He even saw his own parents that way, though he still loved them as his family.
      James had been different: he was eager to fight. Marcus couldn't figure it out. All throughout his childhood, Marcus had been told that peace was holy; Jesus was the Prince of Peace. It simply followed common sense that they'd all have no spine. But James…he relished a good fight, something that had challenged Marcus's views. At first, he'd tried to explain it away to himself by dismissing James as a fake who merely claimed to follow Jesus' teachings. During one of their heated debates in Afterburner, though, that stereotype was crushed.
      Marcus, he remembered James saying, Jesus was no doormat. Remember, he kicked the traders out of the temple, knocked over their tables. He got mad.
      Marcus had tried to counter by pointing out a verse that talked about turning the other cheek, but James parried the point by arguing that the Bible never called for people to be stupid.
      It was maddening. No matter what flaw Marcus saw in Christianity, James had a perfectly good explanation, rationalization, or interpretation that blunted the argument. He wasn't triumphal, either. He was, frustratingly, pretty modest. Still, whenever he beat Marcus in a simulation exercise, he'd talk trash. How was it that he could be a practicing Christian and still function like a normal human being? The two versions of Christianity that Marcus knew, the one that he saw in front of him in James and the one from his memory clashed often and James almost always came out on top.
      He looked out the windshield of the automatic cab, frustrated. The storm seemed to be growing stronger; lightning was coming more frequently and the thunder was no longer a small rumble but a mild, window buzzing roar. The sky was darkening to a dangerous hue, a mixture of purple, black, navy and red—and was becoming darker by the minute. He cursed under his breath.
      Damn it, James.
      The cab stopped suddenly, yanking him out of his reflection, but not his mood. He entered his military I.D. PIN into a keypad built into the dashboard in order to pay for the ride, and then exited the cab. It drove off a few seconds later to pick up its next customer.
      Marcus turned and faced the Black Hills Community Theatre, which was, much to Marcus's surprise, decked out in outrageous colors. Blue, pink, bright orange. The contrast was enough to cause Marcus's eyes to ache as his rods and cones strained to realize each color. He averted them to the pavement and rubbed them. Maybe a show wasn't such a great idea. What was the name of the thing, anyway?
      Easley looked at the garish poster in front of him; the majority of it was taken up by the title, La Cage Aux Folles, and a flat-out ugly hag, her arms wide open, apparently belting out lyrics. Crowded around her ankles and legs were some moderately good looking women, though none of them were particularly attractive. It was probably some sort of French variety show, he decided. What the hell had he gotten himself into?
      He swung his gaze to the right, towards the ticket booth. It was traditional in style; someone still had to be inside to operate it. Marcus looked quickly at his watch. According to the sign on the booth, it wouldn't be open for at least another half-hour. His mood grew stormier by the minute.
      Since every bar he'd seen on the way in had been closed and deserted, the major decided to read the show's playbill, if for no other purpose than to keep himself from getting bored. He grabbed a copy from a little holder mounted on the ticket booth leaned up against the booth and began to read, his mind only half on the text as his thoughts began to wander back to James.
      What had aggravated Marcus the most about James, though, was that James wasn't afraid to offer his true opinion on anything, and it was mild each time. The subject of homosexuality came up one night during dinner in Afterburner where James's position shook Marcus to his core. Other pilots around the table cracked jokes about it, using high voices and goofy lisps. Even Marcus did, though only through the need for conformity. James made an extremely mild joke, but then said, Well, guys, it may be funny, but I feel pretty sorry for gays. They never get to feel normal. I don't approve of what they do, but I do feel sorry for them. The statement collided so directly with Marcus's image of Christians as fire-breathing bigots that he had to leave the table and get to his stateroom. His hands were shaking as he unlocked the door. He knew that he had told himself for years that they were bigots in order to justify his aloofness and hatred for Christians. But here was someone who was…
      Wait, what did I just read? Marcus snapped his eyes back to the top of the page and began reading, his breathing heavy and labored.

      As a long-running Paris boulevard comedy, later as a highly original classic film, and one of the biggest Broadway musicals ever produced and a major hit in the West End at the Palladium, La Cage aux Folles has billions of fans. Jerry Herman's music and Harvey Fierstein's book added new dimensions to the story of the homosexual lovers whose twenty years of domestic tranquility are shattered when a son, fathered during a one-night heterosexual fling, decides to marry the daughter of a bigoted politician.
      Georges and his friend Albin, stage name Zaza, run a St Tropez nightclub, La Cage aux Folles, where the stars and the chorus line are mainly men in drag. Georges and his friend have lived happily together for many years. Their apartment is also home to their black 'maid' Jacob. And, as of today, Georges' son Jean-Michel (the result of a casual liaison some twenty years before). Jean-Michel has news. He's engaged to Anne. That's the good news. The bad news is that her father is head of the Tradition, Family and Morality Party, whose sworn aim is to close the local drag clubs. And her parents want to meet their daughter's future in-laws, including his real mother. Jean-Michel has described Georges as a retired diplomat, which could lead to trouble. Jean-Michel has a solution. Albin will absent himself for the visit - and all the furniture will be changed for something less spectacular. When he finds that he's to be marginalized, Albin is deeply hurt. Has he not brought up Georges' son, man and boy, and been a good mother? He quits the club in a thoroughly justified huff.
       Next morning Georges finds Albin on the beach and suggests he dresses up as a macho uncle Al. Why not? Back at the apartment, now transformed into a cell reminiscent of a monastery, Georges receives a telegram. Jean-Michel's mother Sybil isn't coming. What to do? A ring at the door. Anne's parents arrive. Albin flees to his room, emerging as a buxom forty-year-old. Jacob has burned the dinner. A trip to a local restaurant, Chez Jacqueline, belonging to an old friend of Albin and Georges, is quickly arranged. No one has briefed Jacqueline on the situation and she asks Albin for a song. Alas, as Zaza, he completely forgets himself and at the song's climax tears off his wig, revealing his true identity.
       Back at the apartment the Dindons make their disapproval known. Their daughter is not persuaded. She's in love with Jean-Michel and will stay with him. The Dindons prepare to leave. Their way is blocked by Jacqueline, who has arrived with the Press! How piquant to have a picture of the most notorious anti homosexual with the most famous St Tropez homosexuals. Georges and Albin have a solution. Anne and their son must be allowed to marry, of course. And the Dindons will be allowed to escape - through La Cage aux Folles next door! And that is what happens, with the Dindons dressed as artistes of the revue, and Mr. Dindon as the ugliest drag queen imaginable! So all ends happily - at least for everyone for whom it should.

      At that moment, something deep within Marcus snapped. Roaring, he went berserk, crumpling the playbill up into the tightest ball he could manage before he began to rip it to bits. The pieces of paper wafted to the ground; Marcus snarled as he stomped on them, trying to shred them into confetti. In his frenzy, he whipped around to face the poster. Wild-eyed, he glared at the transvestites, realizing them for what they were as his anger exploded. Blinded by his wrath, he cocked his right arm behind his ear and launched his fist clear through the glass. He bellowed as the glass cracked and splintered, cutting his fist in the process. Marcus gingerly pulled his bleeding fist out of the hole it had made before he slammed a kick into what remained of the pane, crushing it. The glass fell to the ground in shards, tinkling as it hit the cold, hard concrete.
      Still screaming, Marcus clutched his hand, instinctively trying to staunch the bleeding, but it continued to flow easily. He wrapped his hand up in his shirt, hoping that it might stop the blood, but the shirt was soon soaked in crimson. He wanted to grab the poster and tear it too, but found he couldn't; the anger slowly began to subside as the pain, confusion, and a sense of panic started to set in. Surely someone had seen him obliterate the glass. Marcus's eyes darted up and down the road, instinctively looking for witnesses. Instead, all he saw was a flash of lightning as it struck only a buildings away, temporarily blinding him. The thunder sounded like an incoming mortar shell and hit with equivalent force, knocking Marcus off his feet. His hands shot to his ears; he could already feel them bleeding and ringing like some sort of gory alarm.
      Lying there facedown on the rough concrete with stars in his eyes, it took him several seconds to notice that large, dark spots had begun to appear on the sidewalk without a sound. They were quickly joined by more dark spots. More and more and more. It was raining.
      The next thing he knew, he was up and his feet were pounding on the ground as fast as they could. Marcus didn't really care where they took him, either. All he wanted to do was get away from the theatre and all the painful memories it had somehow unleashed on him. He dashed down the street and ducked into the nearest alley before hitting a T-intersection and making a wobbly turn to the right, heading north. His throbbing hand, ears, and panicking mind gave him extra energy to keep his legs churning, himself never knowing which turn he would take next.
      He wound his way through several more alleys before bursting out into another public street. He sprinted across without bothering to check for traffic, his fear spurring him on. Another alley. Another turn. Another set of high-walled buildings.
      The rain had become an unrelenting torrent of water, bouncing off the buildings, off the dumpsters, doorways, and drainpipes, drenching Marcus as he ran. It was so thick that he was thoroughly soaked within a minute. The lightning was striking over and over again, always too close, only a few blocks behind as though it was chasing him. Each time the lightning struck, the thunder nearly knocked Marcus over.
      The Major stopped running after multiple city blocks, unable to continue. He was completely out of breath; though he'd only been running for a few minutes, it seemed like he'd been running his whole life.
      Marcus collapsed up against a doorway underneath a small overhang, the rain coming down in a solid wall. No matter how hard he tried, it seemed that he couldn't catch a second wind.
      Another blast of thunder hammered him against the door. Easley fell to the ground face first without any effort to remain standing, his ears ringing from the explosion, his mind and body numb.
      Marcus lay there in a large puddle for what seemed like a long time, his tongue tasting the ice cold, dirty water, the rest of him feeling the freezing rain as it cut into him, lashing him cruelly. Really, he didn't care how long he lay there. The pain and panic subsided as he breathed deeply and tried to calm himself down. It took a while, but he finally managed to succeed in relaxing a little bit and slowing himself down long enough to think.
      You damn idiot, what were you thinking? Nobody saw you smash that glass. All you had to do was walk down the street and get under some cover when the rain hit, but noooo, you had to tear off down the street screaming like madman. Idiot. Your hand still hasn't stopped bleeding, but so what? You're damn lucky you didn't sever a major artery, dumbass. You can't do anything now; it's probably almost time to get back to Ellsworth, anyway.
      When he finally mustered the energy to roll over and sit up, he was startled by the sound that greeted his ears.
      Total silence. No thunder, no merciless rain, not even the howling wind. Even though the sky was flashing with noiseless lightning, it was darker than ever, at this point nearing a deep black that covered up almost all light. Everything was still completely silent.
      The stillness sent shivers up his spine. He cleared his throat to make sure he hadn't lost his hearing from the blast of thunder. Fortunately, he could hear himself. At the very least, he wasn't deaf.
      Marcus unsteadily got to his feet, dizzy from the loss of blood, and tried to reorient himself, the silence far louder than any blast of the terrible thunder he'd experienced earlier. He looked around, unsuccessfully trying to remember which way he'd come from. Everything had been a blur as he ran; there was no chance he could find his way back easily. He sighed, trying to decide on his next plan of action. Maybe he could get to a public phone and call another taxi or—
      —ss…
      It was a small sound, but it still made his skin crawl. He looked up and down the alley as he had done earlier with the street. Nothing. Maybe he was just imagining things. He was tired and—
      —uuss…
      He looked up and down the alley again; still no sign of anybody. Instinctively, he reached down and felt his M6C underneath his soaked bomber jacket. He drew it slowly, feeling its metallic, reassuring grip in his hands. He flicked the safety off before checking both ways once again. Without looking back, he reached behind himself with his left hand and tried the door; no good, it was locked tight. With his back flattened against the wall, he began to move to his right, avoiding a small dumpster and a few trash cans as he inched his way towards the street.
      Marcussss.
      The Major's eyes instantly whipped back to his left as he tried to find the location of the sound. He still saw nothing but he dove behind the dumpster anyway. On the edge, he waited several seconds before peeking around the corner of the dumpster, his pistol leveled at the far end of the alleyway.
      Absolutely nothing, not even a piece of loose trash, moved.
      Marcus.
      The word was whisper soft, consoling, spoken quietly into his right ear instead of his left where it had been only moments before. Marcus, already on the edge, reflexively swung himself around in an attempt to use the butt of the M6C as a cudgel on his stalker, but the pistol swung through empty space and slammed against the alley wall. The pistol went off with a loud report that echoed furiously, releasing a bullet that ricocheted dangerously around the alleyway, releasing puffs of dust where it had struck the brick walls before finally slamming into the dumpster behind Marcus, scan inches from his head.
      Instinct took over once again and Marcus was on the move, running with his M6C in his hand, too scared to think clearly. He shot out of the alley like a bat out of hell before slipping on a puddle of water and skidding out into the street. His feet quickly regained their traction and he was off down the sidewalk, running even faster than before. After only a few yards, however, something to the right caught his eye: an open, heavy oak door atop a few marble steps.
      The fact that it seemed to be the only open door in the city didn't enter the major's mind as he bounded up the porch and neither did the fact that he recognized the inside of the door.
      He ran through a small, oak walled anteroom that he'd come through many times before and was beginning to open another door when the realization began to dawn on him. It wasn't until after he had thrown open the second door and emerged into a large, cavernous room, that the full force of the situation hit him.

      I'm in my old church.

      The realization was a calm one, but it was enough to drop Marcus to his knees in shock, his disbelieving eyes scanning the room as his mind raced at a hundred miles an hour, but still got nowhere.
      It was exactly the same as it had been years ago. Three separate columns of theatre seats reached from the pulpit, lightly decorated with flowers, all the way to the back of the auditorium. The widest column was in the middle, and was separated from the other two columns by a comfortably wide maroon carpeted aisle. The outside columns were flanked by loggias, open air hallways lined on the inside with pillars that led to doors that led deeper into the church. Light was provided by a few electric lamps hung high from the ceiling and thin stain glass windows that ran the length of the loggias.
      The pulpit itself consisted of an ordinary wooden podium with a microphone, backed by a bench and a large table laden with communion cups and plates. Up above it and hidden behind another, larger, sliding stain glass window, resided the baptistery where Marcus had been baptized only a few years earlier. Everything was as it should have been; nothing was out of place. But Marcus had been baptized in an entirely different state.
      Marcus began to slowly walk back towards the door. When he reached it, he tried to push it open, but it wouldn't budge. Impossible, there had been no lock on this door before! What was going on? Who the hell had locked the door?
      Hoping that it was only stuck on something, he shook the door violently, but it refused to budge. He wound up and kicked the door with the same result. In desperation, Marcus finally took several steps back, got a running start, and attempted to knock the door of its hinges with as powerful a kick he could muster but only succeeded in crashing to the floor in a heap.
      Swearing, he got to his feet. Whatever the hell had whispered his name in the alley had locked him in. How had it followed him so fast? What did it want?
      Marcus tried to calm himself down again but couldn't. He leveled his M6C at the thick oak door, guessed where the lock might be and emptied the entire magazine, desperate to destroy it and escape from this place. The wood splintered and cracked from the impacts, but yielded no lock to destroy. Marcus cursed as he ejected the spent clip and slid a new one into the handle before leveling it at the lock again.
      It took another two bullets before he realized that he might waste the only weapon he had trying to get out of the building through this single door. Surely there were other exits in this building. All he had to do was find one and then he could get away from the church and whatever it was that was following him. He could probably find a pay phone somewhere outside and call an automatic cab to pick him up. Failing that, he'd have to confront this—
      The door rattled.
      Adrenaline coursing through his system, Marcus pivoted off of his right foot to sprint off towards the pulpit and then make his way deeper into the church. He pushed off, looking over his shoulder as the door banged against the frame, sounding not unlike the lightning that had chased him here to this church. He turned his head back towards the pulpit as his entire reality shattered.
      He stopped cold as his mind ground to a halt. There, standing at the front of the auditorium in front of the pulpit was Guy Nix, the same as he had been when Marcus was five years old, wearing a weird smile and looking away from the major. Stunned, Marcus Easley followed Nix's gaze only to see Marcus Easley.
      When he was five years old.
      For a full second, nothing happened, and then the pilot watched, paralyzed as his five year old self covered his eyes begin to count upwards rapidly from one.
      "One, two, three, four…"
      Nix laughed strangely. "Hold up, kid. Slow down and start over," he said teasingly as he began to slowly step towards the young Marcus. The young Marcus giggled and started over, counting more slowly, and standing on his toes in anticipation of the gift he thought he was going to receive. Nix's strange, sick smile turned into an evil sneer.
      "After all, the best things in life are worth waiting for, right?"
      Oh, God.
      Marcus snapped into action, sprinting down the aisle towards Nix and fumbling with his M6C pistol.
      "One, two, three, four…"
      The major skidded to a stop at the pulpit and swung his pistol into position. He didn't say anything or hesitate at all. The M6C kicked against the heel of his hand, roaring as it discharged five 12.7 millimeter rounds.
      The bullets all connected with their target, slamming into Nix's shoulder, side, and back, eliciting red showers of blood that spilled onto the carpet. Incredibly, Nix didn't flinch or even react as he continued towards the young Marcus.
      "Seven, eight, nine…"
      No, Marcus thought desperately. No!
      He threw himself at Nix in desperation, hoping to somehow stop his uncle's inexplicable and unimaginable act before it started. It was no good. Nix felt like a solid brick wall as Marcus ineffectually slammed into him before landing on his back.
      "Ten!" The young Marcus turned around, his face glowing, bright, and eager for the gift he thought he was about to receive; the face quickly turned to sheer terror as the five year old saw his uncle's sinister sneer and instinctively knew that something was wrong.
      Both Marcuses let loose a scream of helplessness which combined with an unexpected crash of thunder from outside, cracking the peaceful air with their collective horridness, one not knowing what was happening, the other knowing all too well.
      "Goooood!"
      Silence. Total silence, even more deafening than the thunder had been pounded Marcus's ears.
      The major blinked, completely dumbfounded. Where Nix and his five year old self had been only a moment before, there stood nothing. Nothing had marked their disappearance, though the puddle of blood from Nix's wounds still sat on the floor removing all doubt as to whether they had been there in the first place. Slowly, Marcus crawled the few feet to the puddle, staring at it intensely. Some disbelieving part of his mind caused him to reach down slowly and dip his fingers in it. It was warm and sticky, just as it should have been. It smelled vaguely copper-like, too.
      None of this…none of this could really be happening. Yes, he had felt pain when he punched the glass and when the thunder had nearly ruptured his eardrums, but it was impossible for him to be in his church. His church—his real church—was several states away. But there was no way he was in an identical building, the odds were simply too long. And yet, here he was sitting in his church, or at least…
      Suddenly, it clicked. Marcus looked up slowly, only to have a blinding white light meet his eyes.

      He opened his eyes. A harsh fluorescent light greeted him. It took a moment for his eyes to clear and focus, and when they did, he realized that he didn't recognize the ceiling. It was right about then that the pain hit, a massive, throbbing headache that caused him to groan in pain.
      The groan brought a figure over him that obstructed the light; he couldn't make out the face as it glanced down at a clipboard that he hadn't noticed a moment before, but he clearly heard a woman's voice say, "Exit time is seventeen hundred. Inform the colonel, would you, Lucy?"
      He groaned again. The woman looked down before disappearing briefly from his vision.
      "Sorry about the pain. I've upped some of the meds; they ought to relieve the headaches a little bit. You came extremely close to having a bad case of the bends. You got lucky that they got to you as fast as they did. Well, now that you're breathing normally, I suppose there's no reason for you to keep wearing this."
      The woman reentered his vision before she reached down and removed an oxygen mask from his face that he hadn't even been aware of. He felt groggy and confused, though he was alert enough to attribute that to whatever meds the orderly had him on. However, that begged the question: why did he need meds? Furthermore, where was he? He managed to sit up in the bed without too much difficulty and surveyed his surroundings.
      He was in a fairly well stocked sick bay that was abnormally clean, even by UNSC standards. However, it wasn't the sick bay from the Maverick, which surprised him. His bed was in the corner, next to the door, but positioned at such an angle that he couldn't see outside. He looked around to ask questions, but realized he was the only patient in the room. The orderly had left already, so his questions would go unanswered for a while.
      His thoughts were interrupted, however, when a tall, athletic looking man in a flight suit stepped through the door. He had sandy blonde hair and clear blue eyes that betrayed his intelligence. The pilot leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms as a bemused smile crossed his face. The flight suit had a small squadron patch on the shoulder that contained a simple skull and crossbones and the words "Fighting 84".
      The patient gawked at the pilot, his eyes wide. The pilot grinned.
      "How…?" the patient managed to get out. The pilot laughed just as the patient remembered him doing two years ago above Gethsemane when the man standing only a few feet away from him had still been alive.
      "Welcome back to life, Lieutenant James McCoy," said the deceased Colonel Michael Becker in his habitually lighthearted tone. "Welcome aboard the Valkyrie."

      He opened his eyes to see two figures wearing flight suits crouching over him, one tall and dark haired, the other a several inches under six feet with fiery red hair. The latter had his hands clapped over his ears, wincing in pain; the former had his arms extended and was making a shaking motion, causing his vision to bounce wildly.
      Right about then, Marcus's hearing kicked back in to hear his own piercing shriek. The dark haired man grimaced as his hands, too, shot to his ears.
      "Ah, damn, that's loud!"
      Marcus continued to scream, but they became softer and softer as he began to calm down. Once he had finally stopped screaming, the red haired man asked in a tenor voice, "Are you all right? You were screaming bloody murder in here."
      Marcus looked up at him before nodding slightly.
      "Yeah, I think so," he said, his voice still shaky.
      "You need to go to sick bay?"
      "No," Marcus said. "I'm fine. I just…had a nightmare." The dark haired man arched his eyebrows.
      "Must've been a hell of a nightmare, sir. You've been screaming for a good five minutes."
      "I have?"
      "Yeah. Just what were you dreaming about, anyway?"
      "I…" Marcus started, but then stopped. "Uh, wait, first off, who are you guys?"
      "First Lieutenants Beard and Varner, sir," the red haired man said, first indicating himself and then the dark haired man. "We're here to replace McCall and Olive. We're already been processed, so we'd just thought we'd introduce ourselves " Marcus nodded, now so confused that he almost gave up on trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. He held out his hands.
      "Help me up, will you?" After Varner and Beard had yanked him to his feet, Marcus stood awkwardly for several seconds, trying to process everything that had just happened. It had been a dream, obviously, but he still felt the pain from when he hammered the marquee. He felt the rain and the concrete…it had been an absurdly realistic dream, which was out of the ordinary for him. Normally, he couldn't remember his dreams at all, and the ones that he did remember were faint, fragmented, and nonsensical. But this…
      "So," Marcus said, his brain running the conversation on autopilot. "Where'd you transfer from?"
      Sterling answered first: "VF-142, sir." Marcus looked up, momentarily distracted from his concentration.
      "The Ghostriders? You're not straight out of the school?"
      "No sir, I'm with the Ghostriders. Well, actually, I suppose I'm a Swordsman now." Marcus looked at Beard.
      "And you?"
      "VF-213, sir. I was a Black Lion."
      The news gave Marcus pause. Normally, he would've gotten some nuggets from straight out of flight school, but some desk jockey somewhere must have made a clerical error. The Ghostriders and Black Lions were two of the more respected squadrons in the UNSC, the first legendary for its key part in the Harvest campaign where the group had managed to single-handedly disable a Covenant flanking attack, and the latter renowned for its record-low combat losses throughout the war, earning its pilots the oft-whispered nickname of "The Invincibles."
      Marcus simply stared at the two of them, creating an uncomfortable silence, which Beard broke by clearing his throat.
      Marcus blinked. "Oh, right. Dismissed." The pilots turned to depart the room. As he left the room, Varner looked back at his new squadron leader.
      "You sure you're going to be all right?"
      "Yeah," Marcus muttered, shaking his hands and crossing his arms. "I'm going to be just..." he trailed off as on the back of his right hand, right where he had punched the glass in his dream, he noticed a small and faint scratch that had barely drawn blood, yet was still an instantly recognizable and unmistakable shape.
      "I'm going to be just fine," he whispered as he gazed at the cross on his hand.

Longsword R: Interlude
Date: 20 July 2008, 4:49 am

      James McCall sat up in his bed, staring at the man leaning against the doorframe, a man who was supposed to be dead: Colonel Michael Becker. McCall worked his jaw up and down several times, trying to ask Becker all of the obvious question; after a few moments, it finally tumbled out.
      "You're…you're supposed…supposed to be—"
      "Deceased?" Becker answered, smiling from ear to ear, just as James had remembered him doing so often. "Yeah, well, you can think a particular EVA retrieval team for that. ONI had a Prowler cruising around at the shakedown cruise sendoff at Gethsemane. I talked to one of them later; he let slip that they had advance notice of the Covenant attack but were too late to do anything about it, so they were just ordered to gather as much intel as they possibly could and pick up anyone who went EVA."
      "But Marcus said that your bird—" Becker grinned.
      "Lemme finish. Yeah, my bird did get hit by a pulse laser shot, but I managed to eject. Barely. Marcus may not have been able to see my chair get away because of all the smoke and debris." McCall sat in awe for several seconds, shaking his woozy head to absorb everything. It felt like it was filled with cotton; all sounds were slightly muffled, too. Just what did they have him on, anyway?
      "Kind of taking a lot of risks there, weren't they? And why were they looking for Swordsmen?"
      "Yeah, they were taking some risks there, but so far their luck's been holding. And I don't think they were on the lookout for Swordsmen. I either got really fortunate or our actions during the Indianapolis incident got us noticed by someone in Section Three." James sat down, slowly piecing everything together.
      The Indianapolis incident had occurred just a few years ago, just after James had become a member of the squadron. Back then, Michael Becker had just taken command of VF-32. It was more of a punishment than anything else because he had almost been brought up on charges of insubordination by his superior officers when he'd refused to bomb a Covenant occupied city on the planet Eden that still had over half the regular civilian population living in it. By some miracle he'd managed to avoid court martial and wound up getting shuffled to the UNSC Indianapolis, a ship that carried the dubious distinction of being one of the oldest, most rickety ships in the fleet.
      VF-32 was the Indianapolis's lone squadron when Becker arrived to lead it. His kind but firm leadership turned the squadron around, taking the Swordsmen from laughable to laudable. By discharging the hopeless, reforming with the redeemable, and instructing the inexperienced, Becker rebuilt the once legendary squadron. He'd brought in James and Marcus as part of his program, too. Notwithstanding his excellent work, command still saw his near court martial as a black mark against him and refused to promote or even reassign he and his squadron to a more capable ship. Being stuck on the Indianapolis ship was nearly as bad as a being held in prison.
      Her crews had nicknamed her The Leper Colony, and it was easy to see why. The ship was a minesweeper, invariably assigned to the boondocks and training exercises. It hadn't seen combat once in over forty years of service, mainly because it was crewed by the dregs of the UNSC's personnel. As if that hadn't been bad enough already, she had been led by a corrupt captain.
      The captain, Jebediah Queeg, had been involved in a numbers racket run by a cartel based out of the Eridani system. He was crafty enough to avoid being found out by the UNSC, but he made the mistake of believing that the cartel wouldn't come after him when he refused to pay up on a particularly large bet he'd lost. The cartel, naturally, had other ideas.
      The ensuing confrontation was ugly when a group of cartel ships had attacked the Indianapolis during a training exercise in open space. Thanks to a mole onboard the ship, she would have been disabled, captured, and her crew in all likelihood executed had Becker not gone against the captain's direct orders and launched the Swordsmen out into the fray in their decrepit C709-G Longswords. The Swordsmens' impressive performance from that episode had been enough to finally convince command to reassign he and his squadron to the Maverick.
      "The Indie incident would make sense. Did we ever find out what happened to that cartel, Esparada-something-or-other?"
      "Esparza. Supposedly the leader was a drunk and the failed Indie raid gave his opponents in the cartel the excuse to get rid of him that they'd been looking for. Infighting tore the thing in two. Last I'd heard, intel thought he was laying low. Anyways, as for how I got here, I got lucky, just like you did; they picked me up after I ejected. The nuke explosion covered all of their tracks, too, so as far as the UNSC is concerned, we're both dead." James sat dumbfounded for several seconds, mulling the information over.
      "What do you mean by, 'we're both dead'? Why won't ONI just return us to active duty?"
      "Simple. Somebody way beyond our pay grades wants me to lead the eighty-fourth and for you to be part of it, and they're apparently willing to go to great lengths to do so. Whoever is running this thing is getting the best people they can: not the truly big names, but guys that fly under the radar like you. You ever heard of a Deanna Rankin?"
      "No."
      "You will soon. She's a pretty tough chick, commands the five-sixty-first Wild Weasels." James arched an eyebrow.
      "Never heard of them or the eighty-fourth."
      "There's a good reason for that, actually. The five-sixty-first's an old USAF squad that fought in the U.S.-Vietnamese war, specializing in SEAD with the old F-4 Phantom II. They're flying SkyHawks at present, though they're still focused on SEAD. The 84th, however, is an old USN squadron that got deactivated in the mid 1990s and was only reactivated two years ago as a black ops unit. We're driving the F-602."
      "What's that supposed to mean?" James said, the drugs inhibiting his reasoning. The Colonel sighed and said what appeared to be a single word, but the muffling effects on his ears caused James to miss it. He tried popping his ears to no avail.
      "I'm sorry," James said. "What was that?"
      "Man, whatever they've got you on must be something good, because under normal conditions, you'd have put the square block into the square hole by now. I'll just come right out and say it, then. Right now, you and I are working for ONI." James only stared, his incredulity evident.
      "ONI." James stated skeptically. Beckham nodded again.
      "Yeah, I know it's hard to believe. They were the ones who picked you up, by the way."
      "So you're telling me that the darkness I saw—"
      "Prowler."
      "And the lights—"
      "Were onboard said Prowler."
      "And the figure—"
      "EVA retrieval guy."
      "Could've sworn I'd died and was going to heaven, Michael."
      "Would the Angel of Death bothered to unbuckle your safety straps?" The dark humor made James laugh, a funny sound to his muffled ears.
      "Amazing," he muttered. "How'd they know to pick me up, anyway?"
      "James, we've been over this already. They didn't know who you were, and they didn't particularly care. They had standing orders to retrieve every EVA pilot they could. Fortunately for us, you just happened to be lucky enough to be one of them." James bit his lip.
      "Sir?"
      "Yeah?"
      "Is Mar...Major Easley still alive?" Becker considered for a moment.
      "There was a pair of Seraphs that I scraped off his tail. That was the last I saw of him, so as far as I know, yes." James bolted upright.
      "Wait, you were at Earth?" Becker grinned once more.
      "Yeah, I was. It was good to see the Swordsmen performing so well out there. It'll be fun if I get to see 'em again."
      Nothing in the sentence should have raised a red flag for McCall, but the way that Michael said "again", in an almost perfunctory manner made James suspect Becker knew something that he didn't.
      "Yeah," James repeated slowly, mulling things over. "That would be fun. Well, then, where exactly am I?" Becker's smile grew larger.
      "I'm afraid that's classified, little buddy. I can tell you, however, that you aren't in Kansas anymore."

      Even with his irritable mood, Hunter Creighton absentmindedly whistled an old tune he'd heard recently as he walked his six foot five, solid build into the weight room onboard the Maverick. It was a catchy tune, one with a happy, Latino beat.
      Oh, I know…that the music's fine like sparkling wine, go and have your fun…
      Even with the death of Steven and James, Hunter was too tired to know what he was thinking or feeling. The ecstasy he felt from the huge victory over the Covenant had been successful in blunting the pain of their deaths, but the two extremes were pulling at him hard, leaving him in some sort of emotional limbo. He'd tried to go to sleep after he'd finished partying, but the memory of his squadmates had kept him awake. That and the shell-shocked look that Marcus had when he had left the jubilant fighter bay without as much as a word. The look had been so haunting, so devoid of any active thought that it had sent chills down Hunter's spine as he watched his commander slowly trek towards the door.
      Like everyone else, he had heard Marcus's enraged screams over the Swordsmen's tactical COM frequency right after James had been shot down. It had been…inhuman, really. There was something there, something that neither he nor any of his other squadmates understood which made it unnerving. Marcus had lost wingmen before during the Gethsemane incident, but he'd never reacted so emotionally. James had become his best friend before Gethsemane, a feat that was not easy to accomplish. Even then, Marcus had kept himself distant from his squadmates. Hunter didn't know why, but for some reason Marcus plainly did not want to associate with people. Recently, however, he'd become less cold, less aloof. He'd grown closer to James, too, along with his other Swordsmen. Hunter had even managed to get a relatively good rapport with him, as had Chase.
      The song continued to play in his head, its upbeat tone clashing with Hunter's annoyed indifference.
      But don't forget who's takin' you home, and in whose arms you're gonna be…
      The brightly lit weight room was actually pretty small, laid out in a simple square. The door was located in the right corner, opening opposite of a mirrored wall and a total of five three-in-one weight racks, adjustable for squat, bench, or incline. No weights hung from any bars; the zero-g effects of space and the fact that this section of the Maverick had never spun had made free weights impossible for squats and bench. Instead, the bars were built straight into the various racks on a series of rails. The racks operated on a simple mechanical resistance system, simulating actual weight with motors and rubber bands. All of the racks had basic voice recognition software so that one could set the weights and number of sets and reps by voice command alone. If a lifter got in trouble, he could just yell for help to automatically raise the bar. Most crewmembers, though, simply preferred to have a spotter so they could still complete their lifts.
      However, the newly installed artificial gravity had allowed the crew to set up a few platforms, raised no more than about an inch off the floor, in the middle of the room for dead lift and hang clean exercises. Flanked by a pair of lockable weight trees each, the platforms were decorated with one of the emblems from the Maverick's three fighter squadrons: the VF-32 Swordsmen, the VF-154 Black Knights, and the VF-302 Stallions. A long rack of dumbbells rested up against the near wall right beside the door, all of them held in place by magnets. Altogether, the platforms and dumbbells were the only free weights in the entire room, leading to a distinctly low number of weight trees, and therefore, a much less cluttered weight room. Another few machines lined the left wall: a shrug machine, a running machine, a lats machine, even a pair of jammers. Overall, the room was well stocked for its size and apparent spare appearance.
      Hunter continued to whistle, strapping on gloves as he did so, so that he wouldn't let his hands build up too many calluses while he lifted.
      So darlin'…save the last dance for me!
      The room was deserted, much as he'd expected it to be; at 1800 hours, everyone was still tired from the battle, and those that weren't on shift were sleeping. Not Hunter, though; he'd always enjoyed lifting as a way to work out stress and frustration. He still had adrenaline running through his system from the fight, which, when coupled with Marcus's bizarre behavior, had kept him tossing and turning for about an hour. A couple of heavy sets seemed to be just what the doctor ordered. He began to work to the back of the room towards the bench racks, only to have a quick, loud yell startle him out of his stupor.
      He was wrong, the weight room wasn't deserted. Instead, he saw two men, one tall and dark haired wearing a wife beater, the other short with tousled, fiery hair and wearing a simple black t-shirt. The large man was underneath the bar, struggling mightily against the simulated weight; the smaller was behind him, spotting him to make sure that the weight didn't come crashing down on him. Even with the distance between them and himself, Hunter could make out a fine sheen of perspiration on the dark-haired man's forehead as he battled to push the bar away from him. With one final shove and a small yell, he succeeded in forcing it back to the racking point, and then finally relaxed as he commanded the bar to lock into place.
      He sat up, groaning and massaging his triceps as he turned to face his partner.
      "Damn, that's heavy. You sure you set it for the right weight?" The red haired man replied without a moment of hesitation.
      "Granny weight? Yeah, that's the right one." The dark haired man snorted.
      "All right, wiseass, you try it." The red haired man merely arched an eyebrow playfully as he walked around from behind the bench and lay down on it. After he positioned himself, he grabbed the bar, double-checked his grip, and then issued a single command to the rack.
      "Up!"
      Immediately the rack unlocked the bar and began to push downward towards the man's chest. He controlled the bar expertly, letting it come down quickly enough that his arms didn't tire out, but slowly enough so that the bar didn't crush his chest once it got there. As soon as the bar touched his chest, the man let out a loud grunt, exploded upward with his arms, pushed off the floor with his feet and launched the weight off his chest and back toward the racking point. Then, he repeated the entire process several more times for a grand total of three reps, grunting loudly each time. Still, he seemed to accomplish his set with a whole lot less effort than his friend. As he finished his last rep, he tossed a look to the man spotting him as if to say, wimp. His friend rolled his eyes in mock annoyance.
      "All right, so you can rep two-forty-five. So what? Your arms are so small that you only have to move the bar a foot and a half; I have to move it a whole yard!"
      "You calling me short?" The dark haired man glared at his partner.
      "Yeah, I am. What of it?"
      "Well, you'd be right then." Both men chuckled, apparently good buddies. Hunter cleared his throat.
      "Mind if I join in?" Both of their heads snapped up in surprise.
      "Uh, no, go right ahead," the smaller man said. "What do you want the weight at?"
      "Two sixty five," Hunter answered matter-of-factly.
      "Maxing out?" the smaller man said after he'd entered the amount by voice.
      "No." A dumbfounded look crossed their faces.
      "Oh," the smaller one said in disbelief.
      Hunter unceremoniously flopped down onto the bench rack, casually wrapped his hands around the bar and said in a disinterested voice:
      "Up."
      Hunter kept the bar moving at a constant speed as it dropped towards his chest. He let the bar make contact and then merely exhaled as he sent it flying back upward, rattling the rack with his power. He never screamed, never grunted, but only exhaled calmly as he sent the bar skyward again and again. After a few moments, Hunter glanced up at the both of them from the rack.
      "I've lost count. How many reps was that?"
      "Six," they both replied, their eyes wide in amazement at the big man's power. Hunter just grunted and sent the bar skyward four more times.
      He racked the bar as disinterestedly as he had begun and got off the bench rack, not a bead of sweat upon him. As he did so, his slowly turning gears finally meshed and he remembered his manners. He stuck his hand out.
      "Lieutenant Hunter Creighton, VF-32." The dark haired man introduced himself first.
      "Sterling Varner. This here's Glenn Beard."
      "Good to meet you," Hunter said perfunctorily as he shook their hands. "So, what do you boys work in? Engineering?" Beard and Varner traded glances.
      "No, actually," Sterling said. "We're Longsword pilots."
      "That's weird," Hunter remarked off-handedly. "I've never seen you two around before. Who do you fly for?"
      "Believe it or not, we're both Swordsmen."
      "Really," Hunter said with a tone more suited to a cross-examination than casual conversation. "That was pretty fast. It usually takes at least a few weeks to get replacements."
      "Yeah," remarked Glenn as he flopped down onto the rack again for his next set. "We thought it was weird, too. Hell, I hadn't even landed back on the Princeton when I got the news that the order had come through. It was bizarre. I ended up landing here on the Mav instead with some new Stallions and Black Knights. It wasn't just us, Hunter; it was a bunch of other guys from the other squadrons, too." Varner leaned up against the wall lost in thought.
      "Same thing happened to me. Something weird's going on, all right."
      "Mm-hmmm," Hunter said without the slightest hint of interest. "You guys going to get on to your next set or what?" Beard glanced up at Varner warily.
      "Actually," he said carefully. "We were thinking of moving on to hang clean."
      "Go ahead then. My hang clean sucks."
      "How much can you do?"
      "Two-forty-five. You?"
      "Two-fifty," Beard answered. They looked at Varner who merely grinned evilly in reply.
      "Three hundred." As if on command, Hunter snorted and Beard stifled a laugh. Varner's grin remained fixed in place. "All right wiseasses, watch this. Load 'er up."

UNITED NATIONS SPACE COMMAND EMERGENCY PRIORITY ORDER 201844S-8
Encryption Code: Red
Public Key: file/el dorado canyon/
From: NAVSPECWEP SECTION 3 AI Grit
To: Captain Gunter Reeves, captain UNSC Maverick/ (UNSC Service Number: 81472-10763-GR)
Subject: New Orders
Classification: TOP SECRET (EYES ONLY)
Attachments: eldoradocanyon.nav

/start file/

      Captain Reeves,

      Pay good attention, Captain; you're only going to get one chance to read this file as it will self-delete immediately after being closed.
      You are hereby ordered to proceed to the coordinates in the attached file by way of the outlined route as soon as repairs are completed on your ship. Time is of the essence. Prior to departure, no crew are to be informed as the mission is now considered top secret and your ship is currently under the command of NAVSPECWEP Section 3. At these coordinates you are to await further instructions which will be sent to you. Do not hail any ships you see, let them hail you.

      P.S. Hope you enjoyed that Fury launcher I sent you. Did you find it useful? Lemme know when we meet.

      Sincerely,
      Grit

/end file/

      Sitting in his chair in his mahogany walled personal quarters, Captain Gunter Reeves gazed at the file as it sat on his personal screen, quietly puzzled. He leaned back in his chair—and winced in pain. His left shoulder had been injured pretty badly during the fight; when the Covenant frigate rammed the Mav, he had been tossed from his position near the captain's chair, right over the large holotank, and into the low wall that separated "the pit" from the rest of the bridge. It had almost snapped his shoulder cleanly in two, causing bone to break the skin and result in heavy bleeding. He'd passed out after only a few seconds, unconscious for the rest of the fight. Really, it was a miracle that he hadn't bled out.
      Reeves had only woken up a few hours ago, his veins full of emergency transfused blood. An ungainly cast sat on his shoulder and held his arm at an uncomfortable angle, causing it to jut out just far enough so that it could easily catch doorframes and cause him more pain. He'd made this unwelcome discovery while leaving sick bay; his elbow had caught the edge of the doorway and he had woken up a few minutes later on a gurney.
      The worst part of it, however, was that his brand new uniform was absolutely ruined.
      El Dorado Canyon, Reeves thought as he tenderly shifted his arm to a more comfortable position. Where have I heard that before? The captain reflected for a moment. His historical knowledge had saved the Earth from being overrun once today with the swinging gate maneuver. Perhaps it would shed some light on these bizarre new orders.
      Reeves opened up a web browser. He was taken straight to the UNSC's homepage, a garishly laid out page, replete with recruiting and promotional materials. He entered a new URL at a snail's pace due to the fact that he was typing with one hand: www.google.com. He entered the term just as slowly, his right hand hunting over the unfamiliar side of the keyboard. The results came back quickly and he clicked on the first one without hesitation.
      The page was rather plain, an obvious online encyclopedia, but it held mountains of information.

The United States bombing of Libya (code-named Operation El Dorado Canyon) comprised the joint United States Air Force, Navy and Marine Corps air-strikes against Libya on April 15, 1986.

Origins:
The bombing raid was the conclusion of a period of escalating reciprocal actions by the United States and Libya. After years of occasional skirmishes with Libya over Libyan territorial claims to the Gulf of Sidra, a water body extending far into international waters, and years of vulnerability to Libyan-supported terrorism, the United States decided to push the issue in the first quarter of 1986, contemplating a military attack in order to send a message about support for international terrorism. In March 1986, the United States, asserting the 12 nautical mile (22 km) limit to territorial waters recognized by the international community, sent a carrier task force to the region. Libya responded with aggressive counter-maneuvers on March 24 that led to the destruction of Libyan radar systems and missile attack boats. Less than two weeks later on April 5, a bomb exploded in a West Berlin disco, La Belle, killing two American servicemen and a Turkish woman and wounding 200 others. The United States claimed to have obtained cable transcripts from Libyan agents in East Germany involved in the attack.

The Attack:

The raid was designed to hit directly at the heart of Gaddafi's ability to export terrorism with the belief that such a preemptive strike would provide him "incentives and reasons to alter his criminal behavior." The final targets of the raid were selected at the National Security Council level "within the circle of the President's advisors." Ultimately, five targets were endorsed by the JCS and Secretary of Defense and approved by President Reagan:

      Reeves skimmed the list of main targets somewhat apathetically. A command post, some barracks, a terrorist training base, Tripoli's main airport and a military airfield. Nothing particularly stuck out to him, so he went ahead and moved on.       Unfortunately, the next few paragraphs were dry descriptions of the strike forces assets and the complexities in assembling them, followed by a short explanation of the attack. Nothing, however, caught his eye or tugged at his mind the way that the swinging gate maneuver had, so he ignored them. Reeves briefly skimmed them before reaching the final paragraph, which caught his interest.

Although retaliation for the Berlin bombing had been anticipated, Libyan air defenses seemed almost wholly unprepared for the attack. In fact, it was reported that antiaircraft fire had not begun until after the American planes had passed over their targets at Tripoli. Libya's formidable air-defense system (manned by 3,000 Soviet air-defense technicians) was completely overwhelmed by precise Navy suppression strikes. It was reported that some Libyan soldiers abandoned their posts in fright and confusion and officers were slow to give orders. Also, Libyan fighters failed to get airborne to challenge the attacking bombers.

      Evidently, someone in Section Three had a thing for history. Long story short, Reeves thought to himself, despite the fact that the Libyans knew the retaliation was definitely coming, they totally failed to stop them.
      Did whoever assigned this name to the operation—the AI calling itself Grit?—see the current fight the UNSC was going through as similar to the one the Americans fought? It would be a stretch at best as the UNSC certainly was not militarily superior to their opponent, and lacked the resources to pull off a large-scale assault. Revenge for the terrorist attacks wasn't a particularly good parallel, either…but the speed and unexpected effectiveness of the strike might be.
      Reeves re-read the paragraph again, ticking of specific facts as he did so.
      Wholly unprepared. That would fit. The Covenant wouldn't be expecting a counterstrike. Precise Navy suppression strikes. That made less sense. Little was precise about fighting in space, especially the way the UNSC did it. But if the UNSC was somehow able to land some sort of knockout blow…Libyan fighters failed to get airborne. A sneak-attack of some sort.
      But the question remained: where would this strike be? A strike at the Covenant…? No, it couldn't be. Humanity still had no idea where the Covenant home world was, nor did they have any idea where to begin searching.
      Reeves minimized the window. "Eagle," he stated plainly. The AI wavered into existence on the captain's desktop, his naval fighter pilot regalia flowing with logic symbols.
      "Sir?"
      "I've got a nav file here," Reeves said as he moved his pointer over the icon. "I want to see where exactly this thing leads."
      "Of course, sir," Eagle said as he walked across the screen and tapped the file twice with his finger to open it.
      "I'll—" Eagle stopped short, but quickly regained his composure. "I'm afraid the file is eyes only, sir. I'll have to take a short leave of absence; call me if you need me."
      "Thanks," Reeves said as the AI dissolved into nothingness. The captain opened the file with the most recent star chart onboard the ship. The route and coordinates led to nowhere, a seemingly random point in space about halfway between Earth and Reach. The journey would take nearly a week, only to reach…open space? A rendezvous in the middle of nowhere would fit ONI's usual modus operandi, but something still nagged at him. He browsed quickly through the list of star charts in the window before selecting the oldest one he could find, one that was dated clear back to 2412, back when massive colonization was underway. Unfortunately, the point was still in unexplored space on this particular chart. Reeves next selected a chart fifty years younger. This time, the point led right to a single, backwater system called Midway, located halfway in between Reach and the first outer colony world. Traffic information indicated that the planet was only used for re-supply for ships that had the first few generations of Slipspace drives and could barely make short jumps. It had never been a particularly notable stop, either. Forty years after its initial discovery, the system was abandoned.
      The captain opened a new tab in his internet browser and typed the planet's name into Google, slightly amazed the civilian web was even functioning. The only results that came back were related to the battle of the World War II. He tried entering "Midway Planet", but to no avail. Even searches with more modifiers failed to turn up any results. ONI must have erased all references to it that they could find, though for what purpose? For that matter, why hadn't they taken the simple precaution of removing such an old star chart with the planet's name on it? Or was he simply reading too much into an obscure planet?…Reeves leaned back in his chair thoughtfully only to yelp in pain as his elbow made contact with the arm of his chair.
      "Eagle!" Reeves commanded, grimacing.
      "Yes, sir?" the AI shimmered into existence.
      "How much longer until repairs are finished?"
      "About another six hours, sir."
      "I see," Reeves mumbled as he gingerly leaned back in his chair, this time much more careful of his posture. "As of this moment, shore leave is denied to all crewmembers and anyone who is on it—heaven knows how they could've gotten it at a time like this—is to be expected to report back to the Maverick immediately."
      "May I ask why, sir?" Reeves paused for a moment.
      "No." The logic symbols traveling the length of Eagle's body accelerated slightly.
      "I see. Will that be all, Captain?"
      "Not quite; wake me up as soon as the repairs are completed, will you?"
      "Yes, sir. And sir?"
      "Yes?"
      "If you want my advice, you need to make sure there's nothing in front of you if you decide to go flying again," Eagle said, jokingly. Reeves opened a single eye to glower at the AI.
      "Shut up."

      Fleet Master, or rather former Fleet Master Quarell 'Sulamee glared at the hologram of the planet without even attempting to disguise his disgust. Even though he'd become one, 'Sulamee knew he could never fully give himself over to his heresy, the same heresy of those who resided on this forsaken planet. That is, to the best of his knowledge they did. True, all he had heard were rumors, but they were all he had to go on right now.
      He'd heard of them some time ago, a supposedly secret society of disgraced or disenchanted Covenant named "The Separatists." Sangheili, Unggoy, it didn't really matter. All had lost the Prophets' message somehow, and all would be kept from the true path. And their blasphemy! Their ludicrous claims that the rings would not speed those who believed along a path to salvation, that they were something else entirely; such lies threatened to utterly undo the Covenant. Even though the Prophets had never stated exactly what it was that the Heretics believed the Halos to be, 'Sulamee had never cared. All that mattered was that the Hierarchs had decreed the very air that the Heretics breathed as unclean and tainted with sin and that they deserved to be annihilated, just like the humans. And here he'd all but become one though his own actions, the ultimate irony. It was enough to turn his stomach.
      'Sulamee's early military career had actually been built on fighting pockets of sacrilegious resistance such as these. He'd scored an impressive string of quick victories against former top commanders who had fallen from grace. Time and time again in places such as Eternal Unrest and Vigorous Dissension, by using his better-equipped, more numerous forces, and by choosing the battlefield, 'Sulamee had been able to all but guarantee his own victories. This command style had catapulted him through the ranks and earned him a reputation as a brilliant tactician able to best his enemies with minimal losses.
      Ultimately, however, that reputation had led to his assignment as head of the forces sent to excavate the Ark as the Prophet of Regret's guard. The fleet had been assembled once the majority of the first excavation fleet had been destroyed by human saboteurs aboard the Unyielding Hierophant. This flotilla was monstrous, armed to the teeth, and unstoppable even though it was barely on par with the fleet destroyed at the Unyielding Hierophant. Rumor had it that some among the Hierarchs had begun to refer the Seventh as "The Invincible Fleet." With such firepower and a promising young commander leading it, how could it fail?
      The only problem was it did. Miserably.
      Everything that could have gone wrong did. The advance group was totally smashed by the humans and was never heard from again. But, rather than cautiously gather more intelligence, 'Sulamee simultaneously overestimated his own strength, underestimated that of his foes, and foolishly relied on outdated intelligence reports that said he could expect little to no resistance from the humans. Even though the reports could hardly be characterized as too cautious, the accursed things had been criticized as doom-mongering by some as grossly miscalculating the humans remaining strength. As a result, 'Sulamee disregarded them almost entirely.
      Yes, 'Sulamee had done all those things and then proceeded to charge full speed into the worst naval defeat in Covenant history. Even now the better part of the 756 ships were shattered in orbit near the Ark, leaving what remained of the Seventh Fleet a shadow of its former self as it sat above this forsaken planet.
      Angrily, he brought his closed fist down on a series of holographic keys, which opened communications on an entirely unencrypted channel. He huffed irately as if wishing let the Heretics know of his extreme distaste for them even before he stated it.
      "So-called 'Separatists'," he began gruffly. "I am former Fleet Master Quarell 'Sulamee, ex-commander of the mighty Seventh Fleet." He paused momentarily in self hatred, trying to decide how to continue. It was a decision he immediately regretted.
      An unusually accented voice answered almost instantly through extremely heavy static.
      "Forgive me, Excellency, but your Seventh Fleet doesn't seem so mighty as it stands now. This is all that remains of the so-called 'Invincible Fleet'? How did this happen, Fleet Master, especially with a brilliant young commander such as yourself leading it?"
      The brashness of the voice so stunned 'Sulamee that he floated in silence, speechless at the sheer audacity the speaker displayed. His surprise was quickly replaced by a seething, indignant anger.
      "How dare you talk to me in such an insolent—"
      "With all due respect, Fleet Master, no member of the Separatists particularly cares what you accomplished in your short but ever so dazzling career; many among us had equally illustrious accomplishments." 'Sulamee struggled to find something to say, to save face.
      "I swear by the Prophets' blood I will crush you all beneath—"
      "Spare us, Excellency. We hear enough righteous prattle every time someone such as you wishes to defect to our more egalitarian society. It becomes quite tiresome, really. Now then, do you have any ships left capable of ferrying you down to the surface, or do you require one of ours?" The disgraced warrior's entire body shook in fury.
      "I am more than able to set myself down on your desolate hell-hole, Separatist!"
      "Then I suggest that you quit wasting my time and come planet side so that appropriate arrangements may be made for you and your soldiers."
      The connection terminated with a pop and a quick burst of static.

      Several cycles later, Quarell 'Sulamee stood uncomfortably in what passed as an aircraft hangar. Stalagmites jutted up like ugly teeth at asymmetrical points in the floor. His aircraft had almost impaled itself on one before finding a space large enough to land in. To 'Sulamee's military mind, the very fact that this hole in a wall had been dignified by being called a hangar only proved his suspicions: these Separatists were anything but truly military.
      The so-called "hangar" was concealed inside the face of just one of the many large glaciers that floated on this excuse for a planet called Tho'h, which literally meant "Freezing Hell." Such an inhospitable world, the Covenant had never dignified it with a proper name; an entire world of water and ice, forever frozen thanks to its distance from this system's weak sun. The cold was so piercing that, in spite of the climate control systems of his armor, 'Sulamee actually shivered as he shifted his gaze to the miserable environment outside.
      The sky was perpetually overcast outside the hangar, furiously flashing rapid, irregular arcs of lightning across the cloudy heavens. Although the erratic light provided some illumination, the thick clouds served to further reduce the already dim daylight to twilight as they dropped ton after ton of snow upon the oceans and glaciers of the planet.
      The oppressive lack of light laid everything low; the dark, angry, planet-wide ocean reared up against the glacier, crashing again and again against the icy wall which defiantly withstood the ocean's relentless onslaught. Neither yielded, neither showed signs of weakness as they continuously fought each other for dominance.
      The glacier was set in the same shadowy, ghastly tint: the ice was as dark as death itself and streaked with golden lightning strikes, a combination of the eternal twilight that engulfed this planet and the curious mineral makeup of the ice.
      'Sulamee, trying to move out of the wind and its dagger-like cut, moved deeper into the hangar, only to be stopped short when an excellently camouflaged door slid open unexpectedly. A tall, thin Sangheilli stood in the doorway, wearing a suit of armor unlike anything 'Sulamee had ever seen. It was obviously not of Covenant origin. Though it conformed to the Sangheili's body, it was far more angular than the traditional armor worn by 'Sulamee's kind. It focused on covering key parts of the body such as the joints, head, and chest areas, but did not cover the entire body as did the traditional armor. Indeed, it seemed as though the Sangheili wore some sort of insulating material underneath. The metal it utilized was thick, noticeably bulky and of alien origin as well, something much rougher than what the Sangheili was used to.
      One aspect of the armor, however, stood out far more than any other; it blended in with the ice perfectly. What sort of coward would wear camouflage like this into battle as opposed to the light bending devices the Covenant normally used? There was also an inexplicable series of small arrows on the left shoulder.
      "Good," the unidentified Sangheili said with no preamble. The Separatist turned and strode into the inky blackness. "Follow me." 'Sulamee briefly had an urge to strike the Separatist for his gall but resisted. There was no telling what this heathen was capable of.
      'Sulamee reluctantly followed his guide deeper and deeper into the glacier. The already weak light became near total darkness after only a few moments as the door slid closed behind them. The former Fleet Master struggled to keep up, constantly bumping into walls as he trailed the Separatist. 'Sulamee opened his mouth to ask where he was being taken, but the blasphemer seemed to read his mind.
      "Unfortunately, I'm afraid you will have to be debriefed. We must glean all the intelligence from you that we can; our continued survival—indeed, yours as well—may depend on it." 'Sulamee huffed in response.
      "Yes, yes, I know it's an indignity beneath your station, but it must be done," the Separatist said. "You'll soon come to appreciate our ways, Fleet Master. We've learned quite a bit from the humans." 'Sulamee stopped cold; sensing 'Sulamee's shock, the guide turned around.
      "Come now, Fleet Master. You know as well as I do that the humans are excellent fighters. In terms of bravery they are far superior to the Unggoy. I've fought them before, 'Sulamee. It may surprise you to learn this, but even though I bear no particular love of their kind, they are creatures worthy of respect."
      'Sulamee flung himself towards where he guessed the Separatist was in a blind rage, only to almost render himself unconscious as he missed by a wide margin and crashed headlong into an icy wall. He collapsed into a heap on the floor.
      With stars flashing in front of his eyes 'Sulamee could barely make out the guide's laughter. Dazed, he tried to pick himself up, but only succeeded in slipping and slamming to the floor again.
      He came to a few moments later, unable to see the Separatist, but more than able to hear his mirth. A pair of claws grabbed him and hauled him to a standing position. 'Sulamee was so disoriented by the lack of a horizon and the buzzing in his ears that the guide was forced to help him balance himself as he walked.
      The rest of the trip was a blur. He couldn't force himself to concentrate until he heard the distant sound of another door opening and saw a painfully harsh light. His eyes reflexively snapped shut, trying to block out the brightness. It didn't work; most of the light still got through.
      He felt himself led to and then forced down awkwardly on a chair that was obviously not made for the comfort of a Sangheili. A number of indistinguishable voices began speaking at once. 'Sulamee tried to clear his head by shaking it but it was still several minutes before he was able to think clearly.
      And when he recognized the words that were being spoken, he received his biggest shock yet.

      Marcus Easley set the Bible back down on his desk and rubbed his eyes. The tiny text was playing havoc with his rods and cones. He'd begun reading it again immediately after Beard and Varner had left his quarters. This time, rather than let it fall open to a random page, Marcus had started at the very beginning, back in Genesis. He'd read non-stop for several hours now, unable to put it down. It felt strange re-reading all the stories he had learned as a child but had long since forgotten. Adam and Eve, Able and Cain, Noah and the Ark, Moses and the Egyptians. It had been so long that when he re-read the stories it felt almost as if he were waking from a dream, each account familiar yet new. It felt eerie and vaguely unnerving, yet somehow consoling as well.
      The funeral had been a few hours ago in the Maverick's small multi-faith room, a fact that he was sure James would not have approved of. In his head, the major could hear his deceased squadmate Give me a real funeral in a church, none of this touchy, feel-good, politically correct crap! I want some stain glass and hymnals! Marcus smiled slightly as he imagined his friend railing about how ridiculous the arrangements were, the first time he'd really smiled in days.
      Marcus hadn't actually attended the funeral, but instead stood outside the doors, listening to the Maverick's chaplain read what was almost certainly a prepared speech with James's name stuck in at all the appropriate points. Or maybe not. He had been too busy remembering James to really listen to it closely.
      Marcus returned his attention to the book for a few moments as if making an important decision. Then slowly he set his elbows down on the desk and clasped his hands in front of him. His eyes all but twitched closed. For some reason, it was making him nervous. Marcus didn't know why. He used to do it all the time when he was younger.
      Bit by bit, Marcus lowered his head and prayed.
      Lord, he began but halted, jerked his head up and opened his eyes as though he'd hit a brick wall. What now? he thought. It'd been years since he'd done this. He anxiously eased down once again before staring at his right hand.
      Before staring at the faint, almost imperceptible cross.
      After Beard and Varner had left, he'd scoured ever part of the room, looking for some small drops of blood on a wall, his bed, his desk. Nothing.
      His fingernails couldn't have done it during the dream, either. The scratch was perfectly formed with right angles and even proportions. It was too exact to have been an accident. But that meant that…
      Slowly, he lowered his head and folded his hands in prayer once more.
      Uh, Lord…My Father who art in…no, uh…I come to you in…Damn. No! I mean…wait, ah…Lord, I…I…have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I…
      Marcus let his hands unceremoniously drop back to the desk before he moved to pick up the Bible again. Maybe he could find a passage on prayer.

Longsword R: Sabre
Date: 7 August 2008, 4:25 am

      "And what would your name be?" Quarell 'Sulamee heard very clearly…in the humans' language. As his eyes continued to adjust yet again to this suddenly stunning environment 'Sulamee heard a different voice ask in a strange accent, "Perhaps he needs a translator?" Then the first again, "No, I don't think so. Intel said he'd be able to speak English."
      Finally, 'Sulamee was able to make out a whole host of…of humans traipsing around as though they were somehow important, leaning over consoles of their own making, deciphering readouts, speaking into strange devices that sat atop their heads. The entire room was bathed in their harsh lights and the walls and floors were made of their metal. It wasn't too great in terms of size, but it held quite a large amount of computers and personnel. The former Fleet Master realized he'd been led to some sort of human command outpost or control center. 'Sulamee turned to look fiercely at the guide who was lounging against one of the humans' walls, leaning up against it like one of the vile creatures.
      "Have you no honor?" 'Sulamee roared. "To throw in your lot with this scum?" The guide merely shrugged his shoulders, a human gesture that 'Sulamee vaguely remembered as something that conveyed indifference.
      "You cowardly, sniveling, conniving—"
      He would have said more, but the guide quickly strode the few steps separating them and delivered a vicious blow to 'Sulamee's jaw with a loud crack. The humans all jumped, apparently surprised by the sudden noise but not the action. The guide leaned in close to his stunned target and growled, "Be careful who you call a coward, 'Sulamee. You were the one who would glass the surface above innocents as they huddled in underground bunkers. You call that courageous? I abhor you and your radicalism, you coward."
      "Sergeant!" a voice snapped. "That's enough! You're dismissed." The guide spun on his hoof and rigidly marched out of the room.
      "I take it you two have some sort of history," a human's voice stated. 'Sulamee looked up to see what he thought was a human male with short, yellow fur on top of his scalp. He was straddling a chair and wore one of the typically plain uniforms of the humans' military, albeit one that was heavily insulated. It was almost totally devoid of decoration or embellishment. It was a simple, off-brown color and the only thing that seemed even remotely like ornaments were two silver bars that sat atop each of his shoulders.
      "Nice to make your acquaintance," he continued. "I'm Lieutenant Joseph Cable."
      "Lootellan." 'Sulamee snarled, his mouth clicking out the unfamiliar word. The corners of the human's mouth tugged upward.
      "Close enough. It's a rank in our armed forces." Quarell, in no mood for a lesson on humanity's military, looked away. Cable traded looks with the human standing next to him. "Emile," he said tiredly. "I'm afraid he's going to be a stubborn one."
      The second human was obviously older than the first. His face was craggier and he was broader at the shoulders. His voice was a bit deeper, too, and seemed to speak in a measured, deliberate manner. His gray fur and absence of uniform gave him a manner that was certainly not military, but conveyed a certain sense of pride.
      "I'm afraid you could be correct, Lieutenant," he said, emphasizing the last syllable. "He most likely believes the Prophets to the letter."
      "Anyway," Cable said as he looked back at the shamed Sangheili in front of him. "As I said, I'm Lieutenant Joseph Cable and this is Emile de Becque. He's a civilian who used to run a mining operation out here on this planet. He's been assisting us in this area for some time now. We're here to interrogate and debrief you. Your name is Quarell 'Sulamee and you're Fleet Master of the Seventh Fleet, right?" 'Sulamee remained silent. Cable was unfazed.
      "I'll just take that as a yes. So, what made you decide to join the Separatists?" Quarell looked up at a snail's pace and spoke crustily in deliberate English.
      "I have not joined this abominable group." Cable's grin grew slightly.
      "Don't kid yourself. The only reason you would come here would've either been to attack and destroy us or to join us. Since the ships that you brought with you have more or less been shot to hell, I doubt it's the former. So, why'd you decide to join us?"
      "I have not joined this abominable group," 'Sulamee repeated.
      "You got your ass handed to you, didn't you?"
      'Sulamee made a move to grab his plasma sword from its resting place on his hip only to find it had been removed. Emile de Becque chortled.
      "You saw him reach for it, Lieutenant. You owe me some cognac." Cable grudgingly nodded.
      "Yeah, I do." He gave 'Sulamee an annoyed look. "Thanks, jackass. As I was saying, you got your ass kicked somewhere and you couldn't go through with your stupid suicide, so you fled here with your tail between your legs." Quarell 'Sulamee looked up but refused to take the bait.
      "That's it, just as I thought. Now, where exactly did the UNSC wipe the floor with you?"
      "Had it not been for your orbital defense platforms—" 'Sulamee began but got no further.
      "Son of a bitch!" Cable exclaimed. "Emile, they've found Earth. Go inform Commander Harbison and Captain Brackett." De Becque nodded grimly and rushed out of the room. Cable immediately returned his attention to 'Sulamee.
      "So you found our home world, huh? How?" That got 'Sulamee's attention.
      "Your…home world?"
      "Yeah. Didn't you think there was quite a presence for such a seemingly unimportant planet?"
      "Unimportant to you, human," 'Sulamee said. "But hardly unimportant to the Covenant." Cable leaned forward over the back of the chair.
      "Why's that?" Without quite appreciating what he was doing, 'Sulamee spoke easily.
      "My fleet was sent not to crush you but to excavate the suspected site of a Forerunner artifact. By accident, the site happened to be your 'home world', human."
      "Damn. Someone in the network must have been unable to alter that particular piece of information." It was 'Sulamee's turn to be surprised.
      "Network? What network are you talking about?" Cable looked at the Sangheili with a mix of amusement and antipathy.
      "Don't be stupid. What do you think a bunch of humans are doing on this ice ball? We run an extensive intelligence network throughout the Covenant."
      "You mean you rely on traitors to the Covenant in order to further your unholy goals."
      "We call them intelligence sources, but yes. You'd be surprised at just how disgruntled some of your races are with the way Prophets have been running things. Particularly just how pissed off some of your Elite pals are about how much responsibility the Brutes have been allowed to hold." Quarell hissed.
      "They're filthy, undeserving apes, as are you." Cable chuckled.
      "That's almost exactly the sort of attitude that led so many to fall in with us. They saw us as worthy opponents with whom they've done battle with for decades, the Brutes as power hungry Neanderthals. Plus, we had no caste system so they could express their opinion of others more or less openly without fear of retribution. Honestly, it wasn't a very hard decision for some of them to switch sides. You know how much the Prophets have been favoring the Brutes lately." 'Sulamee grew incensed.
      "The Prophets are only doing so to make them feel welcomed into the absolution of the Covenant—"
      "Come off it, the Brutes have been around since Harvest. It bugs the hell out of you that they're beginning to retain so much of the Prophets' favor doesn't it? How those 'filthy, undeserving apes' as you called them have found so much standing? It makes every single Elite furious, you included." 'Sulamee looked up, his face unreadable, even for another Sangheili.
      Bingo, Cable thought to himself. That's our opening.

      Two days later, James McCall had checked out of the sick bay and was standing outside of his own personal quarters aboard the ship—was it a ship?—called the Valkyrie. Even though he'd been allowed to roam more or less freely, he'd been able to find nothing that resembled a bridge. There was a large engineering space, as evidenced by the fact that there seemed to be a blocked off portion of the ship or station, which he guessed was simply either life support or engines. Even though the mess hall he'd seen could comfortably seat a hundred or so, he'd seen precious few personnel, and each that he had talked to had been annoyingly pedantic about how classified the whole thing was. Well, James thought, that's ONI for you.
      For all James had been able to figure out, it could've easily been a space station, albeit a cramped one. His quarters for example were extremely neat and tidy, but they were absolutely tiny, even compared to his confined room on the Maverick. Artificial gravity ran throughout all the narrow, constricting hallways, and he hadn't seen any areas that looked like they spun at any time. There were no windows anywhere that he could find, either. The lack of freedom these details created had given him the claustrophobic sensation of living in a bunker or old fashioned submarine. Or, more accurately, a tomb. It was all he could do to keep from feeling like he was suffocating.
      The sound of approaching footsteps alerted him to Colonel Michael Becker walking down the narrow, low hallway to his left. Becker, despite his usual easy-going attitude had also been surprisingly secretive but James knew it was probably more of a desire to rag him around than to maintain security.
      It was only a few more moments before Becker appeared in his flight suit, wearing his usual knowing grin.
      "Ready, James?" McCall nodded.
      "I guess. So what's the big deal?" The knowing grin grew.
      "The big deal, James, is the F-602 Sabre." James nodded cynically.
      "Yeah, I know, it's all you've talked about for the past two days. What's so special about it?"
      "Come on, the flight deck isn't too far. I'll show you."
      Becker proceeded to lead James to his left, then down a series of passageways before arriving at a confining stairwell, which they both ascended. It only went up one deck, and then Becker led James in the opposite direction, back the way they had come.
      There were only two doors in this particular passageway, one at the far end labeled FLIGHT DECK, the other midway down the hall and labeled READY ROOM. Only the latter seemed to have any sort of decoration: the insignia of the VF-84 Jolly Rogers. Becker strolled right past it and escorted James to the flight deck doors. The only information that James was able to drag out of Becker during their trip was that the Sabre looked "tremendously cool", had "really cool capabilities", and was "just downright cool." James would have grown frustrated had he not known that it was part of Becker's normal personality to pull someone's leg.
      "Here we are," Becker announced as they stopped in front of the FLIGHT DECK door. "I've already got it all set up for you. Trust me, it's cool." James just nodded with a slight grin.
      "I'll believe it when I see it, man." Becker turned and hit a series of buttons on a keypad and the door slid open.
      The flight deck was simply a hangar, smaller than the one James was used to aboard the Maverick, though of a similar design. Two rows of six parking spaces occupied the deck, while two aircraft elevators sat at the far end. The entire space probably couldn't have held more than a four or five Longswords. The parking spaces were entirely too small. The only other notable thing about the bay was that it was totally empty.
      James cast a questioning look at Becker. "Michael?"
      "Follow me and watch your step," the Colonel ordered. James complied, but wondered why Michael had even bothered with the last part of the sentence; the only things that occupied the bay were parking chocks arranged in precise formation in each parking space.
      Becker made his way over to the nearest parking space on the right, stopped, and gazed upward with a beaming face. James followed his eyes: thin air.
      "Michael, are you sure you didn't get some of my meds or something?" The one-liner drew a chuckle.
      "No. Let's examine her from another angle." James sighed but tried to follow Becker by stepping over the parking chocks. Instead, he walked straight into something hard with a resounding clang. He toppled backwards with a splitting headache to the sound of Becker's laughter.
      Stunned, James managed to haul himself back to his feet and give Becker a bewildered look.
      "Wha—?" Becker finally quit laughing
      "Yeah, it caught me by surprise when they ended up adding the tech to the landing gear, too. Whoever designed these things must've wanted them to be totally invisible."
      "Michael, for the last time, what's going on?" Becker turned and gave a thumbs up to nothing. Within a few moments, the air started wavering like heat radiating from a sun-baked road. Then, James was treated to a view of the most advanced aircraft ever seen.
      The Sabre was unlike anything James had ever laid eyes on; if a C709 Longsword, was an oversized boomerang, then the Sabre was a sleek, jet black dart.
      It possessed a wingspan only a third the size of a 'Sword's, and a fuselage only two thirds as long. It sat lower to the ground, too, on shorter landing gear.
      The body of the plane was unusual. The nose seemed to be standard fare, but as his eyes traced their way over the aircraft, James noticed its most astounding feature: the cockpit; or rather the total absence of one. James saw no windows that even hinted at a space for a pilot. There were no control surfaces on the aircraft, either, and so he surmised that this thing had to use wing warp technology just like a Longsword. Interestingly, the fuselage tapered to an almost surfboard like tail just after what he guessed was a thin air intake on the top of the bird. James couldn't make out exactly where the engines were, though the intake was placed extremely close to what appeared to be an exceptionally flat exhaust port on the back.
      The entire aircraft seemed nearly organic. Unlike the Longsword, the Sabre had none of the jagged edges James had grown to associate with aircraft. Instead, it sported smooth, natural curves that only served to accentuate its slender profile.
      "This," Michael Becker said with no small hint of admiration, "is the Lockheed-Martin F-602 Sabre."
      "So I gathered," James said. "But I thought you said your squad flew these things. It's a drone."
      "No, no drone. We really do fly these."
      "Are you kidding me? There's no cockpit." Becker shook his head in amusement before giving a "c'mon" gesture to the airplane. Within a few moments, a section of the seemingly seamless airplane cracked open to reveal a man in a flight suit lying almost flat on his back. He swung his legs over the side of the Sabre and dropped seven feet to the floor.
      "James, I'd like you to meet Second Lieutenant Harold Hill, callsign 'Music Man'." Hill flashed James a quick, sly grin from underneath his short, black hair. He was taller than James by at least a half a foot and obviously older by at least a decade, probably in his mid to late thirties.
      "Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir," he said in a syrupy smooth voice.
      "And Harold, I'd like you to meet James McCall, one of my old Swordsmen, callsign 'Monster'." James and Hill shook hands pleasantly.
      "Interesting callsign, Lieutenant," James said by means of making polite conversation. "How'd you get it?" Hill's smooth smile slid into existence again.
      "Well, I'm always listening to music. Doesn't matter what kind so much as it's got a beat and I can tap my foot or bang my head along to it. Classical, soundtrack, jazz, rock, marching bands, barbershop quartets—"
      "Marching bands and barbershop quartets?" James asked with a chuckle. Hill's grin grew wider.
      "Yeah, you know," Hill said, obviously gearing up to launch into a song. "You know the march that starts out 'Seventy-six trombones led the big—" James laughed.
      "No."
      "O.K. then, how about this one? It's barbershop," Hill said, clearing his throat. " Lida Rose, I'm home again, Rose…" He trailed off hoping that James might recognize the song but James was obviously clueless. "Maybe not."
      "Right," Michael said, sensing that continuing the conversation might just alienate the two. "Harold, how's about telling James just how the Sabre's systems work?"
      "Sure," Hill said, visibly crestfallen. "All right, the Sabre was designed in Lockheed-Martin's famous Skunk Works under the codename RIVER CITY. Thanks to her metamaterials construction, she has an even smaller radar cross section than a Longsword and is totally undetectable. Because of the emphasis on stealth over firepower, it's got a far lighter load than your old ride. It uses a less powerful version of the 'Sword's frequency agile attack radar. There's no CINVET, the pod's not stealthy enough. Sabres only carry twenty missiles, have no external hard points, and still use the old 110 millimeter rotary cannons because the plasma cannons are too noticeable and you can't fire a blast of plasma cold enough to avoid detection without making the weapon pointless."
      Hill walked counter-clockwise, leading James towards the back of the aircraft. "She uses one of those Boeing PDE-P51 Mustang engines to scoot. Nifty thing about that is that the Mustangs have a really complex system of baffles that cools the escaping gasses enormously on its own. When you're in space, the frigid temperatures keep there from being any sort of infrared signature at all. You could almost stick your head inside the exhaust and not hurt yourself.
      "The cockpit is a COFFIN system, which is short for Clear Operational Format for Flight Interface." James looked uneasy.
      "Sort of an unfortunate acronym." Hill pretended not to hear him.
      "It sounds complicated, but all it means is that every single part of that cockpit is a basically a screen. Fish eye lens cameras the size of pinheads on the outside of the fuselage record what's going on outside, correct for distortion, and project it through the back of the screens in real time to create the illusion that there's no aircraft around you. You can look at your feet and literally see the floor beneath you. It takes some getting used to, but you won't have to rely on those infernal rearview cameras like you did with a Longsword.
      "The biggest feature, however, is the ACES system," Harold said as he walked under the bird to admire at it from underneath.
      "What's that stand for?"
      "Nothing. The actual acronym for the thing is so convoluted that we ended up just using the codename they developed it under."
      "Oh."
      "It's what allowed the Sabre to seem invisible. Basically, the skin of the bird is constructed out of metamaterials, the stuff I mentioned earlier. Metamaterials have properties determined by their structure instead of their composition." James shook his head.
      "In English?" Hill nodded.
      "Yeah, I know it's hard to follow. The physics of it are way over my head, but put simply the metamaterials resonate at a specific color frequency to cancel out a frequency of light, and they can only cancel out one frequency at a time. It's kind of like a rock in a stream; the materials keep the fuselage from absorbing light much like a rock causes water to flow around it. When light hits these materials while they're resonating, it travels along the surface without actually ever touching and then releases on the backside on its initial vector.
      "Did you understand any of what you just said?" James said humorously. Hill rolled his eyes.
      "No. All I do understand is that it works, and beautifully. There's another form of it that they were even able to broadcast over the wheels somehow. The weird thing though, is that the metamaterials can only resonate with one frequency of radiation at a time. In execution, though, it's far better than even the Covenant cloaking technology because it's totally uninterruptible provided you don't run into anything, which is its only weakness. It can't simulate anything passing through because an identical pair of rocks would definitely attract attention in space."
      "So if these things only resonate at one frequency at a time, how was the Sabre invisible when I looked at it?"
      "Well, the ACES system uses electrical currents on the skin of the bird to continuously change the structure. It actually changes at such a fast speed that your eye can't catch it. It shows up the same way on screens, too. The thing is undetectable." Hill paused for a moment.
      "The only flaw is that the ACES system blocks a lot of radar signals, too. You're stuck with guns and heat-seeking missiles in combat unless you're in deep space where the light is faint enough to focus on fewer light frequencies. You can opt to turn off the system to go fully offensive, but you lose a lot of your advantages."
      "So," Becker said as he clasped a hand on James's shoulder. "What do you think?"
      "Cool," James answered with a long, low whistle. "Very, very cool."
      "Good, because as of this moment, you are Jolly Roger Four. Report back here at 1700 for some familiarity training." James snapped to attention.
      "Yes, sir!"
      " Welcome to the squad, little buddy," Becker chuckled.

      "I used to mine the gold in these glaciers," Emile de Becque explained to 'Sulamee. The interrogation had gone on for more than three hours and despite early, promising indications showed no signs of ending soon. 'Sulamee had sat in the same position in stony silence for the vast majority of it, and nothing that Cable and de Becque tried had worked. They knew torturing him would ultimately be useless and probably counterproductive in this case as his deep shame could possibly drive him to close up totally. In desperation, they'd taken to just staring at the Elite for a full half an hour. Finally, out of boredom, 'Sulamee had asked a single question of them:
      "How in the Prophets' name did you come to this place?"
      "I owned a company that used specialized equipment in order to dig in these glaciers," de Becque went on. "We'd drill from the top of the glaciers, extract blocks of ice with particularly large veins, melt them, and then smelt the gold that remained back in orbit. It was extremely dangerous but profitable work. You see, 'Sulamee, all the gold has been depleted from our home planet, so it's become a very valuable commodity; it is not found on every planet we colonized."
      "And when war broke out between us and the Covenant, ONI realized this place would make a perfect intelligence base," Cable continued. The never-ending storms and electronic interference not only made it difficult for Emile's company to get the gold to orbit to smelt and ship, but they also spoofed our most sophisticated sensors. As a matter of fact, in order to communicate with anyone we had to put a communications satellite into orbit that was powerful enough to punch through the interference on a very narrow frequency. Even then we barely heard your broadcast."
      "Indeed," de Becque broke in again. "When the Covenant got close enough to the planet, my operation became unfeasible. I had my crews drill a series of caverns throughout some of the many glaciers to use for ONI. By happy circumstances the first Covenant commander to stumble upon this place was secretly a dissident. That was the beginning of our intelligence network."
      "You mean the beginning of their heresy," Quarell growled. Cable and de Becque traded knowing glances.
      "You're really in a rut about that, aren't you?" Cable asked in an almost sarcastic tone. 'Sulamee, despite his inexperience with the humans' tongue, managed to catch the gist of the question and threw a dangerous eye towards Cable.
      "Be careful what you say, vermin."
      "Or what?" Cable shot back. "You'll go back to the Covenant with the location of this base? I'm sure they'd be happy too see you, what with your massive defeat at human hands." Quarell looked away once more and reverted back to his silence.
      "Oh yeah, very happy. They'd probably throw some sort of extravaganza while a Brute chieftain ripped your guts out."
      'Sulamee's jaws clicked open and then shut; he knew he was fast losing the argument, but he didn't want to admit it to these scum.
      "Man, what a waste of potential. Shame you were fighting for the wrong side." Cable got no rise out of the Elite, so he carried on.
      "Fighting for those Prophets." He made a tsking noise. "Man, they led you and the rest of the Sangheili around by your noses, didn't they?" Cable leaned in close while de Becque remained at a slight distance. Cable's voice dropped to a near-whisper.
      "I'll let you in on a secret. They've lied to you." The former Fleet Master's body quivered with barely concealed rage.
      "By the time you leave this room, 'Sulamee, you're going to know the truth."

Two days later

      "Okay, James," came Michael Becker's voice over the COM. "You remember where everything is, right?"
      "Yeah," James replied, though his voice was a bit shaky. He'd familiarized himself with the cockpit over the last two days, but it was still intimidating. The stick was on the right, the pedals were under his feet and the throttle was on his left. The layout was almost identical to the Longsword. Even the air hose connected to the same hole. Still, it was hard for James to shake the sensation of being buried alive when the canopy closed over him. The lack of light was almost overpowering, pressing in on all sides. The pilot had to force himself to stay calm.
      "All right, then," Becker said. "Activate the COFFIN system."
      "Roger, activating the COFFIN system," James responded a bit meekly. His fingers pressed a series of button on the right hand armrest.
      "COFFIN system coming on line in three…two…one…now."
      The screens all flashed to life at once, illuminating the enclosed cockpit with a sudden light that made James wince. Various diagnostics scrolled over them all in rapid fashion before they flashed once again and James found himself to be sitting in mid-air a good seven feet above the ground. He was forced to fight an abrupt sense of vertigo as his eyes and mind fought for control of his senses.
      He hastily gained control of himself. Taking deep breaths, he took in his surroundings.
      He was laying almost flat in midair in the hangar, the other Sabres surrounding him. He spoke a single sentence to no one.
      "Initiate preflight checks and begin launch checklist."
      "Initiating preflight checks and beginning launch checklist, stop preflight checklist, stop launch checklist," the onboard computer answered back. When James didn't countermand his order, the computer continued to work through the preflight and launch checklists.
      "Engine lit and in the green with ninety-eight percent efficiency, weapon stores check; all weapons safe, loadout as follows: twenty AMRIM-24 Viper missiles, two ASM-54 Copperhead missiles, and eight-thousand rounds of 110-millimeter rotary cannon ammunition, hydraulics systems all check green, electrical systems all check green…"
      It was still faster than doing it himself, but James couldn't help but be bored to tears by the curious female voice addressing him, known to most pilots as "Bitching Betty" because she screamed warnings, commands, and alerts out like some sort of obsessive-compulsive, overbearing girlfriend. Females in the military had a male counterpart in their birds which they had nicknamed "Bitching Billy", apparently because some bureaucrat hundreds of years ago decided that military personnel would respond faster to voices of the opposite sex. It was comical. What wasn't was his loadout; if the mission was simply supposed to be reconnaissance, why did he need anti-ship missiles?
      "Preflight checklist complete. Beginning launch checklist."
      His pulse began to race slightly as he saw a mechanic pull away the parking chocks and scurry out of the way as the stealthy machine's engine revved up. The pilot issued only one more command.
      "Begin taxiing and launch sequences."
      "Beginning taxiing and launch sequences, stop sequences," the computer replied. A second later the aircraft rolled smoothly from its parking spot and towards the elevator pads at the far end of the hangar. James didn't even have to keep his hands on the controls; they moved on their own accord, easily mimicking what James would have done had he been taxing the aircraft himself. James shook his head in amazement; the technology involved was incredible and took a load of the pilot's shoulders, freeing him to think about the objectives. However, the robotic feel of the plane, all its automations it seemed to rob the fighter of any soul.
      The Sabres in front of his bird auto-taxied onto the elevator pads and locked into place with a thunk that was barely audible through the COFFIN system. The pads activated and lifted the Sabres up into the air locks in the ceiling, paused as they cycled through them, and moved again as they elevated the Sabres into the launching bay. A muted rumble announced the catapults flinging the aircraft into the black.
      A moment later the pads cycled back down through the air locks and reset themselves. James's Sabre robotically taxied forward and paused; the pilot heard the same thunk as the wheels on the plane magnetically locked down on the pad. The bird jolted as the pad raised up through the air locks before pausing momentarily to allow the air to be sucked out, a process that took only a few seconds.
      Finally, the pad pushed him into the launch bay, a space much smaller than the hangar, at least by comparison. He tried to make out what was beyond the bay but there was a surprisingly strong glare blinding him rather than the inky vacuum he'd expected. He briefly tried maximizing the polarization on his helmet to no effect; the glare was simply too strong. Bewildered, he keyed his COM.
      "Valkyrie control, this is Jolly Roger Four," he spoke as he squinted against the bright light. "What am I looking at?" This time a male voice answered, though it was obviously still synthesized. James wasn't surprised, though; it seemed like everything was computer controlled aboard the Valkyrie, whatever it was.
      "Jolly Roger—Four," the voice replied haltingly. "The Valkyrie is currently orbiting a forested planet similar in size to—Earth. Despite the fact that your objective is currently on the night side of the planet, please remember that the Covenant are firmly in control of the entire world. Regrettably, in order to—shield—your aircraft from enemy sensors more effectively, we have been forced to—launch away from the planet and towards the sun. The resulting visual interference—should allow the ACES system to achieve even greater operational results as it will not need to—deflect particular sensor types until proximity to the sensors demands it."
      "Figures," James muttered to himself. He resettled back into his seat. The most advanced technology in the UNSC's arsenal was telling him everything he'd heard in the briefing: the mission was a simple recon flight, that was all.
      "Valkyrie control, this is Jolly Roger Four requesting takeoff clearance."
      "Roger, Jolly Roger Four, clearance granted. Warning: you will be under AWACS Coyote's jurisdiction following launch in case an emergency arises. Catapult shot in t-minus ten seconds."
      "Roger."
      James rechecked his master caution panel; nothing. The engine was lit and showing green.
      "Eight…"
      The wings flexed and contracted and the exhaust slats slanted every which way as James unconsciously tested his control surfaces. He moved the throttle to full military power. The Mustang's dull roar grew louder in his ears.
      "Four…"
      The catapult's shuttle hooked onto the Sabre's front wheels and locked the bird down. The fighter's nose dropped slightly, like a leopard ready to pounce. James took one final breath and looked straight ahead.
      "One…"
      Showtime.
      The catapult activated, yanking the Sabre down the track and sending it roaring out into space. The g-forces rammed James deep into the cushioning of his seat as he quickly commanded his Sabre into a climb to get away from his wingman, Jolly Roger Three, callsign "Riff", in order to avoid the possibility of collision.
      "All right, Jolly Rogers, this is Jolly Roger One," Becker spoke over the COM. "When you've finished launching, form up, activate your autopilots and ACES systems."
      The flights all reported in the affirmative, and one by one the Sabres slipped out of existence.

      "I feel the need…the need…for speed!"
      The line was so corny James couldn't help but laugh. Had anyone ever actually thought dialogue like that was good? It was almost uproariously bad. Still, the blonde chick was pretty good looking, and—
      The screen rudely winked back to the bright colors of the planet above him. Not too far in front of him hung the objective: a Covenant fleet in geo-synchronous orbit above the largest city on the planet. They were in a globe-like defensive formation that was designed to allow their shields to overlap.
      They're hiding something.
      He checked the location of the other Jolly Rogers. The squadron was still in formation, the autopilots having kept the birds on their pre-planned flight path perfectly. He couldn't really see them, of course; the ACES systems were working wonderfully. The computer was approximating their positions by triangulating low intensity radio signals they were sending out, even some hidden within the Covenant battle net. To the enemy it would simply sound like static or a technical issue, but it allowed the Sabres to remain hidden, appearing on James's screen as they would have had the ACES systems not been active.
      James saw Becker wiggle his wings, the signal to break formation and observe. There were no acknowledgements from the other Sabres as each pair split off and made their way to the fleet; COM silence was still in effect.
      McCall quickly tucked his Sabre in behind Riff, who elected to lead the two of them straight below the fleet.
      They slid stealthily under the Covie ships, observing nothing out of the ordinary. It was bizarre seeing the Covie ships with their smooth lines not highlighted by blasts of plasma. They reminded James of great whales, sort of elegant despite their purpose.
      That was when the ship at the bottom of the ball moved, revealing an object like nothing James had ever seen.
      It was large, easily the length of a Covenant cruiser, but constructed of a darker, rougher looking metal. It consisted of two thick, equally sized hexagons, far bulkier than normal for a Covenant ship. They were connected by a much smaller, diamond-shaped structure that set longwise with them.
      What had caught James's eyes had been the movement of the Covie ship. What caused them to grow as wide as dinner plates were the gathering motes of energy in the hexagon's gigantic plasma cannons.
      James slammed the throttle forward and snap turned to the right as Bitching Betty began screaming in his ears. An enormous blast of bright plasma punched through the space his Sabre had occupied only a moment earlier. Stars exploding in his eyes from his rods and cones misfiring, James glanced back over his shoulder and watched the blast of plasma rapidly descend like some unholy pillar of fire toward the city. It took only a few moments. The plasma flashed down and slammed into the metropolis, engulfing it in a colossal hellfire that flattened anything in its path.
      Oh, shit!
      James hurriedly tried to find Riff, looking all around, but the glare from the continuous fire of that…that thing made it impossible. Had Riff even managed to get out of the way fast enough? He checked the radar box in his HUD, but it was a sea of confused signals. There was simply too much interference for the Sabres low key communications to work.
      Just when it appeared the situation couldn't get any worse…
      "Warning: ACES system failure. Repeat, ACES system failure. Automatically attempting emergency system flush and restart. Repeat, ACES—"
      James shut the alarm off by voice command, painfully aware that the Covenant could clearly see him. If he was lucky, the plasma was doing to their sensors what it was doing to his. Maybe they couldn't see him thanks to the brightness of the plasma—
      No such luck. The ships in range on the bottom of the formation quickly zeroed in on him and opened up with their triple-A batteries. McCall flashbacked to the last time he'd taken on the enemy's point defenses, which hadn't ended particularly well for him. His breath caught slightly in his throat at that realization. Fortunately, he didn't freeze up but instead put his Sabre through its paces, jinking like a madman.
      Amidst all the chaos, a new voice clawed its way through the interference and broke the COM silence.
      "This is AWACS Coyote," said a deep male voice that—despite its obviously panicked tone—commanded respect. "Jolly Rogers, we have an emergency situation on our hands. The Covenant have deployed a super weapon designed for orbital bombardment. Your orders are to destroy it by any means possible." Is he nuts? James wondered as he dodged a particularly close shot from a frigate's guns. Evidently, Becker was asking himself the same thing.
      "Coyote, Jolly Roger leader. Say again, did not copy your last transmission." Coyote's voice came back, slightly irritated, but settling from his earlier panic.
      "Jolly Roger leader, Coyote. I repeat, ROE weapons green, you are cleared to engage!"
      "Understood, Coyote. Who's still alive?"
      "Leader, Four. I'm still alive but my ACES system's fried. It's attempting a restart but nothing yet. I've lost track of Three."
      "Lead, Eight here," said Harold Hill. "I'm fine, but Seven took a graze. Her ACES system's gone."
      "Leader, Six. Five's EVA. His Sabre took a hit on the way to the rally point. He's trying to set himself high up in orbit enough to be picked up the Valk. With your permission, sir, I'd like to stay with him and make sure he makes it back."
      "Granted, Six. Two's still alive but I've lost all contact with him and positioning. Something's wrong with his COM system.," Becker reported, his normally even voice obviously frustrated. "We're going to have to do this the hard way. All damaged aircraft, RTB. The rest of you, continue the fight. If you've lost your wingman, join up with someone else who has, too. Forget formal pairings if you have to. I'm dropping a nav point. Rally here."
      McCall, now at the edge of the defensive batteries' range, swung his bird around to rendezvous, only to discover he was already in position. Well, he thought, that's convenient. Several Sabres came streaking out of the firestorm of pulse laser blasts. Only a few peeled off to join him, orbiting only a few kilometers from the Covenant formation. The others blasted right on past, apparently too damaged to stay in the battle. In a moment more, Becker had jointed him, too.
      James took a quick headcount. There were only five Sabres left.
      "All right Jolly Rogers, here's how we're going to do it. We're coming from them from below. The interference from that super weapon's shots should keep them from accurately targeting us. Get close to launch your Copperheads and get out of there. We're not going to be able to do much to it, but—shit! It's moving!"
      Indeed, the entire formation was moving counter to the planet's slow rotation, the super weapon raining brilliant death in a broad, straight swath.
      "They're going to glass the whole damn planet. Let's move."
      The five Sabres rolled out, their Mustangs at maximum power as they screamed toward the super weapon. The Covenant fire focused once again on the wedge of aircraft.
      "Break!" Becker ordered.
      James dove, away from the majority of the Covenant fire and toward the bottom of the formation. He knew he would have to get close to launch his missiles. The fire from the ships could probably nail it if he launched them at their operational limit. By the same token, if he got too close he'd make an appealing target for some Covie gunner.
      On top of all that, Betty was still bitching in his ear. "Attention: ACES system online!"
      Okay, so maybe she was good for something.
      He kept his Sabre dancing left and right, spinning to make his small bird's profile even more difficult to target anyway. After all, his ACES system could fail again. Still, he was getting closer in his wild dance with death, closer to a position where he could launch his Copperheads.
      Just as he was about to slip between a Covie ship and the super weapon's blasts, an explosion rocked him, causing him to nearly collide with a destroyer's shields. Had the Covenant hit one of their own shields? Or had it been a Jolly Roger? No time to ask.
      He switched to his ASM-54 Copperheads by voice command and activated his radar. When he did, Covenant fire became even more intense—a feat that James hadn't thought possible. They didn't seem to care about the possibility of hitting their own ships.
      He used the Sabre's LEMRS system to lock on to the super weapons small diamond structure, praying it was the bridge. He managed a shaky tone and suspected he would get no better.
      "Jolly Roger Four, bruiser! Bruiser!"
      His main bay doors flew open and both ASM-54 Copperhead missiles lanced out on short-lived contrails toward their targets.
      The lead missile never even got close. A pulse laser blast nailed it almost immediately, forcing James to fly through a small fireball. His master caution panel lit up like a Christmas tree and Betty began bitching about something regarding his engine.
      The second missile, however, hit home, punching a surprisingly large, jagged hole in the diamond shaped structure's armor. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be any effect and the fire continued unabated.
      James yanked the stick hard right but the Sabre didn't respond. Adrenaline spiked through his system. He tried again.
      Nothing.
      Suddenly he realized Betty had been screaming that he'd lost all thrust vectoring from his engines. He couldn't maneuver at all and as a result he was locked into a ballistic path with the diamond structure, which was rapidly filling his COFFIN's screens.
      His hands reflexively flew to a pair of handles, one on each side of his seat.
      "Jolly Roger Four has experienced control failure, ejecting!" He lay as flat as he could make himself on his seat and yanked the handles upward.
      Nothing.
      He tried the handles again to no effect as the Daemon rushed ominously onward in the COFFIN's screens.
      "Grit, you lousy sonuvabi—"
      The Sabre crashed into the Daemon's underbelly in a spectacular fireball, wiping James from existence.

      Twenty minutes later, there was only one question on James's lips: "Michael," he said, obviously perturbed as he seat in his cramped chair. "What the hell was that thing?" The Jolly Rogers all carried the same sentiment. They were in the squadron's ready room, a restricted space just big enough to seat all twelve members of the squadron in their flight gear, neatly in three rows of four. It was here that they received briefings and debriefings, and generally congregated for fun. After all, the only other space large enough to accommodate them all was the mess hall, but by unwritten rule no one wanted to associate with someone of a lesser ilk—like the cooks—if they could avoid it.
      At the moment all the chairs were occupied by the frustrated Jolly Rogers. Unlike normal, there was no laughing, no friendly backslapping. It was time to get down to business.
      "A little something Grit dreamed up," Becker stated with no particular enthusiasm and just a hint of resentment. "Grit?" The AI materialized in the room's small holotank, his bandanna and chaps fluttering in a nonexistent wind. He took his time to speak, first adjusting his cowboy hat so that it sat lower on his head, then situating his belt so that his pearl-handled revolvers were clearly visible. The Jolly Rogers simply shifted from glaring ruefully at their commander to glaring ruefully at the designer of the simulator run that had handily handed them their asses.
      "Good mornin', y'all. I—oh.," Grit faltered as he caught the pilots' glares. "I can see nobody appreciates my work."
      "It sucked," somebody mumbled in the back. Grit, rather than becoming upset, snorted in amusement.
      "Everybody's a critic. Anyway, Lieutenant, what you ran into was a theoretical Covenant super weapon which is tentatively codenamed 'Daemon'. It's designed to reduce the time it takes to glass a planet by focusing solely on that task. Within a few dozen hours the planet would have been utterly destroyed.
      "The formation you saw protecting the Daemon was our best guess at what type of fleet and tactics the Covenant would deploy to protect such a weapon. They surrounded the Daemon from all directions as it has no self-defense systems to speak of. When it's time to bombard, the bottommost ship moves out of the way, but the fire from the Daemon discourages all but the craziest—" the AI's image threw James a quick glance "—from getting too close."
      Grit shifted his weight then continued talking. "As you all saw, the Daemon is tremendously effective. Its weapon uses blasts of superheated plasma—"
      "All plasma's superheated," came another mumbled remark from the back.
      Grit halted, this time clearly annoyed. "And you would be?" A man of middling build with close cropped blonde hair stood up from his seat in the last row, his New York accent dripping with sarcasm.
      "A-Rab." Grit blinked.
      "What?"
      "A-Rab," the man repeated.
      "Odd, you look Eastern European, not…Oh, I see. Very clever," Grit said. He'd obviously pulled up the man's records. "Very clever, Flight Officer Aaron Rabinowicz. You're on KP starting right now and ending whenever I feel like it. Understood? Besides, you sure as hell don't have a whole lot to brag about. You were obliterated a few seconds into the engagement, failing to last long enough to even cover your wingman. Pathetic." A-Rab, stung by the public rebuke and his assigned punishment, dropped meekly back into his seat.
      "Belay that," Becker said, a hint of his normal good humor showing through. Grit turned to face the squadron commander, ever so slightly letting his palms brush against his pearl-handled revolvers.
      "Colonel, this is a clear issue of insolence," Grit stated, somehow making the middle syllable of the last word sound more like "suhl" than "soul."
      "Oh no, I agree," Becker said while nodding his assent. "But what you have to understand, Grit, is that A-Rab is the official squadron cynic. His position grants him immunity from AI's with overblown egos who decide to drop in a super weapon on what ought to have been a standard exercise."
      "You gave me permission to design the new runs, sir. As I recall, you thought my idea of basing them on the latest intel reports was an 'excellent idea'. Am I wrong?" Becker shook his head.
      "No, no, I'm still in favor of it. I just find it hard to believe that ONI would send us out into the field without the slightest idea of what we're going up against."
      "I fully briefed you and your men, Colonel. I included everything that could have been in such a briefing."
      "You're changing the subject," Becker rebuffed. "Surely intel would have recognized the type of fleet since to cover this type of weapon and extrapolated from there. Anyway, A-Rab is off KP duty until I say so, got it? He also gets to make smart-ass remarks whenever he wants too."
      "Since when?"
      "Since now. A-Rab, as official squadron cynic, you're off KP." A-Rab leaned back in his chair, giving Grit a good view of the snarky smile he was wearing. Emboldened, he gave one last parting shot.
      "Hey, Grit, at least my gun's big enough that I don't need two of them." The ready room collectively snickered. Becker glanced back over.
      "A-Rab?"
      "Sir?"
      "One night's KP duty. I despise low blows."

      "The technique," Sterling said as he ripped off another gigantic bite of his cheeseburger and began to chew in the lounge known as Afterburner, "issimple. Yew haveto expwode upwahrd once yew getdaweight up toyerthighs—" He swallowed. "And you have to get the weight there really quickly or you lose all your momentum and can't clean it. The real key, though, is being tall enough that you can leverage your upper body's strength into both the initial jerk and pushing it up once you're under it."
      "Right," Glenn responded. "And I'm a leprechaun."
      "Seriously, that's all there is to it. I can't help it that, you know, you're so, well—"
      "Just say it."
      "Short."
      "Guys. I asked you a question," Samantha Matthews broke in. She was seated in the same booth. It would have been impossible for them not to have heard her.
      "Oh, sorry," Sterling said.
      "Yeah, we apologize," Glenn followed up immediately.
      "It wasn't like, you know, we were ignoring you or anything—"
      "Despite the fact that we were already eating when you and Zoë showed up—"
      "And wanted to discuss something totally not related to our very serious, very intense discussion of the—"
      "Life or death matter of hang cleaning."
      "That's a matter of life and death?" she asked disbelievingly. Beard and Varner traded knowing glances.
      "Definitely."
      "Couldn't be more important."
      "Lives hang in the balance."
      "It could just save the polar bears."
      "It might end up being the key to defeating the Covenant."
      "All I asked is what you thought was wrong with Marcus." The pilot was clearly exasperated.
      "Battle fatigue," Varner answered.
      "Shell shock," Beard added.
      "You think he fought a turtle?"
      "Yeah. And got fatigued from it." Matthews sighed and turned to her wingmate.
      "How about you, Zoë?"
      "Huh?" Zoë had, as usual, been a little bit out of it.
      "I said, what do you think is wrong with Marcus?"
      "Oh, that's easy. His flight suit is too tight. It makes him uncomfortable."
      "Wait, lemme get this straight," Varner jumped back in. "You think the Major has gone loco in la cabeza because his flight suit is too tight? I think you're nuts."
      "I'm a woman, Sterling; I don't have those."
      "Well," Samantha said, "I think he's become a recluse because—"
      "No, I'm not finished yet!" Zoë Park protested from her seat in the booth. Samantha buried her head in her hands.
      "Zoë, no offense, but I really don't think that Marcus is upset because his flight suit is too tight."
      "Well, it's what irritates me! I mean, can you imagining having to fit these things into my flight suit like I do every single day? It gets old. I have to wear—" Samantha tuned out her and the men who were unsuccessfully trying to cover up their laughing, pondering her own speculations instead.
      "I think he's clinically depressed," she stated. "He's surrounded by good friends most of the time. I mean, even though he's got us around him twenty-four-seven, he never really busts a gut laughing. Does anyone here know if he's on any meds?" Her question was met with shaking heads. "I mean, think about it," she continued as she absentmindedly poked at her spaghetti. "The only one of us to ever get close to him was James. Now that he's gone, Marcus has gone off the deep end."
      "So he wasn't always this bad?" Sterling Varner asked from across the booth.
      "No."
      "Well, like you said," Glenn Beard interrupted, speaking around his mouthful of cheeseburger, "he's just lost his best friend. Give him some time, he'll snap out of it."
      "Snap out of it? Yeah, the keyword in there was 'best friend', Glenn."
      "That's two keywords."
      "Whatever. If he doesn't snap out of it—"
      "He will," Beard said as he finally swallowed. He licked his lips obnoxiously.
      "You wanna bet? As I recall, the last one didn't turn out so well for you." Beard scowled as the recent loss of ten dollars stung him.
      "How did you clean three hundred pounds, anyway?"
      "Guys, focus," Matthews said.
      "As I was saying, if he doesn't snap out of it, who's next in line for leadership of the squadron?" Samantha considered for a moment.
      "That'd probably be Hunter."
      "Captain Communicative, huh? Let's hope he does snap out of it, then." Hunter was nowhere to be seen or else Varner never would have made that remark. Hunter was normally a teddy bear but he was perfectly capable of choke slamming anyone clear through a table if provoked.
      "No, that's the point. He wasn't the life of the party but he at least interacted. He's spent the last four days locked in his stateroom, only emerging for meals and not speaking to anyone. He has a kind of thousand-mile stare. I'm really worried about him."
      Samantha was going to continue her line of thinking but stopped when she realized that everyone was staring past her, towards the doors. She turned around to look and there in the doorway stood Marcus Easley.
      And he looked like hell.
      Heavy bags sat under his eyes, dark enough they made his eye sockets appear almost like caverns. A good four days of growth had allowed his facial hair to hit a gray area between stubbly and a full blown beard. His shoulders were slumped in exhaustion. Still, there was a noticeable lack of tension that was palpable, almost as if he had had a heavy weight removed from his shoulders. He seemed slightly more at ease with the world as he walked right by his squadmates and toward and empty booth. They watched him as he sat down and ordered from his booth's screen. After about ten seconds had passed, he seemed to shake out of his stupor and notice that the four of them were staring at him with all the respect and privacy an entomologist might give a reproducing stick-bug.
      "What?"
      "Marcus," said Samantha, obviously surprised, "you're…alive." Marcus leaned away from her slightly, confused by her sudden interest.
      "Last time I checked, I was."
      "Marcus, I'll be frank. We're all concerned about you. You've barely left your room for days." Marcus considered for a moment.
      "How long ago was the battle?"
      "Four days ago."
      "Wow," Marcus said. "I guess I have been in my room a lot."
      "Yes, you have. Marcus, what were you doing in there for four days, anyway?" Marcus hesitated before answering.
      "Reading." Samantha blinked.
      "Reading," she repeated.
      "Yeah, I've been reading a, uh…really good book."
      "For four days? What was it, Moby Dick?"
      "Look, I'd rather not talk about it. It's kind of private."
      "Marcus, it's nothing to be embarrassed about," Zoë Park said as she moved over into his booth, slid next to him. She cooed into his ear as she leaned on him and snaked her right arm around behind his back before embracing him in a hug. Marcus jumped as if struck by lightning, a horrified look on his face.
      "What's nothing to be embarrassed about, Zoë?"
      "Marcus, you can relax, I've got it all figured out," she continued. Marcus's color dropped a considerable way towards white. "Your—"
      "I'm not!" Marcus half-yelled as he attempted to stand up in the booth, banging his knees into the bottom of the table as his painful reward at pre-emption.
      "You didn't let me finish," Zoë continued as she pulled Marcus back down into his seat. "Your flight suit is too tight in the crotch." Marcus sat in stunned silence, his muscles totally locked up. Without warning color came rushing back into his face and he roared the biggest belly laugh that any of the squad members had ever seen. He laughed until he grabbed his stomach from pain. He laughed until he had tears in his eyes. He laughed until—no longer able to support himself—he slid underneath the table.
      Mercifully, his order of a BLT came quickly and he escaped the room without any further interrogation. He left the room, the plate shaking in his hand, his laugh reverberating down the corridor like some sort of jolly ghost.
      Afterburner sat in stunned silence for well over a minute.
      "Porn," Glenn stated. The squadmates turned to look at him.
      "What did you just say?" Samantha asked.
      "He's reading porn in his stateroom." Samantha was incredulous.
      "For four days?"
      "Name me something else that would keep a guy secluded for that long. He's probably beating himself up knowing that he can't have any of the models. His soul's crushed, so he's fallen into a deep funk. Because it's porn, he's embarrassed to talk about it."
      "Then explain the screaming and howling he was having when you and I found him," Varner challenged. "The only kind of dream he could conceivably get from pornography is—"
      "Exactly," Glenn said as he nodded sagely, leaning back in the booth while brining his cup of coffee to his lips. However, he was forced to duck to avoid the dozen or so napkins his squadmates threw at him.

Longsword R: Midway
Date: 14 August 2008, 11:23 pm

      The Daemon had just been the beginning.
      The following days developed into a blur of ludicrous simulation exercises that always seemed to beat the Jolly Rogers like red-headed stepchildren. There had been a bombing mission on a forested planet where the Covenant seemed to have set up every anti-air gun in their arsenal over an impossibly small, maneuverable convoy. Next, there was an escort mission of a wing of old Rockwell B-763 Cutlasses over a target that had ridiculous amounts of plasma flak and fighter support. As if that weren't enough, Grit decided to screw with them by sending them out on a recon mission in deep space that lasted for hours with absolutely nothing happening. James, unaware of the pointless mission's length, had failed to bring along enough movies to entertain himself, and therefore spent most of his time thinking of unusual and disparaging nicknames for the AI.
      But today was different. Today, they had an actual mission.
      A mission consisting of sitting around for hours on end waiting for other UNSC ships to arrive. Conscious of the duration of this exercise in inanity, however, James brought along a good six hours worth of movies and his music player. This time, he would be prepared for whatever came his way.

       "Exiting Slipspace in three...two...one...now."
      The white nothingness of Slipspace resolved itself, as the Maverick reentered normal space. The first thing that Captain Reeves noticed about their destination was the rocks.
      Lots of rocks. They had emerged into an asteroid field which surrounded a small planet on all sides. The dwarf planet was totally unremarkable, almost indistinguishable from some of the asteroids orbiting around it. It was a dull brown color, and pockmarked with craters from eons of abuse. The dying star it orbited gave the thing an eerie red glow that seemed to create a generally depressing atmosphere.
      "Monitor all frequencies. We don't know who or what's going to be getting our attention." The Mav's communications officer, Hayes, nodded.
      "Aye-aye, sir, we're listening. I'm reading a lot of echoes and shadows from inside the field but nothing solid yet."
      "We're not transmitting anything, are we?"
      "No, sir. Radar is in sniff mode and all other sensors are passive. If whoever it is knows we're here, it's because they found us on their own."
      "Good. Keep me informed."
      "Aye, sir."
      An asteroid field. Interesting. And, for that matter, dangerous. Everything he had been told back in the academy had told him to never steer into an asteroid field unless absolutely necessary. The asteroids had a nasty habit of colliding with whatever ship wandered in too close. He remembered a picture of a small pleasure yacht that had once been taken out for a spin in an asteroid field by some joy riders. It was found days later, riddled full of holes, all passengers dead. It was almost like someone had done nothing but blast away at it with a shotgun from every possible angle.
      ONI being ONI, Reeves was sure they had their reasons, but still...this was crazy.
      "Sir, I've got something. Audio only and it's faint, but it's definitely there."
      "Put it through."
      Hayes did. A raucous cacophony of static assaulted the bridge crew's ears for a few moments until Hayes isolated the frequency and locked it down.
      "Howdy," came a voice with a thick, Texas drawl. "Maverick, this is Midway control. Please bring your course to vector one-one-zero and proceed through admission corridor one. Acknowledge." Hayes looked up from her position in the pit with a questioning look. Reeves just shrugged and nodded.
      "Midway control, this is the Maverick. Acknowledged. Standing by." The view out of the bridge rotated and shifted as the Maverick swung around to take on the new course, which faced its nose towards the planet.
      "Here we go," Reeves muttered to no one in particular.

      A small rock. That was it. A feeling of severe disappointment had washed over James the moment he'd gotten a good look at the Valkyrie. Just a stupid base hidden inside a small planet in an asteroid field in a totally unremarkable system. Figured.
      He'd been sitting in his F-602 Sabre for over three hours now. The boredom hadn't been nearly as bad as he'd expected. Multiple ships had rendezvoused just outside the asteroid field at more or less regular intervals, all from different directions. Already there had been a few ships that had surprised him: the Moser-class carrier Texas, the Irving-class destroyer Dragon Slayer, a smattering of older Midkiff-class corvettes like Flye and Dreamweaver. He'd heard of all of them before, ships that had survived insurmountable odds or possessed unusually good luck. The Dragon Slayer, for instance, had survived a three on one engagement by overloading one of its MAC cannon rails just as a plasma torpedo came within a scant few hundred meters of it. The resulting magnetic interference had dissipated the containment field that the Covenant had used to guide the torpedo, thereby allowing the destroyer to escape and fight another day.
      Now this new arrival. James couldn't quite figure out her make; the cameras on the outside of his bird were stretched to their very limits and were giving him a faint, fuzzy picture, at least when there wasn't a rock in the way.
      Only half-listening to the communications between Midway control and the newcomer, James almost missed the name of the ship which was already part way through the approach corridor.
      The Maverick.
      James was stunned. The Mav was here? So that was why Becker had behaved like he'd expected to see the Swordsmen again. This was great, if the Mav was here, then...
      James caught himself and shook his head. No, this was fantastic! If Marcus was still alive he could contact him and talk to him about God once more. James knew that there was a good chance Marcus might just rebuff him again, but it was still worth a—
      "Heads up," Griff's voice came crashing into James's victorious vision. "Slipspace rupture outside the asteroid field." A pause, then: "Enemy signals confirmed. Jolly Rogers, come about to vector two-nine-zero. ROE: weapons red; do not fire unless fired upon. Sensors identify enemy force as follows: four CCS cruisers, three carriers, seven destroyers, nine frigates, six corvettes, a few supply vessels, and a big blip..." Grit's voice trailed off.
      "Tentatively identified as a Daemon."

      Force Master Daedalus stood stoically on the bridge of the Covenant carrier Hushed Vengeance and looked vacantly at the hologram readout, only absent mindedly reading what scrolled across it. He let out a low growl. Why in the name of the Ancient Ones had he been assigned to this command? He'd been given this post after distinguishing himself above the Human's last stronghold as the Shipmaster who destroyed one of the Humans' lead orbital defense platforms. It earned him this post, one that would normally go to a mid-ranking Sangheili commander. The Hierarchs had been so impressed by his nearly suicidal charge that they had ignored Sangheili protests and allowed all of the ships under his command to retain all of their technology and weapons. He'd even been given command of the best fighter group in the entire Covenant Navy: the Necromancer unit, twenty of the best Jiralhanae fighter pilots who ever lived. Yet here he was searching an unoccupied system, simply mining magnetic materials for Babylon.
      Evidently the Hierarchs had not been able to totally mollify their Sangheili protectors. Still, the fact that the Sangheili had been unable to stop his appointment was a telling sign; Tartarus had managed to gain the Prophets' favor. Babylon was proof enough of that, though the fact didn't make it any easier on his warrior's senses. He longed for battle once more.
      The console beeped; the probes were returning their finds. Daedalus studied them with the same tired look he had given countless other readouts.
      He let out a huff of irritation. It was one thing to do his duty as the Covenant demanded, but here...
      Well, he thought as something in the readouts caught his eyes. This is an unusually large deposit of the mineral. Excellent. This should be more than enough to finish furbishing Babylon and I can finally get back to fighting the damned humans. He keyed another button on the display.
      "Bring the Reaper to the front and order it to begin harvesting. We'll be done in only a few cycles if everything goes well and then we can return to Babylon." He didn't have to add and to battle.

      Grit was working very fast. The odds of survival were not good. The enemy force was numerically almost equal and much more heavily armed. He checked the systems; five more minutes before he could safely activate the Santana Translight Engines. He'd begun the emergency cold startup as soon as the signals had come in but five minutes in this situation was still going to be a long time. How had the Covenant even known they were here? The interference from all the magnesium was so intense in some areas that UNSC equipment had to be specially shielded in order to prevent damage. There was a chance—a slim one, but a chance—that the Covenant had just wandered into the system. Possible, but unlikely.
      A sensor near the edge of the field pinged him. The Daemon was moving to the front. So much for just sitting this one out, Grit thought grimly. They're just going to blast us all before we even get a chance to fight back. Damn it! His emotion subroutines got the better of him. There were contingency plans for a situation like this—a thing he probably obsessed a little too much over he'd admitted to himself time and time again—but he didn't like putting this one into action. It called for a delaying action, just long enough to get the Valkyrie up and running. He had a few tricks up his sleeve, and if the humans could hold out for that long, it wouldn't matter how large the enemy force was. He threw open a COM to all the UNSC ships that had been assembled.
      "Boys, we've got company. All ships come to vector two-nine-zero. Launch Longswords from VF-32, VF-213, and VF-142. Flye, Dreamweaver, and Odessa, move out in front of the fighters, get close to the enemy super weapon and carriers and drop their shields. Use your new ordnance. Once you've dropped it, get away out of system on the coordinates I'm transmitting to you, now; if the rest of the fleet does not show within twenty minutes, retreat to Earth. Jolly Rogers, you are to engage the Covenant ships in descending order in terms of threat level. Be advised, asteroids will begin breaking orbit and attacking the Covenant fleet; stay clear of any incoming but press your assault. Catclaw, Shotwell stick with the main group and screen against Seraph attacks and boarding craft. All other ships, standby. ROE: weapons green, cleared to engage. Valkyrie will be up in T-minus four minutes and forty seconds. As soon as she's up, prepare to jump out of system on new coordinates to a fall back point. Midway control out."

      "Flye, Dreamweaver, Odessa, this is Jolly Roger Leader. You're the tip of the spear, we're the shaft."
      "Dreamweaver, acknowledged."
      "Flye, understood."
      "Odessa here. Leading the way."
      To James it was like a roller coaster from hell. There were pre-determined paths through the field, outlined by a series of red, box shaped "gates" that appeared on the COFFIN's screens. They were difficult to follow, fluidly twisting and turning all over the place like an ancient serpent, an effect that was a byproduct of relying on magnets to repel the asteroids and keep the paths open. They were pretty roomy for his Sabre, but the space could get crowded quickly; James could only imagine how the corvettes ahead were managing to navigate through here.
      The corvettes blew out of the asteroid field, straight into the enemy fleet at top speed. The strange thing was that there was no immediate fire from the Covie ships, but that suited the corvettes' captains just fine. Small, orb-shaped objects were ejected out of dual ports on each side of the corvettes as they raced through the enemy fleet. They were entirely unimposing: dull gray colored, featureless. Their six foot diameter made them look like gigantic marbles or ball-bearings or even massively over-inflated beach balls.
      Of course, none of those objects were designed to destroy Covenant shielding and electronics through electromagnetic pulse.
      These were MK68 Bulldog mines, nicknamed "Juicy Js" because of their plump appearance, and they were deadly in capable hands. They weren't nuclear but were instead powered by an explosively pumped flux compression generator to produce pulses of tens of terawatts, exceeding the power of a lightning strike by orders of magnitude. This power allowed the Bulldog mines to create a large magnetic field around them an instant before they detonated which contained the EMP blast in a limited area and allowed them to be used tactically. The corvettes had just lain over two dozen strung out all over the enemy formation.
      The simultaneous detonation of twenty-seven mines was nearly blinding, like a sea of cerulean fire. Shielding flickered all over the Covenant fleet before dieing pitifully. The corvettes were already well out of range of their weapons and were turning around to deliver more of their toys if needed. The Jolly Rogers were free to play, even if it was just for a moment; once the Covie ships brought up their shields, it would be impossible for the Sabres to injure them as they simply did not have enough firepower to sneak a shot past those shields near a pulse laser turret.
      As James shot out of the field in his Sabre, the Daemon quickly filled the forward COFFIN screen, like some sort of megalith. He selected his ASM-54 Copperhead missiles by voice command, hesitating a moment as he remembered the last time he'd attempted to launch one of these missiles. It had locked up on the rails, totally failed to even leave his bird. His resulting attempt to flee the combat zone had nearly killed him.
      But it was only a moment. The other pilots fired. So did James.
      "Jolly Roger Four, bruiser!"
      The fighter rocked slightly as the missile punched out of the main bay easily, giving James a small amount of relief. Its rocket motor ignited and the missile sped away on a quickly disappearing trail of smoke. It wasn't long before twelve missiles slammed into the Daemon's unprotected hide in the machine's theorized weak point: the joins where the diamond shaped structure connected to the hexagons. There were no secondary explosions as the Sabre invisibly flashed past towards the others ships in the enemy fleet.
      "Jolly Roger Leader to all units: break by pairs and engage. Fire at will!"

      Daedalus charged back onto the bridge, soaking wet and trailing water. Soap was clearly evident all over his fur and a towel was haphazardly tied around his waist. After delivering the order to begin harvesting operations, the Force Master had retired to his personal quarters to bathe. He'd been neglecting the chore because he'd secretly been hoping to run into some humans and didn't want to take the chance of being caught off guard. Of course, this was exactly what had happened, and he'd nearly been electrocuted by his bath's short-circuiting lights.
      "Status report!" he roared as the smell of burning and melted circuitry reached his nostrils.
      "Enemy forces came from out of the asteroid field!" reported a Jiralhanae with some smoldering patches of fur obviously caused by the explosion of a nearby console. Another Jiralhanae had not been so lucky; the console had exploded in his face, driving a long piece of metal straight through his right eye socket and into his brain. He lay on the floor unmoving, blood pouring from the wound like a fountain.
      "Three heavily armored corvettes laid some sort of bombs which detonated and destroyed our shielding. We have multiple systems out: lighting and life support in aft decks seven, eight, and nine; our pulse lasers along our fore quarter have been completely disabled. Sensors are functioning only at thirty percent and are experiencing multiple errors. Engines have been shut down and are attempting emergency restart. The battlenet is in chaos, I'm having difficulty assessing status of our other ships. The Reaper has reported heavy damage in its joints from multiple missile impacts, missiles launched after the detonation of the bombs!
      "Impossible!" roared Daedalus. "The only thing we could see out there were those corvettes! Where did those missiles come from? No matter, restore our shields immediately. Quickly, do it before—"
      A series of explosions from deep within the ships knocked the Force Master off his feet and sent him tumbling into the wall. By some small miracle the dutiful Jiralhanae was still on his feet, bellowing information at the top of his lungs.
      "Missile impacts! Damage reported on aft decks fourteen through seven. Engineering is now reporting that the engines have taken explosive damage and can only function at forty percent once they're restarted."
      "Launch all fighters in this fleet!" Daedalus ordered as he staggered back to his feet, trying to toss wet fur out of his eyes. "Order the Necromancer group to destroy those corvettes!" He stumbled over to the holographic readout once more.
      "Order the Reaper to blast a path through this field, I don't want to take any chances with any human traps. We're going in. The humans had to come from somewhere, and I want revenge."
      "Force Master, increased magnetic activity within the field. Asteroids are breaking orbit and heading right for our fleet!"
      "What?"

      Some of asteroids near the edge of the field had been fitted with one-shot super magnets created from the magnesium found in this very field. Once given a signal, they would activate and push against each other in a controlled manner, adjusting their trajectories to attack enemy ships. They weren't even fitted with any bomb. The field had a pretty good rotational speed, and the rocks selected had been among the most massive ONI could feasibly fit with a super magnet. In principle, the defensive scheme—simply named Guard—operated just like a MAC. Still, it had initially been scoffed at by many in ONI until Grit had proven their worth in simulation after simulation. Their natural camouflage and surprise factor made the rocks a perfectly sound strategy.
      Unfortunately, none of the simulations Grit had run had a Reaper in them. The Reaper was a machine designed to harvest deposits of valuable resources from interstellar rock and was equipped with an extremely powerful gravity generator used to capture free floating debris so that the oversized plasma cannons could melt the awkwardly shaped material into liquid form. The generator could then reshape the liquids into convenient sized cubes for easily collections and processing. The machine was hardly a weapon of war. Its shipmaster, however, was ticked.
      The generator managed to catch a good amount of the asteroids in its artificial field, bringing them to a dead stop. The plasma cannons opened up, utterly obliterating the improvised missiles into a glowing, liquid, molten mess.
      The rest of the rocks flew past in an almost comically slow fashion past the Reaper and pounded the Covenant fleet. One asteroid nailed the lead CCS cruiser, the Obfuscating Platitude and crushed its nose back in on itself like an aluminum can. A pair of destroyers were hit hard, leaving a massive dent in their sides. A frigate was unlucky enough to take a direct hit on her belly, cracking her in half down her spine like a giant peanut.
      That didn't stop the launch of the majority of the Seraph fighters. They began to pour out of docking bays all over the Covenant fleet; first a trickle, then a swarm. They recklessly sped into the asteroid field while the Reaper selectively blasted rocks out of their way. Of course, there were a handful that managed to accidentally stray into the fire and were vaporized instantly. By and large, however, the fighters made it into the field without issue.
      All except for a group of five craft that no human eyes had ever beheld. They were longer by about two meters, more angular than the piscine-shaped Seraphs. Indeed, their basic profile was more pyramidal. Their jet black coloring would have made them difficult to spot were it not for the extreme edges of the craft, which were painted a brilliant gold. Plasma cannons were evident along their wings, three to a side. Two plasma missile launchers sat in the chin of each machine, ominously larger than their little cousins on the wings. A stinger like protrusion jutted out a good meter off the tail.
      The vehicles were going in the opposite direction, directly after the trio of human corvettes trying to exit the system and make the jump to Slipspace. The fighters caught up with the human ships quickly, their tremendously powerful engines and smaller size enabling them to accelerate far beyond anything the corvettes could manage.
      The new enemies flew in a diamond formation, each ship perfectly equidistant from the next, all perfectly aligned at the same relative altitude. Plasma missiles simultaneously glowed in their launching ports before blasting out, blue teardrops of death that slammed into the lead corvette without mercy. Armor plating melted off of the superstructure and flash froze in the vacuum. A series of plasma bolts landed just above amidships and chewed through the hull easily; an explosive decompression launched debris into space, including a few human who violently contorted as their bodies were torn apart by the sudden change in pressure.
      The corvettes opened up with their meager point defense systems but couldn't seem to catch the fighters in a crossfire. Each time the three of them would come close to boxing in an enemy, the fighter would spin away and a new one would come in on a different vector. Their attack was clock-like, absolutely flawless.
      It didn't take long for the damage to become critical. The Odessa didn't explode but simply died. Its lights flickered and its engines slowed to nothing. The fighters adjusted their weaving pattern to take on the starboard most corvette but they were too late; the Flye and Dreamweaver jumped into Slipspace and vanished.
      The fighters wheeled around, back towards the asteroid field. They had already gotten their first kill of the day, but the real hunt was about to begin.

      "Shotwell, Catclaw, confirm birds for gorilla in killbox alpha," Midway control—whatever the heck that was—spoke over the tactical net. Marcus Easley had scrambled with the rest of his squadron and was sitting in his C709S Super Longsword in a combat air patrol pattern around the Maverick. He now deeply regretted not shaving over the past week; his newly grown beard was making it difficult for him to find his chin-mounted microphone controls and was itching like crazy. Still, he'd gotten quite a ways into the Old Testament, trying to make sure he understood every word he'd read of it.
It was, frankly, a whole lot more complicated than he'd remembered. Just trying to keep all of the families straight was maddening. He'd actually drawn a flowchart in order to keep it all in order and was still as confused as ever.
      "Shotwell here, birds affirmative."
      "Catclaw, birds affirmative."
      Marcus still didn't understand what was going on. His dreams were normally disjointed, hazy fragments that he could later sort out as various things he'd been thinking about that day, assuming he could remember his dream at all. This dream, however...had been unlike anything he'd ever had, too real to be ignored. His eyes briefly flicked to his left hand grasping the throttle. That cross...
      He shook his head. Thinking about theology now would only get him killed.
      The Catclaw and Shotwell were at the head of the makeshift UNSC fleet, preparing to meet the Seraphs and boarding craft head-on. They were both Aegis-class light cruisers, ships specifically designed for anti-fighter operations. They were only slightly heavier than destroyers in terms of tonnage, but their size wasn't what made them unique; that honor belonged to their weaponry.
      Due to their mission profile, Aegis-class cruisers lacked a MAC gun. Instead, they relied on their ten multi-cell S-PAC 98 Sea Anaconda SAM launchers and ludicrously large number of fifty millimeter cannons for point defense. The SAM launchers were arranged so there were two launchers to cover each hemisphere; two in the front, two on top, two on bottom, and two on the starboard and port respectively. They could hit targets from quite a ways out with high amounts of accuracy before enemy fighters could close to within a few kilometers. If the enemy ever got past that outer defense envelope and closed within the missiles minimum effective range, they would have to deal with the gigantic eighty-eight millimeter flak cannons at medium range and the fifty-millimeter guns that the ships had for their point defense system. When they had an enemy fighter in front of them, a position where they could bring every single one of their SAM launchers to bear, there was a good chance that the fighter was going down. They were a fighter pilot's worst nightmare.
      And they had the Covenant right where they wanted them.
      "Shotwell, birds away!"
      "Catclaw, birds away!"
      A total of two hundred S-PAC 98 Sea Anaconda missiles broke out of their polycarbonate shells and blasted away from the Aegis-class cruisers like an angry swarm of bees. Watching on his radar, Marcus saw the missiles accelerate rapidly, straight towards the swarm of Seraphs in the killbox. The two gigantic blips on his radar, one white for the missiles, the other red for the Seraphs, intersected then disappeared, replaced by hundreds of enemy contacts as the Covenant fighters broke formation, trying to avoid the missiles.
      For some Seraphs it was no use. The S-PAC 98 Sea Anacondas slammed into the lead ships, crushing their shields with kinetic energy before their warheads exploded. Others managed to dodge the opening salvo by diving, climbing, or turning at the last moment, but not many. Just by looking outside of his cockpit at the distant fireballs, Marcus estimated that at least eighty percent of the missiles had found their mark.
      "Swordsman Leader, this is Midway control. We have roughly two hundred bandits inbound. Buster to their location and engage. You and the other squadrons on station will provide fighter support until the Valkyrie is up and running in T-minus two minutes thirty seconds. Just hold out until then." Marcus keyed his chin mike only to get a loud blast of static in his ears. He cursed, became embarrassed but didn't know why, and tried to find the correct key. After his third attempt, he finally got it.
      "Midway control, this is Swordsman Leader. What kind of support will we have?"
      "I'm afraid the Aegis cruisers are all your going to get, but it'll take them a minute or so to fully reload their Sea Anacondas. The Guard system is keeping their capital ships out the field by continual repositioning, but the enemy's super weapon is really putting a strain on maintaining that blockade. The other ships are being held back to protect the Valkyrie. You're on your own, but I will continue to provide support."
      "Roger, Midway control. Swordsman Leader out."
      Whoever he is, thought Marcus, he's putting a lot of faith in just a few squadrons. The directive to "buster" to the Seraphs was brevity code to fly at maximum continuous speed, an order that seemed to betray either a fatal overconfidence or lunacy. Even with the undeniable success the Aegis cruisers had just achieved, the three Longsword squadrons—the VF-32 Swordsmen, VF-142 Ghostriders, and VF-213 Black Lions—were still heavily outnumbered. Given the Longswords' loadouts, they would have been better suited to trying to down the Seraphs from a long range with their powerful ASGM-10 "Boa" missiles, nick named "flying telephone poles" for their mammoth size. Their hypersonic speed, achieved only moments after launch made it difficult for enemies to evade them because they closed with their target so quickly. Their power was horrendous, even though they carried no warhead. Instead, they relied on their mass and sheer kinetic energy to punch right through Covenant shields and destroy the enemy. There were only a few weaknesses: the missiles were designed to be used at a long distance; if they were launched too closely to a maneuvering target, they wouldn't be able to match its moves. Plus, the missiles had no active radar of their own but instead relied on the launching craft's radar to help guide them in on their target. Lastly, a Longsword could only carry a few—no more than four—in the main bay and hope to still be effective in combat because of their massive weight.
      "Black Lion Leader to Swordsman and Ghostrider Leaders. Recommend we stiff arm 'em."
      "Sounds good to me, Black Lion Leader. How about you, Swordsmen Leader?"
      "Me too, Black Lion Leader. Let's do it" A few seconds of silence passed.
      "Swordsmen Leader, do you copy?" Confused, Marcus looked outside of his cockpit at Black Lion Leader who appeared just as confused as he did. Marcus realized that he'd hit the wrong button and quickly keyed the correct one under his chin.
      "Yes, I copy. Let's do it."
      "Swordsmen, fence in. Buster." Easley spoke over the squad's tactical channel, giving the squadron orders to make sure their switches were set to begin combat. "Lock 'em up, activate SYSLINK with VF-213 and -142 and standby." Easley matched actions to words, locking his radar onto the distant enemies and commanding his Longsword to form a data link with the other aircraft in his squadron. A moment later, the connection was completed and he could see which of the bandits had been locked onto, his targets in small red boxes, his squadmates' and the others' boxed into gray ones, all of them cut into fourths, by a cross—
      Marcus started and shook his head. He was reading way too much into what he was seeing. Every time he'd locked on with a Boa before, the same targeting indicator had come up. Why was he suddenly taking notice of it now? He began to curse but thought the better of it, instead yelling angrily across the COM as the Longswords flew at one hundred percent military power to engage the Seraphs.
      "Swordsmen, launch on my mark. Three, two, one, mark! Swordsmen group, fox three!"
      Marcus's Longsword rocked as it simultaneously released all four Boas from the main bay and they blasted away, their engines quickly becoming dozens of burning pinpoints against the darkness of space. The Black Lions and Ghostriders released their ordinance a split second later, and the Boas sped past the Aegis cruisers and hammered the remaining Covenant fighters in a beautiful chain of yellow explosions, knocking many out of the fight and severely disorganizing them. As if things couldn't have gotten worse for the Covenant, the Catclaw and Shotwell opened up with their flak cannons and point defense guns.
      As the Longswords dashed towards the fight, somebody said with a thick southern accent, "Hell, this is like an old time turkey shoot!"

      "Ignore the human fighters and anti-fighter ships. Hunt only bigger prey unless you are engaged." Regulus heard four clicks in reply signifying his wingmates knew exactly what was expected of them. The Necromancers flew right into the heart of the dogfight and emerged from the other side unharmed, having simply blown through the melee and past the Aegis cruisers, going too fast to be effectively fired at. They made straight for the clustered human ships, taking advantage of an error in the humans' defensive strategy: the pests had their two specialized ships out on ahead of the main group as a screen in order to shield the capital ships from attacks. However, they'd left no intermediate defenses, meaning that the Necromancer team had nothing to stop their advancement on the human fleet.
      His sensors sounded a low rumble, notifying him of new contacts. He had been wrong, there were intermediate defenses but he couldn't see them for the massive amount of confusion the Seraphs had caused his sensors. The Brute fighter pilot took a quick estimate of the enemy's strength and rate of closure before deciding they posed little threat. At their speed, it would take the enemy fighters some time to decelerate and turn around. Speaking to his wingmates again, he let a nearly apathetic tone sneak into his voice "Fire if you wish, but we will only make one pass." A quartet of clicks again sounded in his ears.
      Regulus fired as soon as his sensors achieved a lock-on, sending a pair of plasma missiles straight towards one of the fighters on the outside edge of the humans' formation. The bolts were upon the craft before it could act, and the leftmost part of its fuselage took a major hit. As he and the other four Necromancers raced by he felt debris ricochet off his shields.
      Interesting, he thought amusedly. I thought that humans built their fighters tougher than that. He spoke once again over the Necromancers' battlenet, "Necromancer Thirteen reporting a kill."
      "Necromancer Four reporting a kill."
      "Good shooting, Aeolus. When we come within the range of the humans' defensive weaponry, activate your countermeasures."
      Four clicks again answered in reply.

      "What the hell were those?"
      "Shit, they flew right past us!"
      "Damnit, they nailed Ghostrider Three! He took a direct shot to the cockpit, no way he ejected!"
      "Lion Eight is EVA, requesting immediate SAR scramble!"
      "Lion Eight, Midway Control. Roger, scrambling SAR assets off the Texas. Standby." Marcus keyed his COM.
      "Midway Control, Swordsmen Leader; we've got leakers, type unknown. Request permission to engage!"
      "Swordsmen Leader, Midway Control; permission granted."
      "Swordsmen, turn and attack. Take those things out fast, whatever the hell they are," Marcus ordered as he yanked back hard on his stick, bringing his Longsword into a tight half-loop before rolling "upright." The Swordsmen quickly joined up and punched their throttles back up to full military power.
      By the time they'd managed that, however, the Necromancers were already on the human fleet. In their initial pass they avoided the massive amounts of metal spit out by the fleet's autocannons, effortlessly side slipping and jinking out of the way. The Dodge class supply ship Riley wasn't so maneuverable. Ten plasma missiles—two from each of the Necromancers' fighters—mauled the hapless vessel, punching through its thin armor like hot knives through butter. It exploded in a horrendous yellow fireball, taking its valuable provisions with it.
      The Longswords reached the human fleet in just a few seconds, but the yellow-tipped enemies had already gone to work, blasting away with impunity.
      "Swordsmen Leader, this is Six. I'm gadget bent, the radar's not functioning correctly."
      "Recycle the system, it's probably just—"
      "Leader, Five; I'm—" the channel erupted into static without warning.
      "Swordsmen," Marcus stated, getting no response, only loud white noise. He glanced up at the radar in the upper-right corner of his HUD; it was awash in strange colors and phantom contacts, totally useless. He let out an angry curse. They're jamming us! Radar and communications!
      Marcus realized that he and the rest of the Swordsmen were blind and deaf, and common sense would call for them to withdraw and try to regroup. But with how those new fighters were tearing up the human fleet, he knew they couldn't.
      The Swordsmen dove into the fireworks after the five foes.

      "I do not believe it," Quarell 'Sulamee stated flatly as he stared at the nearly ancient, battle-scared Sangheili across from him: Esab 'Uhcumee.
      And he was legend. His tactics had brought many early victories against the humans, maneuvers that 'Sulamee had been required to study upon entering the military, maneuvers that were given as textbook examples of the art of war. He was celebrated, favored by the Prophets, had everything he wanted. He'd vanished with his task force while out searching for human planets and was never heard from. It was assumed that he'd been ambushed by a numerically superior human force and had been unable to use his superior tactical mind to his advantage. Entire cycles of mourning had been ordered throughout the Covenant.
      And yet here he was, shattering yet another part of what 'Sulamee thought he knew. Despite the fact that he'd apparently joined the Separatists and was worthy of nothing but contempt, 'Sulamee could not quite keep the awe from his voice. Or, for that matter, the honorifics.
      "You," 'Sulamee continued, "you were one of the greatest military minds to ever serve the Covenant. What in the name of the Prophets are you doing, Excellency?" His question was greeted with a condescending laugh that was jarring coming from such a renowned war hero.
      "What am I doing? Trying to correct a mistake I made a long time ago."
      "What mistake?"
      "What's the word the humans use...clueless. Yes, that's what you are," 'Uhcumee chuckled. "Serving the Covenant. That was the greatest mistake of my life."
      "What?"
      "You heard me. The blind devotion to the promise of the Great Journey, the inability to hear or even acknowledge opposing points of view, the death penalty for those who dare doubted—"
      "As they should have been!" 'Sulamee interrupted more strongly than he'd intended. "They were blasphemers."
      "Blasphemers? Or the truly enlightened?"
      "Blasphemers, of course. They deny the Great Journey."
      "As do I." 'Sulamee realized his error and tried to backtrack.
      "No, you don't. Can't. The humans must have captured you, tortured you, brainwashed you." The statement was made in a pleading tone; 'Sulamee was all but begging 'Uhcumee to say that he'd been coerced into this—this charade. But it was no use.
      "The humans did no such thing. I came to them of my own free will, having happened upon this unpleasant and otherwise unremarkable little planet. Initial observations said there was nothing down there, but as the humans say, I wanted to leave no stone unturned."
      "What does that even mean? Excellency, you're speaking madness; the Great Journey will free us all."
      "Free us? From what, our hierarchal society, our outdated social mores? Any religion that requires the amount of fanatical devotion that ours does is wholly indistinguishable from a prison regardless of what the Prophets say..."
      Back in the corner, standing a comfortable distance away, Emile de Becque and Lieutenant Cable stood unobtrusively and watched. Cable leaned in towards his partner.
      "Good idea bringing in 'Uhcumee in on this one. We ought to have 'Sulamee within a few days. You scare me sometimes, de Becque." The Frenchman managed a soft snort.
      "Thanks, my friend."

      Damn, Glenn thought for the umpteenth time. These guys are good! After much difficulty he and another Swordsman had finally managed to slip in behind one of the new Covenant fighters. However, as soon as he'd tried to lock on with his AIIM-22 Diamonbacks, the fighter had simply outturned the Longsword and managed to extend, accelerating at a pace that would have been borderline impossible for a pair of Longswords to copy, especially in this lead storm the point defense systems were putting up.
      "This is Swordsman Eight, does anyone read me?" He got a blast of static for his troubles. It was no good, the jamming on these fighters was so severely overpowering that he couldn't even reach his wingman, that pompous jerk Steven Olive, wherever he was. Right now he was joined up with Zoë Park, or at least he thought he was. The jamming was making it difficult to even figure out which Longsword was who.
      His threat receiver screamed at him and he reflexively corkscrewed out of the way, trying to stay with Zoë, follow the new fighter, and avoid whatever was coming at him. Odds were there was no incoming enemy fire, of course, but the damn jamming was making life extremely difficult by causing false lock warnings. Glenn gritted his teeth and punched up his throttle in an attempt to catch his ad-hoc wingman and foe but it was no use; the Covie fighter had out accelerated him and whipped around, passing him in a maneuver that Beard had never seen before, even out of a Covenant pilot.
      They were untouchable. As soon as Glenn had even come close to getting a lock with his severely limited radar, they'd break off. They were slowly but surely tearing the human battle group apart, switching targets easily and without hesitation if one became too tough to hit.
      A quick blare from the speakers in his helmet warned him of an incoming shot—too late. Plasma bolts impacted on top of his right wing, knocking the Longsword into a wild spin and activating warning lights all over his cockpit. He ordered the computer to stabilize his bird, hoping that the Covenant fighter wouldn't pursue and finish him off.
      Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the new Covie fighter flash past, hot on Zoe's six—but trailed closely by a Swordsman who had a comically drawn eraser on its nose.
      Easley was on its tail.

      Easley pulled the trigger, sending a salvo of plasma bolts at the enemy, who'd been a bit too preoccupied trying to blast Glenn and Zoë to bits and hadn't noticed the squadron leader drop in behind him. Time seemed to move in slow motion as the bolts flew right on towards their intended target—which evaded at the last second, the bolts missing the craft by a handful of meters. It broke off and extended, easily out-accelerating the Major's Longsword. So close! Easley thought. I almost had him!
      By that point, however, it didn't matter.
      The Valkyrie was up.

      Grit watched the clock anxiously, double and triple checking the new Santana Translight engines and the weapons systems. Everything was green. As soon as the timer hit zero seconds, Grit brought the engines online and felt the deep, throbbing hum reverberate throughout the Valkyrie's hull. Had he bothered projecting himself holographically in the bridge, he would have been smiling like a poker player who'd just been dealt a royal flush.
      He activated the engines and the Valkyrie simply warped out of existence inside the rock with a brilliant white flash.

      "Force Master, Slipspace rupture inside the field!"
      "Just one? Check your readings again," Daedalus ordered. Why would the humans be retreating? he wondered. The battle is flowing in their favor right now.
      A sense of unease crept over the Jiralhanae. This wasn't right. There had been no reason for the humans to be in this system at all, let alone with a sizeable force. Something they wanted to protect must be here...but what? And why only one Slipspace rupture? Why wouldn't the humans all be retreating at once?
      "Excellency, the readings are correct. I've correlated them with the sensors from Indolent Instigator and Disparate Task. I'm positive there was just one rupture—no, wait, there's another one..." the Jiralhanae trailed off.
      "Well?" Daedalus demanded. "Where is it?"
      The answer came in a nuclear fireball as the Reaper blew apart in an immense, orange explosion, sending large pieces of the harvester flying in all directions and crashing into the remaining ships in the Covenant task force.
      "What in the Prophets' name?!" Daedalus howled as the Hushed Vengeance was clipped by a piece of debris, sending him flying from his position against the consoles. Amazingly, the sensors operator had managed to hang onto his station once more.
      "More Slipspace ruptures inside the Seer's Wisdom and Divine Passion!"
      "Retreat!" Daedalus ordered as those two ships also exploded in nuclear detonations. "Jump back to Babylon now!"

      Regulus heard the Force Master's panicked order. He didn't like it, but he was a soldier and would comply with it.
      "Break off your attacks. Form back up and we'll make the jump out of system." Four clicks answered him in return. Even as the Necromancers extricated themselves from the dogfight, one image was burned in his mind: the art on the tail of the fighter that had managed to get a shot at him, a golden, jewel encrusted sword.
      Rex Tremendae, Daedalus thought. Yes, that would do as a name. Hopefully they'd get a chance to meet in the future.

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