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The Seventh Battalion by Ajax
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The Seventh Battalion: Prologue
Date: 2 January 2004, 12:46 AM
Starlight whispered across the sleek hull of the craft, dancing on top of shining purple metal. It unwrapped the shroud of darkness that had surrounded the ship, revealing it naked to the universe: a lithe Covenant starship, small, sleek, and alien, yet bristling with weaponry. It had enough firepower to kill a human destroyer, yet it seemed to blend in with the space surrounding it. It was a shark that could both awe with its beauty and terrify with its power, but for all its ferociousness it appeared serene, drifting motionless in space with only a distant hint of its sinister purpose. In fact, only a thoughtful and intelligent observer would realize that it was drifting dead and blind, for every ounce of energy it had possessed had vanished some hours before...
The elite roared with rage, its razor-sharp mandibles extended and clawing angrily into the air. Jinjin yelped and curled up in a ball on the floor, shuddering like a leaf in a hurricane. The grunt was lost in a world of darkness, for the corridor in which his squad now stood was pitch black. Every light in the ship had gone out a few seconds ago, and in sudden terror Jinjin and several other grunts had panicked and ran right into the back of the elite's legs, causing him to trip and sprawl onto the floor in a most undignified manner. The Jackals, with their powerful eyes, had seen it, and they had laughed hysterically.
The elite, 'Kantamee, had been humiliated, and he now stood before the grunts, a tower of armor and knotted muscles crisscrossed with veins that threatened to burst with anger.
"Idiot fools!" he snarled.
"Please Excellency," Lolon whimpered, "we cannot see..."
'Kantamee bellowed with disgust and kicked Lolon with all his might. His armored foot cracked right through the grunt's chest armor and sunk deep into his flesh, and poor Lolon flew backwards as if he had been hit with a grenade, smacking against the far wall with the sound of meat hitting metal. Blood and gore sprayed from his broken body, and the grunt thudded to the floor, leaving an iridescent smear on the bulkhead.
The grunt next to Jinjin, Papat, began to hyperventilate, hysterically sucking in his methane with rapid breaths. Tears streamed from his eyes and his body shook.
'Kantamee laughed at the sight of the dead grunt. "A sign of your pathetic inferiority." The Jackals sniggered. "Why, even the lowly shield-carriers possess the gift of vision without light." At this they stopped laughing and glowered at him behind his back. The elite felt giddy with power. He was once again in control, 'Kantamee thought. Time to teach the remaining methane-suckers a lesson, and with a smile he was reaching for his plasma rifle when his head exploded.
Jinjin heard a wet sound and was suddenly covered with a hot liquid. Fear gripped his heart when he recognized the smell of blood. He heard several other soft chirps, accompanied by more wet splashy noises, and then the thuds of something hitting the deck. Bodies, he thought with horror, and in that moment little Jinjin realized he was facing an enemy he couldn't see, and, blind in the darkness and energized with absolute terror, he ran away as fast as he could. But then he tripped over something and felt a sharp pain on his head, and Jinjin knew no more.
Several black figures moved swiftly away in the darkness, lightly jumping over Covenant carcasses, just as similar things happened in other parts of the ship. Skulls burst and throats were slit as more and more bodies fell to the floor. Panic began to spread throughout the ranks of the Covenant soldiers as the lights didn't come back on. COM calls to other squads weren't answered. Attempts to contact Command received static. Doors were the only things that worked, and those had been deliberately left alone. The figures were wraiths in the night, apparitions that took the shape of the fear of the Covenant soldiers. Squads dropped like flies, for the attack always took them by surprise. Bullets sped from silent guns with deadly precision, slicing through skull and spine and brain like butter. And they never missed.
The few elites and jackals that weren't killed from behind saw shadows for only an instant, and as they raised their guns to fire slugs would smash into their throats and faces. Death was always faster than their trigger fingers. The grunts were abandoned by their squads to writhe alone in blind terror.
Ralo 'Raslomee paced silently in the control room of Divine Eye. Consumed by frustration and anger, his hands shook with rage. He clenched them as hard as he could and took a deep breath.
"Cameras?" he asked.
"Offline."
"Communications?"
"Offline."
He snarled. "I will ask you again, Officer, to make sure I understand this properly. Our security cameras show static. Our communications system is gone, even though the equipment hasn't been destroyed. So we cannot contact outside help. We cannot even get in touch with our own goddamn troops."
Starship Operations Officer 'Lenomee paused. "That is correct, Excellency."
"The lights are out. And you cannot get them back on."
"Correct, Excellency."
" Our weapons systems are offline, so if a human ship attacks us we are completely defenseless, short of ramming them."
"Yes, Excellency."
"We cannot enter Slipspace because our navigation computers are offline. We can't even move, even though our engines are operational, because thanks to the lack of exterior vision we could fly into a sun."
'Lenomee gulped and swallowed. His mouth was dry. "Y-yes, Excellency."
A distant explosion reverberated throughout the ship and the thrum of the engines stopped. Another elite sitting at his console said in a small voice, "Uh, sir... our reactor just went offline."
The bridge was silent.
'Lenomee watched nervously as the golden-clad commander withdrew a plasma blade hilt and began playing with it. For several moments 'Raslomee was silent, flipping the device in the air and tossing it from hand to hand. 'Lenomee's wide eyes never left the hilt.
When the ship commander spoke again his voice was quiet and cold, edged with ice. "Now I will ask you one more thing, Officer... How would this be possible if you were doing your job?" With a deep roar, 'Raslomee dashed forward. His left hand gripped 'Lenomee by the throat. He easily lifted the elite high off the ground. The plasma sword ignited with a crackle of white-hot energy. 'Lenomee began to sob but 'Raslomee, with a snort of disgust, clenched his left hand, squeezing the elite's throat to half its former size. 'Lenomee's eyes bulged. 'Raslomee grinned, displaying a crocodile's smile of razor-sharp teeth.
Then with a sudden violence, he plunged the energy sword deep into 'Lenomee's chest. He screamed as the plasma melted through his body armor and molten metal scorched his skin, the heat of the blade heating his blood to the boiling point. The elite's ribs were sliced in half, his left lung was pierced and collapsed, and the intense heat cauterized and reopened a thousand internal wounds every second. 'Raslomee watched, eyes dancing, with a gruesome smile on his face, as blood bubbled out of 'Lenomee's mouth and his body spasmed in a seizure. Slowly the elite stopped moving and a foul reek filled the command center.
The Commander retracted the plasma sword and let go of 'Lenomee's throat. What was left of the Elite's smoking body crumpled on the ground. 'Raslomee eyed the remaining bridge officers. Then he bellowed, "Get this ship online or that would be a mercy compared to what I will do to you!"
Over three-fourths of the ship's passengers had been neutralized. There were only four remaining squads who hadn't been touched. They were still alive because they had intelligent commanders, who had perceived that intruders had invaded the ship and had organized their troops when others panicked. They were also in constant communication with each other. Using fiber-optic cable the figures learned they were all clustered near dead ends, with their backs to the wall and plasma weapons up and ready to fire. A good strategy.
But it wouldn't be enough.
One of the figures whispered a word over their COM channel and, simultaneously, four flashbangs were lobbed around corners. Save for the grunts who couldn't see them, the Covenant soldiers did the most natural thing in the world when confronted with a flying object.
They looked at it. And the flashbangs detonated.
Brilliant flashes of white light and deep thundering booms swallowed the Covenant squads. The effects were amplified by the fact that for a long while the troop had known nothing but darkness and silence. Pupils that had enlarged to take in all possible light were flooded by light hundreds of times more intense than any they had ever known. When the shadows whirled around their corners the Covenant soldiers were blind and deaf. Some writhed pathetically on the floor. Their eardrums had been shattered. The figures opened fire. And it was all over for the aliens.
'Raslomee shifted uneasily in his position at the head of the control center. Since his threat the bridge officers had gone into overdrive, desperately doing everything they could to get the systems back online before their Commander got angry again. 'Lenomee's body still smoldered at his feet, and despite the foul stench, 'Raslomee had left him there as an example. The officers had contacted several Engineers. Now they busily worked at service panels, chirping as their tentacles moved rapidly among the wires. Sparks flew as they made preparations to restart the ship's systems. The officers themselves stared at their consoles, pretending to be busy. Everything appeared to be in order.
But he knew something was wrong. The fact he was unable to contact any of the ship's soldiers reinforced the feeling. Which was why he had hit the alarm for the control center's security. A door had opened into the bridge and a dozen Spec Ops Elites had clambered out of their barracks. They were elite veteran soldiers, towers of rock-hard muscle and armor with clever minds, having fought in a hundred battles and experts with all kinds of weaponry. Four swordsmen had taken position outside the bridge's entrance, a thick blast door 'Raslomee was confident no one could force their way through. He had sent two more to check on the armored storage room adjacent to the bridge. If the Divine Eye's precious cargo was harmed in any way the prophets would have his head. The others, armed with grenades and holy rifles and pistols, had taken position inside the bridge around its perimeter.
The figures sprinted through the empty dark halls of the starship and advanced towards the control center. The four teams joined together, and as they ran and leaped over dead bodies they put away their stealth gear and unslung heavy weaponry from their backs.
In less than a minute they reached the hall that bordered on the control center and stopped. They were in a side passage several meters away from the blast door. A fiber-optic cable sneaked around the corner and pointed at the door. It stayed there for a few more seconds, then quietly withdrew.
Atin 'Jenamee stayed completely still, holding his activated plasma sword at his side. To an outsider the four black-clad elites that stood to the sides of the blast door might have looked like statues. But they were very much alive. Every muscle in 'Jenamee's body was tensed and ready to spring at anyone who approached. His blood sizzled with energy at the thought of combat. Clad in the High Armor of the Special Ops and shielded by Covenant technology, 'Jenamee was a tiger that would slash and maul anyone who came near. He had survived dozens of battles and killed a hundred humans. He willed anyone to attack him, for he was ready. His mandibles extended into what passed as a grin for the elites.
However, 'Jenamee did not see the barrels of the two sniper rifles that extended around a corner several meters away. Nor did he hear the sound of several safeties being released.
'Raslomee jumped with sudden surprise when he heard two cracks like lightning. Then there were roars and shouts. Deep booms of human grenades and shrieks of plasma grenades. By this time the bridge crew was staring at the blast door and listening to the sounds of the battle behind it. More cracks and a few booms of human weapons. Grunts and the cackle of plasma swords whistling through the air. Thuds and a howl of pain. A final crack. Silence.
The bridge was silent as the Elites strained to hear any sound from the guards outside. Nothing. 'Raslomee snarled and withdrew a second plasma sword. He activated them with a crackle, and, with a blade in each hand, he glared daggers at the door and dared anyone to come through. Every Elite in the control center readied their weapons and aimed at the door.
Unknown to the elites several vent covers in the ceiling were being lifted silently out of their frames and set aside. Fiber-optic cables protruded from the dark holes in the ceiling and slowly spun around. They retracted. A minute passed. Then a whispered word cut once more across a COM channel. Flashbangs were tossed into the control center and a second after they detonated the figures dropped to the floor. And all hell broke loose.
The eight Spec Ops elites around the outside of the control room roared in pain as their eyes were pummeled with the sudden barrage of light. The figures dropped to the floor without a sound and melted into the shadows.
The bridge crew, foolishly clustered at their stations, were the first to go. Two figures popped the pins on grenades and waited a second before throwing them at the Elites. Just as the two frags thunked against their shields they detonated. The four aliens were swallowed in fire and blood. One had hit the stomach of the Weapons Officer and tore him in two. His two halves flew away from each other, thudding on the ground with wet fleshy sounds. The other had blown off the head of the Navigations Officer. His headless torso slumped over his station, dripping gore from his neck stump. Shrapnel ripped into the flesh of the other two officers, shredding them apart. Their bodies burned long after they were dead, casting a hellish glow on the dark bridge.
The black elites began to regain their vision and snarled with rage. The figures hefted Jackhammers. Rockets whooshed from their tubes and screamed towards the aliens. Three elites blew in half when the fireballs slammed into their torsos. Another barely dodged one. The explosion blew out its shields and tossed it a few feet in the air. Then everyone opened fire. The remaining Spec Ops elites screamed battle cries and sprinted towards the figures, unleashing a hail of plasma fire. The shadows, possessed of unnatural grace, dodged, ducked, and flipped out of the way of the plasma. As the elites reached them shotguns boomed and rifles barked. No bullet went unwasted and the elites' shields flickered silver-blue before popping out of existence.
One figure hefted a long black blade and crash-tackled one of the elites, punching and slashing it. The alien moaned in agony, bones broken and tendons severed. Blood bubbled from wounds all over its body and it began to draw long, shaky breaths. Its death rattle. The figure gripped a submachine gun with its other hand and pointed it at the elite's head. The gun boomed and blood splattered onto the black figure. It turned back to the battle in time to hear the whine of a plasma grenade. A large elite held the orb in its hand, swinging back to throw it. The figure snarled, drew his knife and threw it. The blade flipped through the air and plunged deep into the alien's neck, crushing his windpipe and severing the spinal cord. The elite's eyes bulged and it dropped without a sound, paralyzed. The grenade detonated and the Elite's body vaporized.
Fire from the other figures had killed all of the elites but one. It wavered unsteadily on its feet, dripping blood from several holes in its chest. Slowly it reached at its belt to draw a plasma grenade. A sniper rifle cracked and its head exploded in a mist of fleshy bits of brain and skull.
The room was silent. Suddenly an inhuman roar bellowed from the shadows. A gold-clad elite leaped towards them, its face brutally twisted with rage. Its twin plasma blades pulsed ice-blue in the darkness. It brought its two swords together in a slashing motion and a figure dropped in two. Rolling to its feet it lunged at the nearest figure, shouting in its hoarse tongue. It sliced the figure's shotgun in half and rapidly stabbed it several times in the chest. Then the elite kicked it away and the figure slammed into the opposite wall. It turned with a leering grin, dripping with human blood, when two vapor trails lanced towards it and sniper bullets smashed into its head. Its shields barely held and it quickly ducked. It jumped in the thick of the figures so the snipers wouldn't have a shot. Leaning to the side it slashed at a figure. The tip of the blade drew a line across his body armor and the figure flipped backwards.
One figure sprinted forward. It knew the elite would kill more of his men unless he did something. It shouted "Asshole!" and its shotgun boomed. The elite staggered to the side. Its shields flickered feebly. It turned, livid with rage, and roared in his face, mandibles dripping with saliva. The figure screamed back at him and pulled the trigger once more. Its shields popped. The elite snarled and crash-tackled him. They fell to the floor, his shotgun falling beyond his reach. Its swords descended...and he grabbed its wrists. Muscles strained in his arms as he tried to stop them, but the elite was far stronger than he was. The blades came ever closer to his face. Between them the elite's twisted face leered at him, dripping with the blood of his men. The intense heat of the plasma started to burn his skin. His arms trembled and felt weak.
Fuck this, he thought, bringing up his legs, and slammed his combat boots into the elite's stomach. It lurched upward, short of breath, and the figure rolled away, springing to his feet. He drew his HE pistol and aimed. The elite dodged away. He shot and the bullet smashed into the elite's shoulder. It roared and came toward him. He held his finger on the trigger and rounds ripped into its chest and shoulders. Bones broke and blood dripped from the holes in its flesh. The gold elite ignored the wounds and screamed at him. It was immensely strong and full of blood-lust. It was like a three-hundred pound rhino, the figure realized, and jumped backwards as one of the blades sliced into his arm, cutting into his flesh.
The figure grunted and gritted his teeth. As they smashed into each other again, trading and dodging blows and slashes, he heaved for breath. Each time the blades came closer to ending his life. His movements grew slow, sluggish. He was exhausted from fighting. The Commander was in its element, veins pulsing with rage, lusting after his blood. With every blow he grew weaker and the alien grew stronger. He was going to die in less than a minute.
The elite saw this and grinned, pressing closer so he couldn't escape. The figure barely ducked a mighty slice that took off the tips of his hair. Jesus, he thought. It's time to end this. The figure summoned up all of his strength. The next time the elite's arm came around he grabbed its wrist. His other hand slammed into the elite's elbow, forcing it the wrong way. It snapped and the elite grunted with pain. Its right arm hung useless at its side.
He kicked the other hand with all his might. His steel-capped combat boot slammed into its knuckles, shattering bone. The elite groaned and the plasma sword fell to the ground, extinguishing with a hiss. He looked into the elite's eyes and smiled. His hands snaked into his belt and withdrew a knife and a frag.
Quick as lightning he popped the pin and shoved the grenade deep inside the alien's throat. His knife slammed into the bottom of the elite's jaw, the tip protruding out the top of its head, locking its mouth closed. He stared into its eyes and said, "Just die you motherfucker." Then he dropkicked the Commander. The elite flew backwards with a muffled groan and flipped over a console, landing behind it. The grenade boomed and blue blood drenched the console. The figure leaned over the edge and spit on its smoking carcass. "Bastard," he muttered.
"Aw, man, El-tee. Did you have to do that to him?" someone said.
The figure grinned.
The control room was deathly silent. The figures checked every corner.
"CLEAR!" one shouted.
"NVGs off, Delta," a figure said. The shadows removed black goggles from their eyes.
A figure stared at the ceiling. "Now how about those lights, eh, Romulus?"
There was a loud hum as the ship's systems reactivated. Lights flickered on in the control center, revealing around thirty black-suited Marines, holding guns loosely at their sides. Covenant bodies and gore littered the bridge.
The control center thrummed with power as the consoles flickered to life and the cameras turned on. Covenant bodies littered the floor on almost every screen. They saw themselves on one screen.
But one screen was very different from the others. It showed an empty room, save for one thing. A small black sphere, hovering in midair, basked in a purple glow. Shapes and symbols glowed silver in its depths. As they stared at it, it gave off a high-pitched warbling sound. A Sergeant leaned forward. "What the hell is that?"
The world blurred around him. Harsh light shone into his eyes and he groaned, covering them with his hands. He had the worst headache he had ever had in his life. Jinjin slowly sat up and his head spun. He groaned. Vomit was swelling up his throat. Oh no, he thought, and desperately tried to fight off the nausea. He lost the battle. Quickly he took a deep breath, unclasped his mask, and threw up on the deck. He wiped his mouth with his hand and put his mask back on, taking a long draw of methane.
He leaned his back against the wall and slowly looked around. What? The lights are back on...He laughed with glee and looked around for his friends. Jinjin screamed when he saw the bodies. Purple and blue blood drenched the floor. He tucked himself into a ball and began shuddering. He suddenly remembered what had happened. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he felt miserable. Why wasn't he dead? He thought the intruders had shot him in the head...
Slowly he reached up and felt the top of his head. His stubby fingers touched a giant lump and he yelped with pain. Must have tripped over someone, he thought, and hit my head. The corridor was quiet, and suddenly Jinjin felt afraid. What if the intruders come back here? He turned his radio on. Silence. Suddenly the grunt felt very alone. What if everyone is dead? He started panicking. What do I do? he thought. Run away, a voice in his head answered. Always works. Jinjin nodded to himself.
He tried to creep silently through the halls so as not to alert the intruders. Then he thought he heard a noise behind him. He screamed, and ran as fast as he could with arms waving in the air behind him. A minute later Jinjin threw himself inside a lifeboat, not noticing that it was different and larger than the others, and frantically closed the door behind him. He stared at the buttons on the display and realized the symbols were of Elite tongue. He had no idea how to make it work. Screw it, he thought, and started pressing buttons. The lights in the lifeboat flickered on and off. A tiny panel opened in the wall, revealing a chilled foodnipple and some snacks. Music starting playing. Jinjin moaned and slammed his fist on the display. The lifeboat pressurized, and undocked from the starship. Jinjin floated into the air. The display chimed and symbols appeared on the display.
Jinjin closed his eyes and pressed one. The lifeboat began gathering power, and its engines started to roar. He reached for the straps and buckled himself in nervously. He screamed as the lifeboat jumped up and roared away from the starship. Jinjin bounced around in the too big seat. A couple seconds later, a tiny hole opened in space and the lifeboat slipped through.
Little Jinjin had no way of knowing that in his panic he had chosen 'Raslomee's personal boarding craft, equipped with Slipspace capabilities. Nor did he know he had chosen the button that sent the craft directly towards a small Covenant fleet awaiting the arrival of the Divine Eye and its precious cargo. He didn't even notice the small package in the corner of the lifeboat, containing a memory chip full of copied data from the sphere in the cargo hold.
The Seventh Battalion: Chapter One
Date: 10 February 2004, 12:13 AM
(Author's Note:
Sorry for the long delay in getting this one out. High school doesn't leave much time for writing. And if you haven't read the prologue already, you'll probably want to before you read this.
The Seventh Battalion is the final version of an idea for a series I've had for a long time. The first two tries, Brothers in Arms and On a Red Horse, didn't work out and I didn't like them at all. I've worked hard on this, and I'm confident it'll fulfill what I wanted it to be. Enjoy.)
The ship had been a blackened skeleton, drifting and dead as if it had been abandoned by those who had so treasured it. Not a hint of the glory the ship had once possessed remained. Not a glimmer of power pulsed through its circuitry. Not a mote of light existed in its barren depths. Indeed, if someone had dared to break the ghostly spell of darkness that had swallowed the starship, the only things illuminated would have been mauled carcasses. A body here, a spatter of gore there.
And the horrifying drip of blood.
Tastes of fear and blind horror could be sensed in the dank, cold air that consumed hallways and rooms; scents of long dead terror, echoes of long gone screams. It had seemed like a house without its family, like a crib without a baby. Its very purpose seemed stolen away by a faceless demon who had taken its life force and sneered at its desperate cries to reclaim it. This pitiful shell of metal and darkness had drifted somewhere in space, completely silent and alone, seemingly doomed to be lost forever.
At least, it had.
It was now alive once more, humming with energy and light. Its hangars were dominated by sleek intelligence craft. Crack soldiers armed with heavy weaponry guarded hallways and rooms. Technicians accessed its systems from the control room. And an AI's fluid presence snaked throughout the veins of the Covenant starship.
The shadows that had turned the alien stronghold into a ghost ship born out of a nightmare had long since departed. Now several squadrons of Longsword fighter craft swarmed around its exterior, and, thousands of meters away, several menacing Nemean-class destroyers crowded around the craft like parents protecting their young.
But the most important treasure it had hoarded was already screaming back towards ONI Earth HQ in slipspace, onboard one of the fastest craft humanity had yet built, an ONI cruiser called Shadow Cheetah. Smart AIs were already sifting through the labyrinth depths of the sphere, wading through a sea of symbols and sounds. Slowly English words appeared on a nearby monitor.
Light suddenly seared into Michael Delhomme's eyes. His body seized with adrenaline, eyes snapped open, and he looked down the barrel of his black Beretta to see his friend Jimmy sheepishly hold his hands up.
"Nice to see you still got it, man, but I'm no Covie," he said.
Delhomme sighed and took his finger off the trigger. He put aside his gun, thumbing the safety, and let himself fall back into bed. He stared at the black ceiling of the barracks and remembered they were on the Peregrine. As Jimmy moved away from the light switch, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair.
"Jesus, Cavanaugh, I was asleep," he complained.
The tall sergeant sat on his bunk and took out his Bowie knife. Casually he started playing with it. "You mean unconscious. Everyone's already up, in the gym."
Delhomme smiled. "Don't those bastards ever rest?"
"Never heard of the word." Cavanaugh paused, the blade twirling arcs in the air. "Denton's still pissed you got more kills then he did. In his old units the eltee was his bitch."
"That shows he's new here. If we carved notches in our guns we wouldn't have anything left to shoot with." Delhomme jumped out of bed, heading toward the shower, feeling the cold metal floor chill his feet. "See you in ten," he said.
Several minutes later he stepped into the corridor and made for the gym. Lieutenant Michael Delhomme was lean and muscular, with black spiky hair. He had a narrow face, dark brown eyes, and stubble on his chin because he hadn't been able to find his razor.
The lieutenant wore a black t-shirt, cargo pants, and boots. The shirt was inscribed with the Delta Force insignia: the snarling face of a wolf, looming above two crossed swords. Around the border read "Delta Force, UNSC - Semper Fidelis". Michael cracked his knuckles, flexing his hands. The door he was looking for hissed open, and he stepped through into the gym of their cruiser, the Red Peregrine.
The gym was large and sleek. Lines of chrome machines of every kind waited patiently for someone to use them. Large posters covered the black walls. The Delta Force insignia, the flag of the UNSC, and posters of the Earth were all there.
Around forty men and women occupied the room at present. None looked quite the same, having come from dozens of different worlds, but they all had something in common. Eyes that had seen countless deaths. Hands that had killed. Even their movements were smooth and graceful. They radiated confidence and power and an unspoken message that they could kick anyone's ass and weren't afraid to. After all, only the best soldiers in the galaxy made it into the crack special forces unit called Delta Force.
Delhomme saw the members of Charlie Team and walked over to his men. Eddie "Doc" Cash saw him first and stepped forward, grinning. "Well, what do you know," he said. "I thought you'd never get up."
Michael stretched. "I sent so many aliens to hell last night it took it out of me. Not that you'd know anything about that."
Doc laughed. "Oh I would. It's just easier for me."
"You know you're right, cleaning up my mess must be pretty easy," Delhomme cracked, ducking a punch from Cash.
The Corporal led him over to the others. "Look what I found," he said.
Jason Vinateri grinned. "That was a sweet op last night, sir."
As they all started reliving the takedown of the ship, laughing and arguing amongst themselves, Delhomme studied the members of his squad with a proud smile.
Gunnery Sgt. Jimmy "Hoot" Cavanaugh, currently wearing a pair of Oakley's and puffing calmly on a pipe, had been his best friend since high school and was a crack sniper and pilot. He could shoot a fly off a wall without scraping the paint. Hoot could drive anything with wheels and some without them. He was also a genius mechanic. The lithe, brown-haired sergeant had joined the Corps with Delhomme and they'd gone up the ranks together.
Master Sgt. "Zee" Reheboth was black, six foot three, and easily weighed over two hundred pounds, all of it muscle. He was deadly in close combat and could kill an Elite with his bare hands. He was especially deadly with a knife. For all his size he was agile and could run as fast as most of the men on his team. He'd been a member of the crack African unit called the Reccondos before he'd been invited to join Delta Force.
Staff Sgt. Andrew "Red" Denton was as professional as they came. Aggressive as hell, the tall black sergeant, expert with heavy weaponry and armor certified, had been a Helljumper for several years before joining Delta. He'd jumped on dozens of worlds and killed hundreds of Covenant. Red was a great warrior. Delhomme had heard stories. One was that Red had single-handedly held off wave after wave of Covenant soldiers for more than an hour until evac arrived, defending the wounded members of his team after their Pelican had crashed behind enemy lines. His call-sign came from the blood-red tattoo of a black widow on the back of his neck.
Staff Sgt. Kate "Fox" Malenfont was standing talking with Lara and Angelina. Michael had known Kate his entire life. They had played as kids together, grown up in the same neighborhood, gone to the same high school. They were great friends, but in the share-a-pizza-and-beer kind of way. They had both joined the UNSC and had raced each other to the top. Michael admired her beautiful face, glistening lips, and great breasts. She caught him looking and smiled, showing her perfect white teeth. She winked at him and turned back to her friends. Five feet nine with smooth olive skin, great legs, shiny dark brown hair, and light blue eyes, Fox was everything her call-sign implied and more. She was the second of Charlie's snipers, easily the best he had ever seen. An expert with martial arts, she could also hold her own in hand to hand fighting.
The other two female soldiers in his squad were also deadly and gorgeous. Corporal Angelina "Siren" Biggs was their scout. She had threaded her blond hair and let it fall to her shoulders. She wore a small tight white t-shirt that showed off her tanned abs and her large breasts. Angelina had 10/20 vision and could hear a twig crack a hundred feet away. The blond-haired beauty favored throwing knives and a silenced battle rifle as her tools.
Corporal Lara "Dynamite" McKnight had pale skin, a great figure, bright orange hair, and emerald-green eyes. Dynamite was their demolitions specialist and had all kinds of goodies in her knapsack: mines, blocks of C-12, isotopic charges, and every kind of grenade. She always had a scoped battle rifle in her hands and a Jackhammer slung across her back.
Corporal Noriyuki "Komodo" Haga was a veritable ninja. The lithe Japanese soldier stood calmly watching the arguments. He wore a silver chain around his neck, silver-rimmed sunglasses, and had black hair. He had been a hitman for the Triads early in life. After he joined the military he had done a few years in the Black Dragons before getting the call from Delta Force. He owned the shadows. Enemies would never see him unless he wanted them to. Komodo carried a long titanium blade for stealth kills and twin chrome silenced M12 Beretta carbines in holsters on his legs.
Corporal Jason "Santa Cruz" Vinateri was something of a legend in combat. The Italian boasted twin Widowmaker submachine guns, which he had spent dozens of hours fine tuning. The guns were heavily customized: amped up delivery power, extended clips, bore thermal-capable scopes, and had chrome bodies with a black skull on each side. He called them his Cruz Juniors. Santa Cruz laughed at cover and could always be seen sprinting towards the enemy with two roaring submachine guns in his hands. For some reason he had never been wounded in combat, but no one knew whether it was his skill or the fact that someone up high liked him. He was extremely athletic and was without a doubt the fastest member of Charlie Team.
Corporal Eddie "Doc" Cash wore a black bandana and was laughing at a joke. He was a crack shot with a battle rifle but was good with all kinds of weaponry. He was Charlie Team's medic. Doc had a gift, Delhomme thought to himself. More than once he had saved a dying soldier's life when others thought he was a dead man. Doc was brave and selfless and was liked by everyone.
As for himself, Michael "Scarecrow" Delhomme used a battle rifle equipped with a grenade launcher. He always kept a Desert Eagle and Beretta with him, too. Delhomme was the most highly decorated soldier in Delta Force. He was incredibly brave, always the one to lead charges or volunteer for a suicide mission. His skill in combat was legendary mainly because he tried things no one else would try and did things other people saw as impossible. He was damn lucky, and he hoped that luck would never run out. The lieutenant was a capable leader: a smart tactician who cared about his men.
As the ONI stealth craft Shadow Cheetah screamed through Slipspace and the probing tendrils of smart AIs filled the depths of the Forerunner sphere, Admiral Durant tapped his fingers on the table in front of him, staring at the Forerunner artifact as silver symbols swam in its murky waters. He had been staring at it for almost an hour as the AIs slowly deciphered its message. He sipped on a cup of coffee, deep in thought.
The Delta Force takedown of the Covenant ship had been flawless, he thought. They were to be commended. Two men had died, and for that Durant was sorry, but what they had gained far exceeded what had been lost. They now possessed the Forerunner artifact that the starship had apparently found and had been about to take back to the Covenant. A probe had recorded its presence and beamed a message to Command. The Admiral had deployed troops to board and take the ship, even though he suspected it would jump long before they reached it. But thankfully it hadn't entered Slipspace, and there had been enough time for the D boys to get aboard in captured Covenant boarding craft.
Their smart AI, Romulus, had accessed its systems and shut down the power, letting Delta go to work. After they had cleared the starship a fleet of ONI craft and several destroyers jumped in system. ONI had recognized the sphere's importance and sent it on their fastest ship back to Earth, to be decoded enroute. Time was of the essence, for Delta reported a single escape pod had detached from the ship and jumped before they could stop it. If the sphere held the location of some Forerunner technology, and whoever was aboard that damn escape pod knew where it was, Durant didn't want to think about what would happen if a Covenant fleet caught them with their pants down retrieving it.
But then again, for all he knew the sphere was a Forerunner version of a damn CD. Now that would be embarrassing, Durant thought, and sipped some more coffee. Suddenly the computer the AIs were channeling the data to beeped, and the shimmering holographic forms around the sphere stepped away, satisfied looks on their faces. One glanced at the Admiral.
"It is done," the AI said, in a breezy voice.
The fingers of the technician at the computer danced on the keyboard, the tapping loud in the suddenly silent room. The printer whirred, and a sheet of paper slowly appeared. The technician grabbed it and handed it to Durant.
Durant took it and held it up to read in his right hand, fingers trembling ever so slightly. When he was halfway through his eyes widened and the coffee cup fell from his hand, shattering on the floor.
Lieutenant Delhomme was in the middle of a bench press when the intercom clicked. The voice of their CO, Captain Perino, issued from the speakers.
"I need Lieutenants Cavaco, Riemer, Delhomme, and Riley with me on the bridge. Now."
The intercom clicked off. Delhomme looked up to see Cavanaugh, his spotter, glance at him. Jimmy frowned. "What the fuck d'you think that means?
Delhomme got up and walked quickly over to the exit. The leaders of Alpha, Bravo, and Echo teams met him there. The door hissed closed behind them.
Less than a minute later they stepped out onto the bridge. The Captain saw them and strode over with a worried look on his face.
"What's happening, sir?" Lieutenant "Romeo" Cavaco asked.
"Admiral Durant just contacted us. He wants us to get our asses back to the Sol System ASAP."
"What's the deal?"
Wordlessly the Captain handed Cavaco a sheet of paper. Delhomme and the others crowded around him and starting reading. It read:
United Nations Space Command Emergency Priority Message 08935
Encryption Code: Red
From: UNSC/Shadow Cheetah
To: UNSC/Red Peregrine
Subject: Immediate Withdrawal to Martian Shipyards
Classification: RESTRICTED (BGX Directive)
Immediate relocation to Sol System required. Red Peregrine to dock at Martian Shipyards for re-supply of weaponry and anything else needed. Delta Force must be prepared to immediately carry out instructions that will be sent to you upon arrival.
As I write this things are already being put into motion. An elite strike force is being created, composed of the best soldiers we can find and the best technology humanity has to offer. The Peregrine will be part of this fleet, codenamed the Seventh Battalion. On it ride all the hopes and dreams of our time.
Data contained in Forerunner artifact may be the only thing that will pull our asses out of the fire.
/end file/
Darkness swallowed him. He sat curled up in a ball, shivering more from fear than from the cold. Tears streamed down Jinjin's cheeks as he remembered the deaths of his squad, as he relived the terror. What's happening? He thought. They had found him curled up on the floor of the escape pod, snoring soundly, the floor cluttered with empty foodnipples. They had taken him here. Only he didn't know where here was. In his fear he relived the terror that had seized him when he realized he was going to die, the horror of the hot blood that had drenched him. Jinjin squeezed himself into a smaller ball and willed the nightmare to end.
A light flickered on, illuminating the sniffling grunt shivering on the ground. Jinjin squealed and looked about himself. Darkness. Then he heard a voice, hard and cold.
"And what does the creature have to say for himself?
Another voice. "Do not speak so harshly. This little one brought us what was needed."
"And the loss of one of our finest ships. The deaths of some of our best soldiers."
"Expendable. The loss of the officer is regrettable, but one cannot be picky in war."
"The data?"
"I have seen it."
"And?"
"It holds everything we had hoped for and more."
Jinjin timidly raised his hand.
"Speak, soldier," the nice voice said.
"A-are you gonna kill me?" Jinjin squeaked, his voice quivering.
"Kill you?" the voice said softly. "I think not. Let it not be said that the Council rewards service with death."
"The Council?"
A dim light appeared, illuminating the silhouettes of several creatures. Several long-necked, stately figures sat serenely on gravity thrones. Their ornate headresses twinkled with a faint glow. On either end the light glinted off statues of shining armor and dull muscle near nine feet tall. The guardians grasped weapons of holy fire. Jinjin squinted, but he could only see their outlines.
The voice continued. "You will be promoted to the rank of High Warrior and will wear the shadow armor, for total selflessness and courage in servitude to the Gods. As for us..." the light shone on a devilish grin, "we go to war and the extinction of mankind."
The Seventh Battalion: Chapter Two
Date: 8 July 2004, 1:23 AM
The four shining craft unleashed a storm of wind on the weathered landing pad. The Martian dust spun away in tendrils of swirling red, blowing the stone-gray metal clean, and howled into the face of a tall Marine casually leaning against the back of a Troop Warthog. He winced, thankful for his Oakley's, and pulled a cap low over his forehead. He studied lettering painted in faded white over the dark green steel, and waited for Pelicans Echo 316, Bravo 929, Charlie 215, and Alpha 503 to touch down. With a deep bass roar the ships slowly lowered themselves to the ground like swollen cows about to give birth. Landing struts extended with a shrill mechanical whine, and they settled on the landing pad. Air hissed as the backs of the Pelicans opened, and dozens of figures leaped out.
With a satisfied sigh the red winds gusted back into place and left a fine layer of dust on the once-gleaming paint. One Pelican's occupants ran towards him. Sunlight glinted off matte black assault rifles and shotguns and shone on silver handguns and polished steel. He straightened and uncrossed his arms, licking the inside of his suddenly dry mouth. The ten Marines wore dark black ninja suits and carried enough firepower to supply a small army. Emblazoned on their shoulder armor was the silver outline of a howling wolf, perched above crossed swords. Sleek black helmets and visors covered their faces. He swallowed. "You guys Charlie Team?" he yelled over the howling wind.
"All day," one said.
The Marine nodded. "She's your ride then. Get on and we'll get the hell out of this."
He turned around, grabbed a cross-beam and effortlessly swung himself into the driver's seat. The one who had spoken, probably the leader, rode shotgun, and the hog rocked as the rest piled in the back. With a throaty rumble the vehicle came to life. The Marine gunned it, accelerating and shifting until they were racing along the wind-slashed road in fifth gear, the Warthog purring contentedly. Three other Warthogs roared along behind him.
The black-suited leader turned to the Marine. "Thanks for the ride. What's your name?" he yelled over the wind.
"Corporal Ryan Bauer, sir."
"Lieutenant Commander Michael Delhomme. Nice to meet you." The leader paused. "Not that I'm complaining, but wouldn't it make more sense to have us land at the base?"
Ryan laughed. "They tried that already sir. Lost two Pelicans against the cliffs. Wind's a bitch here."
The soldier nodded. "You can say that again."
"This? Hell, this is fuckin' apples compared to the storm we'll be getting in a few hours." Bauer nodded to the horizon, where lighting seethed in a roiling black soup of thunderclouds.
"Jesus," Delhomme breathed.
The lanky Corporal decided to ask. "You know what the hell's going on sir?"
"I was hoping you'd tell me. Practically all Admiral Durant told us was to get our asses to Mars ASAP. Something big's going down."
Bauer laughed again. "Ain't that the understatement of the century. Lieutenant, in the past few days I've seen the whole goddamn 105th jump in system, more Helljumpers than you can shake a stick at. African Reccondos, Army Rangers, Russian Stormtroopers, French Paratroopers, the SAS, Marine Recon Units, Japanese Black Dragons, and now you guys. Every Special Forces Unit you've ever heard of and their grandmas are all here."
Delhomme could think of no reply.
"An' on top of that, you've got some of the best ships in the fleet getting fitted out in the shipyards. Ammo, supplies, vehicles, you name it. Like they're leaving, and soon."
The lieutenant was silent.
Bauer shook his head and drove. The sun began to dip below the horizon. The Corporal flicked on the headlights, whose bright beams lanced like knives through the darkening dust clouds. Stone cliffs loomed out of the sky in front of them.
At the cliff bottom, a brightly-lit garage waited. Just before they entered the base, Ryan cleared his throat. The lieutenant turned to face him, the setting sun dancing in his visor like fire.
"Like I said, sir, I don't know what's happening. But I'm pretty good at figuring things out, and I can tell you this." The Corporal's tone became dead serious. "What happens next could turn the tide of this war."
Delhomme hopped out of the Warthog, and said goodbye to the Corporal. He joined his men and the three other teams as they strode casually out of the garage, dodging mechanics and several dust-covered Warthogs, and into a hall crammed with Navy personnel. The warm, dusty air billowed in with them, mixing with the frigid, metallic-tasting stuff produced by the base's A/C. Like the others, he took off his helmet and breathed deeply. "You know where we're supposed to go?" he said to no one in particular.
Jimmy "Hoot" Cavanaugh laughed softly as they dodged pilots and mechanics. "I thought you were the guy in charge here."
"And they still didn't tell me."
Eddie "Doc" Cash shook his head. "Inconsiderate bastards. We get a night's leave, don't we? I'd give my right leg for a cold beer right now."
Jason "Santa Cruz" Vinateri laughed. "Don't count on it Eddie. Why should they give us a rest? You know how it works. These asswipes don't remember how to have fun."
A short, muscular man wearing an ODST uniform made his way to them through the crowd. "You guys Delta Force?" he asked in a deep baritone.
Michael nodded.
The man smiled and extended his hand, and they shook. Strong grip. "Major Pearson. About time you boys showed up. Party's ready to start."
"Mind telling us what's going on?" Angelina Biggs asked.
"That's not my job, though I'll be going with you. This is Admiral Durant's show, and I wouldn't want to steal his thunder. At 1900 hours you'll be debriefed in the auditorium, after which you'll get a night off. 0600 hours tomorrow, we're a memory. Enjoy the break. It'll be the last one you'll have for a long time."
"Spooky," Kate muttered.
Major Pearson grinned and started to say something. He never got the chance. Speakers on the ceiling crackled with a loud burst of static. "Attention, all military personnel," a female AI droned. "The debriefing has been cancelled."
"Sweet!" Santa Cruz whooped.
"Due to the impending storm, everyone must leave now."
"Fuck," he muttered.
"Recent analysis of the storm's movements indicates it will reach the base in approximately 56 minutes. At that time any ship in the air will be lost, and nothing will be able to lift off for more than 72 hours. Speed is of the essence in this operation, and such a delay could mean failure. Report to your assigned hangar immediately. You will be debriefed in Slipspace."
The speakers hissed and were silent.
Pearson paused, and turned to them.
"Don't say it," pleaded Cavanaugh.
"You heard the lady. Let's go."
First Lieutenant Jonathan "Hawk" Riemer, Echo Leader, frowned. "With respect sir, why did we even come down here in the first place?"
Pearson scowled. "I'm not sure I like your tone, son."
Hawk ignored him. "Seriously, though, who's running this army?"
"Not me, so don't get your panties in a bunch."
Staff Sergeant Andrew "Red" Denton crossed his massive arms. "What hangar are we supposed to go to, anyway?"
Major Pearson took out a small handheld, glanced at it, then put it away. "G5."
"How far?"
Pearson glared at him. "About three minutes."
Red smiled. "I'd say that leaves enough time to grab a couple, wouldn't you?"
They crowded into the large room. Helmets and weapons were left in boxes by the door. The bar was mostly sleek black metal, with oak tables and a wall covered with bottles. Soft jazz played from a stereo in the corner. Bright lamps shone over every table, and a single window revealed the thrashing red winds outside. The burly bartender set the glass he had been polishing down and, with a bemused grin, snatched the wads of cash everyone waved at him and served a round.
Michael grabbed a frosted mug and plopped down into a booth. Jimmy slid next to him. The lean lieutenant took off his dust-covered jacket. His black hair, which always stuck out in every direction, was covered with red dirt, and he shook his head like he was at a rock concert. He heard a giggle, and looked up to see Kate and Angelina sitting down across from them.
"Trying out for a band, Scarecrow?" Kate asked with a grin. He laughed and shook his head. The two women shrugged off their jackets and brushed themselves off. Delhomme watched, his body thanking him for sitting down. His throat was dry, his ninja suit covered with red dust. The frosted mug felt like heaven in his palm.
Angelina grabbed her mug. "A toast. To Andrew, for telling that hardass where to shove it."
They whooped, clanked the glasses together, and drank. The bitter liquid surged down his throat like fire and warmed his stomach. Michael grinned. Now that was good stuff. Jimmy gurgled enthusiastically and slammed a half empty jug on the table, burping with a satisfied air and a frothy mustache. Angelina raised her eyebrows, leaned across the table, and wiped it away with her finger. She sucked on it, and smacked her lips appreciatively. "Not bad. Not too bad at all."
Jimmy looked weak and swallowed. Delhomme bit his tongue to keep from laughing. He caught Kate's eyes and they grinned at each other.
The cute blond continued. "And I'm German. I know beer. They must have imported this stuff straight from Earth, in chilled storage. But whatever."
Michael looked at his friends. Corporal Angelina "Siren" Biggs was the ice-blue-eyed scout of the team. The tips of her white-blonde threaded hair caressed her bare shoulders, exposed by a white tank top. She'd kicked major ass on the Divine Eye, getting five kills with her throwing knives and two elites with her silenced battle rifle. Staff Sergeant Kate "Fox" Malenfont sat directly across from him. She'd netted six kills with her sniper rifle and two stealth kills with a combat knife. Her dark brown hair fell to her shoulders - normal military regulations hardly applied to their unit. Light blue eyes danced with intelligence. High cheek bones, pale lips, olive skin. Damn, she was gorgeous. They were both gorgeous.
Jimmy "Hoot" Cavanaugh held one of the most coveted ranks in the military: Gunnery Sergeant, as high as you could go while remaining an enlisted man. The tall, lanky sergeant had been his best friend since he was a teenager. He was one hell of a sniper but an even better pilot. Frustrated without a Warthog or Longsword, he'd taken his anger out on nine bad guys. The surrounding walls and floor would have to be washed off with a hose.
They talked more about the op. The room got noisier and rowdier as the alcohol started taking effect. Jimmy got up to get them another round. When he came back, they relived the op, laughing in certain parts, somber in others. The conversation lingered on the sphere for a few minutes - none of them had the least idea what it could be. Admiral Durant had been annoyingly vague in his message, and the bastard still wasn't telling what was up. Yes, they agreed, it was unfair. Those ONI spooks probably had him by the balls, Kate thought. Angelina shook her head, saying she didn't think he had balls. Delhomme laughed until his chest hurt, and took another sip of his beer.
He almost spilled it when he felt a foot caress his leg. He coughed to cover it up and gingerly leaned back. Whichever one of the girls was doing it had taken off their shoe under the table and was now stroking his calf. Angelina was leaning over the table, talking to Jimmy alone now. It had to be Kate. He stole a glance at her. She was casually leaning back, arms crossed, watching Angelina talk to Jimmy. She glanced at him and smiled. They locked eyes. The foot moved north, now rubbing the inside of his thigh.
Damn, he thought, and clenched his beer so tightly he thought he'd break the glass. Her eyes danced with mischief. The foot went crazy. The mug trembled.
"Scarecrow?" Angelina said. His eyes snapped up. "You ok?"
"Fine," he said as casually as he could. Where'd she learn how to do it like that? He wondered for a second.
She smiled. "Me and Jimmy are gonna walk around for a while. You guys'll be ok by yourselves?"
Fine, he thought. Just absolutely fine. "Yeah," he said.
"Don't get into any trouble now," Angelina said with a grin.
Kate smiled. "Right back at you, Angie."
They left, dodging Lieutenant Will "Romeo" Riley, perched precariously on top of a table as he led his men in a loud chorus of raunchy beer songs.
Kate leaned forward. "So what do you think all this is about, anyway?" she said innocently, with a trace of an English accent. The foot was still there.
"I don't have the slightest clue. I keep seeing that sphere in my mind, and I just don't know." He paused. "The marine that drove us in said this place is crawling with Special Ops. Every unit you've ever heard of."
"Crap," she said. "Bloody ODSTs."
"You don't like them?"
"Oh, they're great guys, overlooking the fact that they're arrogant, cocky assholes who think that because they're stupid enough to get in an HEV and plummet several thousand feet into a combat zone, their shit don't stink."
Michael grinned. "You know, I was in the 105th for a couple years before Delta Force called me."
"Really? Where's your tattoo?"
"On my right arm."
She leaned forward, and pulled up the sleeve of his T-shirt, revealing the traditional Helljumper symbol. Above was stenciled, Feet First Into Hell. Her slender fingers stayed on his bare skin longer than necessary. She traced the letters with her hand, then stroked his bicep. He flexed, his heart skipping a beat.
"Do you remember when we were kids, Scarecrow?"
He smiled. "How could I forget?" When they were thirteen they met in the basement of an abandoned house nearly every night after dark. The make out sessions had been violent and passionate. Kissing had been the ultimate, and they practiced it diligently.
She grinned. "My mouth was sore for hours."
She leaned forward, her breasts resting on the table. Her slender, beautiful face was inches away from his. His heart thumped like a drum. Locks of dark brown hair hung and brushed the table. Her mouth became a frown, and her eyes probed his like searchlights. "What happened, Michael? We were so happy. All the girls were jealous of me. Then, after your brother-"
He jumped suddenly. "I don't wanna hear it, Kate."
She went on. "You left, and I didn't see you for years. When I did, things were... different. Are... are you seeing anyone?"
"No," he said firmly. "No one."
They were both silent for a moment. He went on. "I had a girl once, though. She was great."
She stared at him. "If she was so great, why'd you leave her?"
Major Pearson shouted over the clamor, "All right boys, that's all the time I can give you. We have to leave, right now."
The room slowly emptied, some soldiers complaining but most sated. Overall they held their liquor pretty well, and the group staggered more or less in the direction of Hangar G5.
She didn't move.
Delhomme thought of a thousand responses and rejected them all. Finally she slowly shook her head and slid out of the seat, shrugging on her jacket. He stared at the oak table for a second as she walked away. He mentally kicked himself, drained his mug, and followed.
The silver blastdoor hissed open, and the calm of the base was drowned out by a bone-shaking rumble, as a massive DBC-19 transport ship lifted off the ground. Landing struts whined as they retracted. Its thrusters glowed ice-blue as they kicked in, and the silver craft screamed out of the hangar and into the wailing duststorm. The last rays of the sun illuminated miles of crimson sand dunes and rocks in a faint orange glow. The terraforming project had made the Martian atmosphere breathable, but the endless expanse of rocks and sand remained.
Only four dust-covered Pelicans remained out of the dozens of ships that had, minutes ago, decorated the titanium floor. The squat major ran through the roaring winds, his silver-black hair buffeted by pounding dust, and forty D-Boys sprinted behind him, assault rifles slung over their shoulders. Delhomme and his men clambered up the ramp into the nearest bird. Their fingers danced over the complicated safety harnesses as the pilot, Lance Corporal A.J. Armstrong, ran through the pre-flight check. Straps buckled tightly shut as the pilot turned around and yelled, "'Bout time you guys showed up! If we don't get out of here in five minutes we'll get to know what a fly feels like in a hurricane!"
He laughed as the cockpit door and the ramp slid shut with a hiss. The Pelican vibrated with a throaty roar as it floated several feet off the hangar floor. The engine thrummed hungrily, begging to be unleashed. Armstrong punched it. The bird leapt forward like a snarling beast and flew out of the hangar. Slashing winds slammed into his ship, rocking it back and forth as it left the base behind in the growing darkness.
It was then that Armstrong saw the storm.
"Holy Christ," he breathed.
Less than a kilometer away was a wall of seething, blood-red storm clouds thousands of feet high. Lightning lanced and cracked within their depths as they raced forward to swallow the ship, the wall's face twisting to form something like a grinning skull.
"Motherfucker..." he yelled, his mouth as dry as sandpaper.
Santa Cruz clenched his harness in a vice grip. Glancing around the cabin, he saw everybody, the El-Tee included, calmly sitting back, their eyes closed. His fucking harness was too big, so his ass was being pounded into a pulp by the bouncing metal seat. Great fucking luck. Out of ten fucking seats, I pick the broken one. The Pelican gave a particularly loud lurch and the Corporal crossed himself. Looking up, he saw Lara "Dynamite" McKnight grinning at him. She shook her brilliant-orange hair.
"'Fraid of flying, Italian stallion?"
Armstrong aimed the Pelican straight up, trying to hold the shaking craft steady with a white-knuckled grip on the stick. His trembling thumb found the nitro switch on the top of the stick. Three words were stenciled around a glowing red button. He muttered to himself as he flicked off the plastic covering with his thumb. "You wanna play it soft, we'll play it soft. You wanna play it hard..." The white lettering glowed. It read Go-Baby-Go. "Let's play hard," he said with a grim smile, and pressed the button. High-octane fluid gushed into the engine. With a ear-splitting scream the Pelican leapt forward like it had been kicked in the ass by God. The G-force pressed him back into the seat.
The radio crackled. "What the fuck are you doing up there?" someone yelled. Sounded Italian.
"All right, all right, keep your pants on," he muttered. His viewscreen darkened as wisps of the storm clouds reached out, grabbing at him. It was going to be close. The Pelican shuddered all down its length, trembling furiously. "Come on, baby, hold together." To port he could just make out the other three craft, fighting the winds as they screamed upward. Then cloud completely swallowed them. The lights flickered and the Pelican shook so violently he feared it'd be torn apart. "We'll clear it! Ten more seconds!" he yelled over the COM.
"How the fuck do ya know that?"
"'Cause any longer and we're fucked!" he yelled back, licking his dry lips.
"What the fuck?" the Italian yelled. "What was this guy before pilot, a fucking comedian?"
Armstrong flicked off the COM, clenched the stick so hard his fingers turned numb, and prayed.
Calm ruled above the topmost storm clouds. Their red expanse stretched out for miles. Lightning and thunder clashed distantly, but here was silence. Then a dull thrum rudely broke the peace. It sounded like the hum of machinery. It grew louder and louder until with a triumphant roar, four small craft leapt out of the hell below and climbed into the open sky.
The darkness of the room faded away, replaced by a silver-blue glow. "Admiral?" a silk-smooth voice ventured.
He stared out the viewscreen. Mars hung in space serenely below his ship, the giant celestial body resting on a bed of black velvet, studded with diamonds. A steady procession of gleaming transport craft - carrying troops, vehicles, ammo, and supplies - screamed away from its surface, rocketing towards the waiting fleet docked at the shipyards. The blanket of red clouds cloaking the surface swirled and twisted, with gathering menace.
"Admiral?" the AI said again, this time with more force.
Durant turned and gazed at the hologram. Its body cooled to a deep navy, the scrawling lines of code shards of electric pink. "It is time," she said.
He nodded. "I'll address them soon, Clotho." He paused. "I don't know whether to be euphoric that we're saving the human race or depressed that we're sending our best men to their deaths."
Clotho's eyes flickered bright green and narrowed with concern. "Sir?"
He exhaled loudly, and suddenly felt his age. He was so tired. Tired, deep in his bones. "We're dealing with forces we cannot begin to comprehend. Like a child discovering his father's gun in the closet. This is a desperate, all or nothing gamble. If we fail, the deaths of dozens of billions of people are on our shoulders. Hell, if we fail, humanity is gone."
He clasped his hands behind his back and slowly shook his head. "It should never have come to this. They beat us at every turn, outsmarted us in space, overpowered us on the ground. Are we really so weak as to be brought to our knees this quickly?"
The AI was silent.
"The fact that they've broken our will is like a knife in my gut that keeps on twisting and burrowing deeper. I've seen it in my men's eyes time and time again. Despair. We've lost hope, Clotho. And if we're going to survive, we need to reclaim it. We need a victory. A big one. One that shows that we can defeat stronger and more advanced enemies by sheer will. By the fire in our hearts."
Durant felt a quiet resolve settling deep within him. "This mission is that victory."
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