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Waking the Dead÷Prologue
Date: 18 April 2005, 2:09 PM

Waking the Dead—Prologue

Harsh winds battered Gus and Georgina's, easily drowning the tavern's music in the howl. An hour earlier snow had begun to fall, transforming the windstorm into a blizzard. But that was normal in a town nestled this close to the Arctic Circle, and Gina's patrons barely noticed.

Gus could not help but smile as he watched someone feeding coins into the new jukebox, paying for a song that they would not be able to hear. Glancing down the bar he saw his wife taking in the same scene. After the grief he had given her for purchasing the blasted thing, Gus knew he was in for it.

Walking up beside him, Gina nudged his arm. "Told ya," she said smiling. "After a few drinks—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Gus said, grabbing a glass and wiping it down. "Heck, if they get drunk enough they'll probably think they really do hear music."

Gina balanced a tray on one hand as she loaded several beers on it with the other. "Yup, I told you so. Bet it pays for itself in less than a year." As she headed out into the bar, she turned and mouthed I told you so one last time.

Suddenly feeling the icy wind on his face, Gus looked towards the entrance and saw one of the doors flung open, letting snow drift into the bar. The likely culprit, now shivering on the stool in front of him, looked around in near panic, as if he expected to be jumped.

What an idiot. "Hey, you stupid son of—" Gus bit his tongue as his eyes and brain caught up with his mouth. Unbelievably, the man wore no coat. What he did wear was an ice covered uniform with a gold comet symbol visible on the shoulder patch—meaning he had nearly picked a fight with an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. Gus had talked tough with one of these guys before, and whenever someone asked why his nose was crooked he got to tell the story. He was about to apologize when a huge fist grabbed his shirt and pulled him across the counter.

Here it comes. To his amazement Gus found himself staring into very, very frightened eyes.

"Help me, please." The man glanced around the room in horror. "I need a ship, oh God, I need something." It was only then that Gus realized that the man was not shivering from the cold, but rather, from fear—and that gave him reason to fear.

The ODST loosened his grip, and Gus settled back behind the bar. "Sorry, but we haven't got a ship. Are you," he said as inoffensively as possible, "a deserter?"

Slamming his fist down on the counter so fast that Gus jumped backward, the soldier stood to his feet and yelled. "I have to get out of here and I don't have time for your stupid questions!" Calming slightly, he sat back down. "I saw something, my God, I saw something horrible." Again, his eyes darted around the room. "I have to get out, I have to tell someone. But I know . . . I know who they sent after me. I shouldn't have stopped here, I should have kept going . . . "

Gus was intrigued. "Who are you afraid of?" Slowly, the man leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

"Simjanes."

Gus shook his head in disgust and managed a tired chuckle. If the man had not been an ODST, he would have swung a bottle at him. "Simjanes? You're running from a legend, my friend." He filled a shot glass with whiskey and pushed it towards him. "Here, this will get rid of Simjanes, the Abominable Snowman, Bigfoot and whoever else is—"

Suddenly Gus stopped talking and looked towards the door. He could have swore that somebody had been standing there, just outside—somebody huge. But now he saw only snow.

Noticing the look on the bartender's face, the ODST whipped his head around. "What? What did you see?"

Gus grabbed the shot glass and downed the whiskey as if it were mere water. "Nothing, I guess. Looks like you got me spooked too." Without taking his eyes off of the doorway, he filled the glass again. "You don't actually believe that Simjanes is real do—"

The lights flickered and died, plunging the tavern into darkness. Screams of slaughter erupted all around, drowning even the voice of the wind. Dropping on all fours, Gus crammed himself into a small cupboard behind the bar. Footsteps clamored up next to where he hid, stopping outside the thin wooden door.

"Gus!"

Eyes clamped shut and shaking with horror, Gus barely stifled a whimper as Gina screamed his name. A second later her body thumped to the ground mere centimeters away. Tears swelled in his eyes, but he did not dare move. Long moments passed, filled only by the howling wind.

Finally building up enough courage, Gus pulled the small door open and climbed out. Standing to his feet in the darkness, he began moving slowly towards the exit, but before he had taken two steps a massive hand clamped around his neck and lifted him off of the ground. A voice spoke and it was colder than the arctic wind.

"What did he tell you, Gus?"

The frightened bartender could barely breathe. "N-nothing." Massive fingers began to close around his neck.

"Nobody talks that long and says nothing, Gus. Did he go anywhere else before he came here?"

"I don't know, h-he didn't say."

"Hmmm." Slow and unstoppable, the huge fist squeezed tighter and tighter. Flailing in panic, Gus grabbed at the hand that held him, but it was useless. He tried to speak, to beg, to scream, but all air was now cut off. Then, just before he blacked out, the hand opened, dumping him to the floor. Gus gulped breaths with desperation, even as he tried in vain to locate his adam's apple.

"Please believe me! He didn't tell me anything!" Gus waited in terror for a response, but heard only the storm raging outside. Suddenly the lights blinked on, hurting his eyes. Squinting, he scanned the bar, finding mangled bodies but nothing else. Almost beyond hope whatever-it-was had left.

Gus did not notice what was sitting under a body in the middle of the tavern. No matter. Not being a military man he would not have known what it was, and having only a few more seconds to live he would not have time to learn. He would never have seen it coming anyway. After all, who would expect Bigfoot or the Abominable Snowman to be hauling around a Lotus anti-tank mine?

C.T. Clown

Waking the Dead (part one): Juggling Snakes
Date: 22 May 2005, 11:35 AM

Waking the Dead (part one): Juggling Snakes

Dr. Halsey tried her best to communicate the danger, but he mistook her passion for paranoia and she was quickly running out of angles. "Well, whatever you think of those studies, Dennis, we would be fools to do nothing."

"Catherine, I don't know what to say. Am I talking to a scientist or witchdoctor?"

"Please, that is hardly—"

"Fair?" Dr. Dennis Farina took a deep breath and tried to conjure a reasonable voice. "What would be fair, Dr. Halsey? For me to pretend that this 'mystical bond' of yours is scientific? You want me to confirm your fear in something that has as much basis in fact as the bogeyman? Either you are losing your edge or you are truly desperate for more funding." Dennis braced for her reply, but only cold silence filled the phone. Nearly a minute passed before Dr. Halsey's thin, weary voice answered.

"Can you stop being a bureaucrat long enough to listen? We've been friends for over thirty years. I think I've earned a little humoring. Keep it off the record if it makes you feel safer."

"It does."

"Fine." Coward. "Now assuming that these studies are valid, what should we do?"

"If bonds of various strengths really do connect parents to children, I am not sure what you can do. Pray, I guess."

"Now you're being unscientific!" Halsey said with more humor than anger. His reply surprised her.

"No, I'm not. These studies make it clear that this 'bond' cannot be measured or altered. You've already put—how many children through this program?"

"I'm not at liberty to—"

"Fine, but you see my point. I would say that you were closing the barn door after the horses escaped, but in this case you would never know—unless something went wrong. So if you can come up with something more useful than prayer, I'm all ears."

Catherine was silent for a moment as she digested Dennis' words. "My God, you're right. This could destroy the SPARTAN program, and we wouldn't even know until it was too late. My God, what if . . . "

"What if what?"

Dr. Halsey sighed deeply and then voiced her greatest fear. "What if we have already messed with the wrong family? What if we have already turned such a child into a Spartan?"

"Calm down, Catherine. Take my word for it; such a person does not exist."

The grenade rolled to a stop in front of the two steel doors, precisely where the huge Spartan had intended. Backing up several steps he pressed his armored bulk tight against the side of the building. Chuckles knew that he was still too close to avoid injury, but he didn't care: these filthy rebels had already killed one of his men and they were going to pay dearly. Quickly palming his eighteen-inch combat knife, he crouched and counted.

Dressed in black and heavily armed, ten rebels waited inside. Things had been quiet for the past ten minutes, and some believed that it might be over. Palatov, however, was not so na•ve. In the ten years that he had fought the UNSC, he had never seen them give up or even retreat. Light flashed and the ground shook as an explosion blew the doors from their hinges and into the building, narrowly missing the rebels inside.

Suddenly something came in, moving among them cloaked in smoke and dust. Dull thumps and muffled shrieks filled the room, moving nearer and nearer. Confused and disoriented Palatov whipped his rifle this way, then that, but dared not fire blindly into the cloud. Without warning a huge hand snatched his weapon away and slammed him violently to the concrete floor. The largest boot he had ever seen came down on his chest, pinning him to the ground.

"Where is Palatov?" The voice was cold as death, but the rebel leader was no coward.

"I am Palatov." For a moment Chuckles' anger subsided. It was not often that he saw courage among rebel troops.

"Vladimir Palatov?"

"Yes."

The big Spartan grunted. "I am here to deliver a message from a former friend of yours, Colonel James Ackerson." The rebel felt a tinge of hope. He and the Colonel had once been close. Perhaps Ackerson would want to meet with him.

"Yes, what is it?"

"He wanted you to know," Chuckles said as he grabbed his shotgun and chambered a round, "how sorry he was that he couldn't do this personally." Leveling the barrel at Palatov's head the Spartan pulled the trigger and splattered his surprised expression all over the room.

Staring down at the headless body Chuckles tried in vain to think of the mission as a success. But he had lost a man—more than a man, a Spartan—and no living rebel was worth that high a price. Rage filled his bulky frame, and more than anything else he wanted to fight, to kill, to use his anger against an enemy. But there were no one left to fight. Not here anyway. Time to regroup.

"MiNeS, I am at the main building and all targets are neutralized. I repeat, all targets are down. Report." The young Spartan's voice crackled in Chuckles' helmet, but his words made no sense.

"What did you say?" Seemingly in reply a Pelican roared to life a few hundred yards to the north, quickly gained altitude and disappeared behind the clouds. MiNeS' friend or foe tag blinked twice before vanishing from Chuckles' HUD.

Colonel Ackerson stared at the report on his desk as if he were studying a ransom note. Major Samuel Cousins Jr. sat a few feet to his left, his presence leaving no doubt in Chuckles' mind that something was very wrong. Once the Colonel finished reading he lifted unfriendly eyes to the huge man sitting on the other side of the desk.

"You lost two men—two Spartans—on a single op?"

Chuckles' eyes narrowed. "No, sir. I lost one man. The other got lost on his own."

"But he was your responsibility!"

"Sir, I am not a baby-sitter. If you expect me to hold hands with the men on each assignment, then it would be best to leave them behind. I can't fight and play mommy at the same time."

Before becoming an ONI spook, the Colonel had spent several years as a leader in Spec Ops. As much as he hated to admit it, Chuckles was right. Again, he glanced down at the report.

"Xraf was dropped by a sniper?"

"Yes sir."

"How did it happen?"

"How did it—" Chuckles fought to keep his temper in check. "It happened because we were attacking the enemy on his own ground in broad daylight. Have you ever been to Pandora City on Epsilon Indi Four, sir?"

"No."

"Then perhaps you're the one who supplied our intel, because whoever-it-was apparently hasn't been there either. And, may I ask, why in God's name were we sent there in the first place?"

"Palatov."

"Palatov?" Chuckles shook is head in disgust. "You sent us eleven light-years away to fight a rebel who commands less than a thousand men?"

"Soldier, I will not waste my breath defending my orders to a subordinate. I do not submit them for your approval, and frankly, I don't care if you like them or not!"

Chuckles only glared.

"Sir," Sam said, eager to get the meeting back on track, "We need to talk about MiNeS."

Ackerson took a deep breath and then nodded. "Soldier, what can you tell us about the young Spartan's disappearance?"

"Sir, not much. He spoke a word into the COM, and then apparently left in a Pelican."

"What did he say?"

"Cutlass."

Ackerson nearly fell out of his chair and the Major looked as if he had just seen a ghost. The two of them exchanged alarmed looks, and then just as quickly tried to mask their concern. Chuckles had never seen the Colonel scared before and now his own interest was piqued. When Ackerson finally spoke his voice was overly friendly.

"Soldier, may I ask why this detail was left out of your report?"

Chuckles shrugged. "It didn't seem important."

"Are you sure that was all he said?"

The big Spartan nodded.

Leaning back in his chair, the Colonel shook his head and sighed. "Very well. Would you please step outside for a moment?"

Please? "Yes sir."

Once Chuckles had left the room, Sam turned towards the Colonel, his face no longer hiding his alarm. "I don't believe it. How could he have found out?"

"I don't know, and at this point it no longer matters. There is only one reason he would have taken off after learning his name."

The blood drained from Sam's face. "Do you think he knows?"

"No, I don't think he has anything but a name and we need to keep it that way." Ackerson shook his head and stared at his desktop. "We should have killed him the day he arrived." Sam nodded his agreement. Although executing MiNeS would have caused him a few sleepless nights, the possible alternative—which was now threatening to become a reality—was much, much worse.

Ackerson punched a button on his phone. "Send the Spartan back in." As Chuckles entered the room he could almost taste the fear. The Colonel took a deep breath and looked straight into the big Spartan's eyes; something that few other people could do.

"Unfortunately, MiNeS has become a liability to this facility. As long as he is still alive all that we hope to accomplish here will be in danger."

"Oh?" Chuckles said, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "And just what are we doing here? If I don't know after five years in this deep freeze there's no way that kid knows anything."

"He knows his last name," Sam said calmly, "and that is enough." Chuckles shook his head and laughed. None of this made any sense. As far as he knew every Spartan knew his last name—save himself. Maybe MiNeS had been orphaned too. Why did these guys care?

Guessing Chuckles' thoughts, Ackerson spoke. "For reasons that I cannot reveal it was vital that MiNeS never have any connection back to his family. Upon entering the SPARTAN program ONI wiped all memory of his last name away using selective neural paralysis. It was for his own good, but apparently it was not enough." The Colonel dropped his gaze to the desk for a moment and then looked up at Chuckles again. "I am sending you to find and eliminate MiNeS."

The big Spartan's eyes turned cold as the arctic air, and for a long moment he said nothing. When Chuckles finally spoke his voice sent a chill down Sam's spine. "No. I think the UNSC has taken enough from the Spartans without taking their lives as well." Leaning forward and staring at the Colonel with unrestrained menace he added, "Do you know how easy it would be to kill you?" Sam immediately reached for his sidearm, but Ackerson waved him off.

"Yes I do, soldier. And if I ever jeopardize our fight against the enemy, I hope that somebody does kill me. But there's something else that you had better get through your genetically thickened head: if you ever threaten me again I will have you shot! Is that clear?"

Unmoved, Chuckles spoke matter-of-factly. "Sir, I did not threaten you. Threats are worthless. If I wanted you dead I'd do it without the monologue." Ackerson smiled. As much as he hated to admit it, he loved Chuckles' style. Had the Colonel owned a twisted greeting card company he would have made a fortune off of the quotes.

Time to close the deal. "You leave me no choice but to send Simjanes. I'm sure MiNeS will appreciate your sentiments. If you like, I'll have Sim give him your regards just before he tortures the young Spartan for information."

For a moment, Chuckles was too shocked to speak. He had heard rumors that Simjanes worked for Ackerson, but had never believed it. He had been certain that Sim was dead—but one look in the Colonel's eyes told him that this was no lie. Somehow he had to talk Ackerson out of this madness.

"What makes you think he could even find MiNeS? When ONI sent Simjanes after Lexicus all he ever got was wounded." But even as Chuckles said the words, he knew that they were empty. Although MiNeS was full of potential, he was no Lexicus. Relentless and utterly without emotion or pity, Simjanes would eventually flush him out—and the young Spartan would die screaming.

"Two weeks ago," Sam said with sincere disgust, "an ODST decided to leave without authorization and Simjanes was sent after him. In less than twelve hours he tracked the soldier to a small village and slaughtered him, along with every man woman and child that the ODST could have possibly come in contact with. In this case nearly one hundred people were killed. MiNeS has lost himself in one of our most densely populated systems." Sam leaned forward, his face etched with concern. "If we send Simjanes he will kill everyone that young Spartan goes near without a moments hesitation."

"We estimate," Ackerson said picking up his data pad, "a minimum of three thousand collateral deaths if Simjanes is sent. That is minimum. I am sure that you already know that it makes no difference to him—he'll kill as many as it takes."

Somebody else might have thought the Colonel was bluffing, but Chuckles knew better. For Simjanes killing was as natural as breathing—and he did both with equal emotion. No, he could not abandon MiNeS to that monster. The Spartan sighed with resignation. "Fine, I'll go."

Ackerson smiled. That was easier than I thought.

"I'm taking Caleb with me."

"Caleb?" Sam said. "We were thinking Rhinox or Turpertrator."

"I'm going to need somebody who knows how MiNeS thinks; Caleb was his closest friend."

Ackerson nodded. "Very well. Now get moving, soldier."

The big Spartan stood to his feet, turned and walked out of the room. The moment the door closed, Sam looked at the Colonel with scolding eyes.

"You should have been straight with him, James."

Ackerson smiled weakly. "Don't worry Sam, I know what I'm doing."

"That's what bothers me." The Major's eyes went wide with concern. "You do know what you're doing—yet you still do it. Be careful who you toy with, sir. If you juggle rattlesnakes long enough you'll eventually catch one by it's fangs."

C.T. Clown

Waking the Dead (part two): Shattered Image
Date: 5 June 2005, 10:08 AM

Waking the Dead (part two): Shattered Image

Bruised, bloody and misshapen by a smashed skull, the sad image of death haunted MiNeS like a badgering ghost. After all, the mutilated face had been his and life now seemed as alien as the Covenant. Would he ever hope or smile again? MiNeS had no answer—but he finally had purpose, and that purpose would consume him like fire. Remembering where it had begun he managed a sad, humorless chuckle. How fitting that he would find heaven, hell, judgment and purgatory in the same place—and that place would be named Pandora City.

"What the—" MiNeS heard the broken curse crackle in his helmet as they arrived at the edge of the trees. Shaking his head in disgust, Chuckles glared at the open ground between them and the city wall. "Gotta hand it to those intel guys, they were only off by about a decimal point." Although the map on his HUD showed the tree line coming within forty meters of the wall, he was staring at a distance of at least ten times that. With Epsilon Indi shining bright overhead the three Spartans were already somewhat vulnerable to snipers, but this—this was ridiculous.

"Well," Xraf said unslinging the sniper-rifle from his back and staring at several buildings behind the wall, "this won't be boring."

Chuckles grunted. "I don't mind boring." He thought for a moment, and then grabbed his own rifle and handed it to MiNeS. "Okay, I'm crossing first. They're not likely to score with the first shot, so don't give them a second one." With that, Chuckles took off with blurring speed towards the city. MiNeS and Xraf scanned the buildings, but everything remained quiet. Within a few seconds the big Spartan crouched safely against the wall.

"Xraf, you're next."

"Roger that. Okay kid, time to show off your legendary aim." The young Spartan laughed but never took his eyes off the buildings. Xraf had voluntarily mentored MiNeS since the day they met. The younger had come to see the older as a second father—and he was not about to let this one be taken away.

"You got it."

Xraf burst from the tree line, a gray blur in a sea of deep green. Suddenly MiNeS saw muzzle-flash from a window behind the wall and although he did not lower his scope to check, the silence of his COM was reassuring. In an instant the young Spartan sighted on the shooter's head, squeezed and felt the rifle buck slightly in his powerful arms. With a confident, smooth motion he brought the rifle back on target—and saw a second flash.

"Xraf!" Chuckles' voice exploded in MiNeS helmet, it's tone telling the young Spartan that he had just been orphaned—again. Such horror would have rendered a normal man combat ineffective. But MiNeS was not a normal man. The young Spartan's heart rate began to slow as his breathing became calm and fluid. Taking into account distance and wind speed, MiNeS eased his sights on the target with near supernatural focus. As he gently squeezed the trigger the rifle might as well have been frozen in stone. Finally the weapon kicked slightly and the 14.5mm high velocity round shot out of the barrel in a blossom of flame; impacting the target and removing the rebel's right shoulder from his body. Perfect.

Writhe in pain you dog—I'll see you soon.

"Okay," Chuckles said, his voice a mix of anger and emotion, "Your turn, kid."

"Roger that. The sniper is down. I'll check Xraf's status on the way over."

"Negative! You will get to this wall as fast as you can without going near Xraf!"

"What?" MiNeS replied, nearly busting Chuckles' eardrum. "I won't just leave him!"

"You will do as you are told, soldier! Stop wasting time and—"

"But the sniper is down!"

Chuckles had had enough. "I guess Palatov would never dream of having more than one sniper, would he kid?"

"But Xraf—"

"Xraf is dead! Now get yourself over here! And God help me, if you even go near that body I'll shoot you myself! Move!"

MiNeS emerged from the trees and shot across the field, veering away from his mentor's corpse. Arriving at the wall a moment later he turned to the older Spartan in anger. "I can't believe that you—" Chuckles grabbed MiNeS by both shoulders and threw him against the wall. Then bringing his head so close that their visors clicked together, he spoke in a voice that made the young Spartan's mouth go dry.

"You can't believe that I what? That I brought somebody as green as you with me on this mission? Huh? Xraf is gone and now I'm stuck with a drooling infant who doesn't even know how to follow orders—that's what I can't believe." Finally letting go of MiNeS' shoulders he softened his tone. "Soldiers die kid, so get used to it. There's no place for grief out here; it will only get somebody else killed. Are we clear?"

MiNeS nodded.

A map of the city appeared on each of their HUDs. Pandora consisted of only a few dozen buildings, none taller than seven stories. "Assuming that our intel is correct," Chuckles said as two squares on the map were highlighted, "the rebels are based in these two buildings. Palatov supposedly controls a thousand men, but I'd be surprised if we encountered more than twenty. ONI's man inside says that he comes to Pandora twice a year to plan, bringing only a few leaders and a small security force." The Spartan took a deep breath. "We do not know which building Palatov is in, so we'll have to attack them simultaneously to keep him from skipping out. That means you'll be alone on this one."

"I'll take the nearest building," MiNeS said, choosing to ignore Chuckles' apparent lack of confidence. "That's where the sniper is." The older Spartan nodded his agreement, turned and headed towards an opening in the wall. But MiNeS did not follow—he had waited long enough already.

After backing up several steps, the young Spartan ran, leapt into the air and somersaulted over the wall. Landing on his feet he shot across the small road and smashed into the building's entrance with the force of a truck, knocking the thick steel doors off of their hinges. Eight rebels were waiting in the room with weapons drawn, but having never seen a Spartan they froze, if only for a moment—and a moment was all it took. Full of rage and moving so fast that he seemed no more than a blur, MiNeS jumped into the middle of the group swinging his shotgun like a baseball bat, killing rebels with each lethal stroke. Desperate shots rang out, but the blur—first here, then there—paid them no mind. At last a single cowering rebel remained, looking up at the Spartan as if staring at the Grim Reaper. In a single violent motion, MiNeS grabbed the man by his neck and lifted him up until they were face to visor.

"Tell me," Death said through clenched teeth, "how many rebels are upstairs?"

"N-n-none." Without warning a huge gauntleted fist crashed into the soldier's face, splitting his nose wide open. Death spoke again.

"How many?"

"O-only a sniper!" the rebel cried. "A w-wounded sniper—honest!" Death nodded slowly, lowered the rebel to the ground and, finally using his shotgun as intended, tore a hole through his chest with an eight-gauge slug.

"Thanks."

The narrow building had seven floors connected only by stairs. MiNeS thumbed a shell into his shotgun and began to climb. Finally reaching the top he saw a man lying on the floor moaning in pain—minus a right shoulder.

Gotcha.

MiNeS slowly removed his MJOLNIR helmet, revealing eyes set afire with hatred. No longer needing to control his anger the Spartan yanked the rebel violently from the ground and pinned him against the wall by his neck. Without a word he smashed his armored fist into the soldier's head, cracking his skull. Surprisingly, the rebel did not scream but looked up at the Spartan, eyes wide with surprise. He spoke in a thin, weak voice.

"MiNeS?"

"How do you—" and it was only then that he saw it. Looking at the soldier before him he might as well be looking into a mirror—except that this mirror was horribly cracked. He dropped the rebel to the ground and backed away in horror. A friendly smile spread across the dying man's face and he spoke again.

"MiNeS . . . brother. Dad. Find d-dad." The Spartan backed away further, head shaking and his lips moving soundlessly. Finally reaching the far wall, he stood motionless and watched as the rebel pulled several pictures from his pocket, held them at arms length—and died.

A few minutes later MiNeS sat by a Pelican behind the building, flipping slowly through the pictures. Children playing in a yard, a small family on a boat, the same family at Christmas; normal pictures. But what did the young Spartan know about normal? At last he came to a photo of two five or six year-old twin boys in the lap of an older man—and MiNeS suddenly forgot how to breathe. Emotion swept over him and for the first time in his adult life tears began to fill his eyes. Years ago he had forgotten his father's face, but now he held it in his hands—hands that had killed his twin brother just minutes before; hands that had slain his father's son.

The final photo was his brother's identification card. MiNeS' mouth dropped open as he read the name. Ian Cutlass. He finally had a last name; MiNeS finally had an identity.

Chuckles' voice suddenly crackled in his helmet. "MiNeS, I am at the main building and all targets are neutralized. I repeat, all targets are down." Staring down at the ID card, the young Spartan spoke out loud without knowing it.

"Cutlass, it's Cutlass."

"What did you say?" Chuckles' voice was impatient, but MiNeS Cutlass did not care, nor did he reply.

Looking at the Pelican in front of him he knew what he had to do. Without hesitating, he jumped into the drop ship and roared into the sky. MiNeS would find his father and then make ONI pay for what they had done—and especially for what they had caused him to do. What MiNeS could not yet know or even guess was that these two goals were more than connected; they were one and the same.

C.T. Clown

Waking the Dead (part three): Everybody Screams
Date: 27 June 2005, 7:17 am

Waking the Dead (part three): Everybody Screams

The human brain tends to forget pain almost completely, thus Simjanes could remember little of the fight and almost none of the end. Since he had not passed out, agony beyond what he thought possible for a living man had transported him to another place; where teeth clenched until they shattered and eyes rolled backward to flee reality. Upon removing Simjanes' MJOLNIR helmet even Lexicus had winced at his expression—an expression that no man expects to see this side of Hell. Whether Simjanes was left alive as an act of pity or cruelty no one can say—that is, no one except Lexicus.

Renowned for his work during the Bishkek Rebellion, Lexicus had made up one half of the most successful Special Forces team in the history of combat—the Clowns. He and Chuckles had almost single-handedly brought the rebel forces to their knees and staved off the possibility of global civil war—but nobody rushed to pat them on back afterwards. Although ONI had not only approved but also helped invent the Clown's methods during the conflict, they had no intention of being associated with their deeds. Killing strange aliens on distant planets, no matter how brutally, was not only accepted but applauded. Slaughtering the familiar—humans who looked like us, who spoke words we knew and whose blood ran red—could not be celebrated publicly without losing face, regardless of the cause.

In the end, they decided to remove the Clowns from the SPARTAN program permanently, which led to another problem: what would be done with the two rogue Spartans? To its relief, ONI quickly found a willing sponsor within their own agency—a sponsor known for keeping a tight lid on incendiary facts: Colonel James Ackerson.

For years the Colonel had been developing a program to rival and hopefully replace the Spartan II's. A great lover of irony, he thought it only fitting that some of Halsey's own freaks would help him achieve his goal. And although Ackerson hated to admit it, there was something about the Clowns that he liked—something that he could identify with. Whether it was their willingness to set aside the rules or their ruthless efficiency, they had proven to be an uneasy yet productive part of his program.

And then, twenty-six months before MiNeS' sudden departure, Lexicus vanished. When Chuckles refused to pursue his friend, ONI ordered Simjanes to find and kill the legendary Spartan. After hunting Lexicus for over three months he finally found him.

Carbide ceramic ossification is a procedure administered to all Spartans during augmentation that makes their bones nearly unbreakable—and for a very good reason. MJOLNIR armor exerts so much pressure on the body during movement that even a single fracture would result in gross disfigurement and unimaginable pain. According to official ONI records no living Spartan has ever suffered such an injury. But unlike most things made "official" by the clandestine agency, this was very nearly the truth.

You see, it had only happened once.

If Caleb had not known better he would have thought Chuckles was a mute. For the past four days he had tried to start a conversation with the older Spartan, only to be blocked with one-word answers and blank expressions. Surprisingly, Chuckles had not even gone over a mission plan with him. After being selected Caleb had hoped to hear stories about the Bishkek rebellion and training on Reach with Spartan 117. But now he would have settled for talking about anything.

Neither of them wore their MJOLNIR armor and Chuckles' appearance had taken some getting used to. A mop of bright red-orange hair sat above a badly scarred face, giving him an almost clownish look. Since they had been ordered to work without their armor in populated areas, Caleb had his worries. It took all of his courage to speak his mind.

Here goes. "So, where are we going to start?"

Chuckles looked over as if he'd been woken from a dream. "Epsilon Indi two, the planet Pella. MiNeS was born there."

Caleb nodded. "Are we headed for a city?"

"Yeah, Sikyon, the largest city on the planet."

"Okay, so . . . " How do I say it? "Are you, ummm, gonna wear a hat, or what?" To his relief Chuckles smiled.

"Yeah," he said laughing softly, "I'll wear a hat." Still smiling, Chuckles turned and looked the young Spartan straight in the eye. "It took you four days to work up the courage to say that?" He wagged his head back and forth. "We gotta toughen you up, kid. Anything else you were afraid to ask?"

"Yeah, a few things." Caleb said, relieved to have finally broken the ice.

"Shoot."

"How do I address you? Do I call you sir?"

"No, Chuck or Chuckles is fine. I don't want you accidentally calling me sir in public. What else?"

"Is that why they called you the Clowns?" Caleb said, gesturing politely towards Chuckles' hair and face."

The big Spartan shook his head. "No, it was the rebels who first called us Clowns and even if we hadn't been wearing armor nobody who laid eyes on us was left alive." Chuckles looked up as if staring at something in the past and then smiled. "What happened was that Lex and I decided to leave a symbol at the scene of our ambushes so that the rebels would know the attacks were related. Sort of a calling card that we could carve into trees and scratch on their wrecked vehicles. We decided on the Grim Reaper," he said chuckling, "but we were such lousy artists that the rebels didn't know what our symbol meant. Eventually some moron convinced them that it was a drawing of a clown and they called us that until the end of the war." Chuckles pulled up his sleeve, leaned towards Caleb and pointed at a blood-red tattoo just below his shoulder. "It looked like this, except not quite as neat. Look like a clown to you?"

"No," Caleb said shaking his head and grinning, "but it doesn't look like the Grim Reaper either. Looks like a guy with three legs hailing a cab or something."

"Three legs?" Chuckles twisted his head for a better look at his tattoo. "No, that's not a leg, it's a scythe."

"Why would a clown have a scythe?"

"A clown wouldn't have a scythe, but the Grim Reaper would." Chuckles yanked his sleeve back down and glared. "Next question."

Caleb suddenly turned serious. "What are we going to do when we find MiNeS?"

"We'll worry about that when we find him," Chuckles said, trying to shrug it off. But Caleb had not been picked for the SPARTAN program because he was a fool.

"We're being sent to kill him, right?"

Chuckles knew that lying would be useless. "Yeah kid, we are."

"And you picked me to help you?" Caleb shook his head in disbelief. "Tell me, why would I kill my best friend?"

"Because," Chuckles stated flatly, "you are a soldier and you follow orders."

"Like you did when you were ordered to go after Lexicus?"

Before Caleb could react a huge hand clamped around his neck, yanked him from his chair and slammed him painfully to the ground. Chuckles brought his face so close to Caleb's that their noses almost touched and spoke with contempt. "You have no idea what you are talking about kid, so keep your ignorant mouth shut! Do you think that not calling me sir makes you my equal? Do you?" Caleb shook his head. "You know," Chuckles said as he let go of the young man's neck and stood to his feet, "I can tell that you two were close: MiNeS didn't know how to follow orders either."

To Caleb's surprise, Chuckles leaned over and helped him to his feet. "Go get your gear ready," he said in a much softer voice. "We'll be there soon." The older Spartan watched in sadness as Caleb left the bridge. He did not enjoy being so hard on the kid, but Chuckles knew that he had to establish his authority early—something he had failed to do with MiNeS. Although he couldn't show it, he understood the young man's pain all too well. Like Caleb, Chuckles had gotten too close to someone, and in the SPARTAN program that can lead only to loss. Better to keep your distance and maintain your sanity, because friendships were just one more thing for ONI to take away—and God knows they had already taken enough.

A day after leaving Chuckles in Pandora City, MiNeS had returned to scavenge clothing and money. To his shame, he discovered that only his brother's pants and shirts were big enough to fit him. As he stripped off Ian's boots to go along with the civilian clothes he had found in his gear, MiNeS wondered if he could possibly sink any lower. The answer came a few minutes later when he found a framed picture in a pocket inside Ian's duffle bag. It was a photo of his brother sitting with his arm around a beautiful young lady. A little girl sat in Ian's lap, and a little boy in the woman's and they were all smiling. Oh my God. In his tortured mind MiNeS thought he could see the young woman's face change from joy to grief—from hopeful youth to bereaved widow; sad and wise beyond her years. You are his wife. The sad face in the picture lifted suddenly and looked straight at MiNeS, eyes wide with hate.

"You mean his widow!"

The young Spartan jumped back in terror and the framed picture crashed to the floor by his feet. Bending over and lifting it gingerly, as if the photo itself were alive, he looked at it again. To his relief, it was once more a young, smiling family. But the smiles seemed now to be a cruel mockery, as they served only to show him how much he had ruined. He was still trying to shake the image from his mind two hours later as he loaded the Pelican and left Epsilon Indi Four, never to return.

MiNeS knew that he was now a fugitive from the UNSC, but that did not worry him. Colonel Ackerson, on the other hand, gave him great concern. MiNeS had heard stories—awful, nightmarish stories—about others who had fled the arctic base, and even though the tales had come to him as little more than rumors, he believed them. Equal parts ONI spook and Spec Ops soldiers, Ackerson was too paranoid to leave any loose ends untied and skilled enough to tie them. Sooner or later he would send someone, and if MiNeS knew Ackerson, it would be sooner. If he was going to locate his father without a soldier dogging his every move —most likely a Spartan soldier—he would have to act fast.

But after a week and a half of searching, MiNeS had found nothing but dead-ends.

Although his brother's identification card had PELLA written on it in large gold letters, it failed to list a city or town. And, as MiNeS soon found out, the Hall of Records on the Earth-sized world was useless. If anybody named Cutlass had been born in the Epsilon Indi System since it's colonization sixty years previous, they escaped all official notice. When MiNeS finally discovered the city's name he nearly swore. As it turned out, five minutes of historical research would have saved him ten days of searching. Frustrated and desperate for information, the young Spartan had decided to start asking complete strangers if they had ever heard of his family. He could still see the comical look on the old man's face, the first person he stopped in the street.

"Shoot son," the stranger said chuckling, "it don't matter what your name was! Up until fifteen years ago Sikyon was the only city on this whole planet. If you were born here, it figures you were born there." The old man's laughter bothered MiNeS even more than his own costly mistake. To the young Spartan, laughing belonged on audio recordings in a museum—a forgotten custom of a buried past.

Feeling comfortable was hard—almost as hard as looking comfortable. For Caleb, whose civilian life had ended at the tender age of six, walking around in public without a uniform was a brand-new experience. Strangest of all, he wasn't even carrying a gun. As they headed south on the crowded road into the city, however, they were still attracting unwanted attention.

Chuckles shot an exasperated look at the young Spartan. "For crying out loud," he whispered tersely, "will you please stop marching and just walk?"

"Sorry."

A moment later the road dropped away and began its long, winding descent into the valley-city of Sikyon. It was unlike any other place they had ever seen. Spread out over the valley floor, the city had a population of over one million people—and yet, not one of its thousands of buildings stood taller than three stories. A second look revealed something even stranger: an almost total lack of metal or concrete. The entire city was seemingly constructed of wood, with only its paved streets reminding visitors that they were still in civilization.

"Wow," Caleb said, without pulling his gaze from the valley, "that's incredible. I don't even see any vehicles."

Chuckles nodded. "Me neither. Reminds me of the villages in Afghanistan."

"Really," the young Spartan said, eager to hear more about the Clowns. "They must have been easy to attack. Heck, a single grenade could—" The words died in Caleb's throat as Chuckles turned to him, his face a strange mix of disappointment and anger.

"We were there to fight against an armed rebellion kid, not helpless villagers." Turning his gaze once more to the wooden city, the older Spartan spoke with sadness. "I'd hoped you people had figured that out by now."

From a hill on the other side of the valley a soldier steadied his binoculars with a single hand as he spoke into his COM. "Sir, they have just entered the city."

"Very good, Sergeant. You are not to let them out of your sight, is that understood?"

The soldier chuckled. "That won't be a problem, sir. The bigger one has a head of hair that you could follow in the dark."

"Hair? Red hair?"

"Yes sir, sort of reddish orange. How did you know?" On the other side of the COM, rebel Commander Jon Burrows stared silently at the floor. "Sir?"

"Never mind that, just keep an eye on them Sergeant. And one more thing: I'd be extremely careful about following that redhead anywhere—especially the dark."

From a distance Sikyon seemed backward and primitive—but that was only an illusion. Although made almost entirely of wood, each building bore the marks of skilled craftsmanship. Descending into the city towards MiNeS' old home, the two Spartans were so taken in by Sikyon's strange beauty that they barely spoke. Finally locating the house, they walked up and knocked.

Caleb glanced over at Chuckles. "I thought you were going to wear a hat."

"Oh yeah," the big Spartan said smiling, "I must've forgot."

An elderly lady with badly dyed brown hair answered the door, stared at Chuckles for a moment and then began to laugh. "Nice wig, son. You two with the circus?"

"No ma'am," Chuckles said as serious as a police officer, "we're just trying locate a missing person, someone named Cutlass."

The blood drained from the woman's terrified face and she nearly fainted. She spoke as if bargaining for her life. "Please believe me, I don't know anything, honest." Eyes wide, she shook her head back and forth in panic. "I haven't said or seen anything, and anyone who says I have is lying, honest. Please, oh please—"

Chuckles raised his hand for silence. "What is your name, ma'am?"

"N-nora."

"Okay, Nora, I need you to calm down. We are not trying to get you into any trouble." Burying her head in her wrinkled hands, Nora began to cry.

In the most gentle voice he could muster, Caleb said, "Is your husband home? Maybe we could talk to him." The crying stopped immediately—replaced with a look of abject horror.

"Please, please! I've been good, I swear!"

Chuckles tried to hide his confusion. "Nora, where is your husband?"

"Why are you doing this again? I'll do anything, oh God knows, I already have!"

"Where is he, Nora?"

Face blank and terrified, she finally answered in a thin, beaten voice. "You never told me where you buried him." The two Spartans stood on her porch, silent and rigid as statues. Although the conversation had been strange from the beginning, it was now nothing short of spooky. Before either of them could think of something to say, the door shut in their faces.

Caleb shook his head slowly as they walked away. "Do you have any idea—"

"No, I don't."

"Did you notice her fingers?"

Chuckles nodded. "Yeah, they've each been broken in several places." He took a deep breath. "That old woman has been tortured."

Sleep did not come easy to Nora that night and when she finally managed to doze off, the bad dreams began. Screams echoed off of the walls as torture was relived again and again. Bones cracked loudly like sticks and pain became a living, breathing monster—she could almost see its face. On and on, the dreams broke on her fragile mind like acid waves, causing her to scream as she had back then, when she lived in hell. But nobody came to her house to see what was wrong. No, on this street everyone had nightmares; everyone fought the monster; everybody screamed.

Nora's eyes darted this way and that under her eyelids as yet another horrible dream began to unfold. In it someone or something was trying to get into her house to kill her. Laying in her bed, she could hear it breaking through the door, but when she tried to escape she realized that her arms and legs were tied to the bedposts. To her horror, Nora heard front door being ripped from its hinges, and then a moment later heavy footsteps echoing off of the floor downstairs. Slowly, cruelly, the thing climbed the steps toward her room; closer, closer.

Fueled by adrenaline, Nora pulled furiously at her bonds as the steps drew nearer. When she heard it slowly crossing the hallway towards her room, panic seized her traumatized brain. The knob gave a metallic click as it turned and the door opened. A towering figure stood in her doorway like a malevolent shadow, backlit by the hallway light. Then it spoke in a voice as cold as space.

"Nora, I've come for those fingers again."

Waking with a jolt, Nora's eyes darted around the room. Light from the hallway passed through the open door and illuminated the wall above her head. What a horrible dream. Closing her eyes she went to roll over—and only then realized that her arms and legs were tied tightly to the bedposts. A massive shadow stepped into her doorway.

"You had some visitors today, Nora. What did you tell them?"

Nora tried to speak, but her lips refused to move.

"Come now, Nora, nobody talks that long and says nothing. Did you tell them about the Cutlass family?"

Again, the old woman was unable to speak.

"Nothing to say? Guess I'd better have a look at those fingers."

Nora's screams echoed through the small neighborhood, but nobody came to her house to see what was wrong. No, on this street everyone had nightmares; everyone fought the monster.

Everybody screamed.

C.T. Clown

Waking the Dead (part four): Two Monsters
Date: 18 July 2005, 12:23 pm

Waking the Dead (part four): Two Monsters

Stooping down in sadness, the dreary sky covered the cemetery with a misty, gray shroud. Tombstones jutted out of the ground like endless rows of decaying teeth; angled this way and that over long forgotten plots. MiNeS walked slowly through the mist, bending over each grave to read the colorless, eroded words. As he fought shadow and darkness for yet another name in the rotting sea of markers, he suddenly froze in terror. In such an immense cemetery, he had expected to be surrounded by the dead, but he had not expected to hear them speak.

"Dig!" MiNeS turned to his left and found himself face-to-face with a nightmare—and it was offering him a shovel.

"Ian?" The decomposed figure nodded it's crushed head, and then gestured towards the grave at MiNeS' feet.

"Take this and dig!" the aberration yelled, "Before it is too late!" Looking away from the death he had caused, MiNeS studied the grave once again.

"But this stone has no name on it."

"You have not come here to wake the dead: it's owner is yet alive." Urgency burned like flame in the desperate, dead eyes. "Hurry, dig, before the others wake and a name is carved on this stone!"

"Others?" No sooner had he spoken the word than the earth buckled beneath the markers all around them, causing the stones to sway and topple. He turned again to his brother, but instead of a shovel, he now offered a hammer and chisel.

"Take this and write, for the time has come and passed. Write your father's name; write Benjamin Cutlass on the stone." Sadness filled the decomposed face. "And carve MiNeS Cutlass below it."

"Why, when I am still alive?"

"Because," Ian said, nodding towards the giant figures emerging from the ground all around them, "you will soon be ripped to pieces, and who will carve your name then?" Tears pooled in the dead man's eyes as he looked at the arm dangling uselessly at his side; connected by mere tendons. "I would, but my shoulder is gone."

Waking suddenly, MiNeS stared at the morning light filtering through the white curtains, and waited for the haunting images to melt away. He jumped out of bed and dressed quickly—careful to avoid his own reflection. A few minutes later MiNeS stood before the checkout desk of the Sikyon Valley Inn, with Ian's duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

"Everything okay, sir?" the young, female clerk said without lifting her eyes.

What a question. "Yes, fine."

"Good. If you will take a moment fill out this short questionnaire," she handed him a small data pad and finally looked up, "then you can—oh my God, what happened to your face?"

"What?" MiNeS unconsciously lifted a hand to check his head.

The clerk suddenly looked embarrassed. "Forgive me, sir, it's just that your face is white as a sheet."

MiNeS forced a weak smile. "Yeah, I don't tan all that well."

"Really?" The young lady said, chuckling. "Are you sure that you haven't seen a ghost?"

With an expression that wiped the smile from the clerk's face, MiNeS replied, "Only when I look in the mirror."

It was a little after ten in the morning when MiNeS began walking towards his old neighborhood. Bathed in the bright morning sun, the wooden city shone like gold all around him; awakening long forgotten memories. What struck him first was the enormity of the silence in Sikyon: a city of millions without a single motorized vehicle. As a boy, MiNeS now remembered, the quiet had seemed normal. Now it was strange, like flowers blooming in a scorched desert.

Buildings passed on both sides as he walked; each crafted entirely of wood, and each a unique work of art. Some walls bristled with illustrated stories and expressive figures; others had complex and exquisite designs worthy of framing and display in the great museums on Earth. He had lived here. He had been a part of something beautiful and timeless. But ONI had taken that away forever.

Hurried footsteps approached from behind, followed by a surprised voice.

"Ian, is that you?" MiNeS turned towards the stranger, his face as wooden and silent as the city around him. The large, muscular man stared wide-eyed for a moment and then a smile slowly crept across his stubble-covered face. Without warning he rushed forward and threw his arms around MiNeS. "It is you! I told'em you were alive! I told'em that no scum-sucking maggot from the UNSC could kill Ian Cutlass, didn't I?"

Gently pushing the man an arm's length away, the scum-sucking UNSC maggot forced himself to smile. "They nearly made a liar out of you."

The stranger's face turned serious. "And Palatov?" MiNeS shook his head sadly, causing the man to utter an angry, heart-felt expletive. "I am sorry. I know what he meant to you, Sarah and the kids." Pulling the young Spartan a little closer, the stranger looked at him with fiery eyes. "Do you know who killed him, Ian?"

MiNeS nodded. "A Spartan. Blew his head clean off."

"A Spartan?" the stranger hissed, twisting his face in disgust. "Then you an' me are gonna find him and return the favor, eh?" He quickly looked around, as if being watched. "But this isn't talk for the street, is it? Follow me."

Turning in the opposite direction, the man walked quickly down the street for a couple hundred meters, turned into a narrow alley and walked fifty more before entering an unmarked doorway on his right. A dozen men were scattered across a dimly lit room that could have seated as many as fifty. The pleasant smell of food filled the air, telling MiNeS that he was in a restaurant of some sort. As if in confirmation, a round woman wearing an apron grinned at them from behind a waist-high counter.

"Kale Sangrefria and Ian Cutlass! My lands, you oughtta be dead by now. What'd you boys do, make a deal with the devil?" She leaned on the counter, wiping short, plump fingers on her dirty apron.

Kale smiled and gave an exaggerated shrug. "We eat here, don't we Mae?"

"That you do—and a little insurance never hurts. Well, if you boys want to find a seat, I'll see if I've got anything laying around that's worth eating."

MiNeS followed as Kale headed straight for a table in the rear, left corner, and took the seat facing the wall. His new friend had intentionally chosen the darkest place in the restaurant, and he was eager to find out why. He did not have to wait long.

"Much has changed in the last week or so, Ian." Kale looked down at the old wooden table and shook his head. "Once news came of Palatov's death, Burrows didn't waste any time claiming what was left of his command—and then some. Now he's abandoned recruiting altogether and just started grabbing men off the streets. Some stupid, funny stuff for a rebel leader, eh? You can't force men to fight or to believe in something. Palatov knew that—knew it well and good."

You'd be surprised what they can force a man to do. "Yes, he did."

"Thank God I ran into you before they did. I've barely slept since I heard about what happened at Pandora." Kale reached across the table and gripped MiNeS' shoulder with a strong hand. The touch felt electric to the young Spartan. "I'd never imagined fighting this battle without you, Ian. I wasn't . . ." the big, tough rebel paused rather than let his voice break with emotion. "I wasn't prepared to lose you."

MiNeS did not take a breath until Kale let go of his shoulder. What had he become? Ghost, memory, killer, fraud—they all applied, and they all fell short. Ian's friend stared at him from across the table, waiting for him to speak, to reply to his moving gesture. But MiNeS had no more power to speak now than his dead brother Ian. After nearly a minute, Kale broke the awful silence.

"You wouldn't have had to worry about Sarah and the kids—not while I was alive."

MiNeS nodded slowly. "I know, Kale."

"Oh man, that's right: Sarah thinks you were killed! After we're done eating, we'd better get you home." Kale smiled. "Imagine the look on her face when you walk through that door, as if you awoke from the dead. I can't wait to see it." Only the memory of his brother's last wish kept MiNeS from killing himself right where he sat.

"Yeah," the impostor replied, "neither can I Kale. Neither can I."

It was well past sunset when the two Spartans finally caught a break. Chuckles knew that two men had followed them the entire day—and it was a welcome surprise. After speaking to the paranoid woman from MiNeS' old house, he and Caleb had found nothing but a stone-cold trail. Any trace of the Cutlass family in the collective memory of Sikyon had been more than erased; it had been destroyed with contempt. He would have assumed that there was little left in the city to see, except that someone was tracking their every move; and nobody went to that much trouble for nothing. Now, with darkness filling the valley like black liquid, it was time to turn the tables.

"Okay," Chuckles whispered to the young Spartan walking next to him, "We'll use the alley up there on the right. Don't make a move until they both enter. We only need one of them alive: and that will be whoever is furthest into the alley."

"What?" Caleb said with surprise. "We're going to kill before we even know who they are?"

"Absolutely. Now shut up and follow me." Chuckles continued at an even pace until they reached the alley, then turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Sergeant Ricky Tasker had a feeling that something was wrong. "Tom, I've lost visual contact. They turned into a narrow alley."

"Roger that," fellow Sergeant Tom Harris replied. "I don't think we have a choice except to follow them in."

Tasker shook his head. "Negative. This might sound strange to you, but I was warned against following that redhead into the dark."

"So what's the alternative: waiting for them to come out?" Tom waited for an answer but his COM remained silent. "I'll meet you by the alley and we'll go in together. Listen Ricky: we're equipped to see in the dark, and they're not. We have the advantage."

Then why did my mouth go dry, Tom? "Roger that. Let's head in." Less than a minute later the two rebels stood with their backs pressed against the wall next to the alley. Knowing Ricky was spooked, Tom signaled that he would go in first. Quick and smooth, he turned his body around the corner, pistol drawn. The alley stretched before him for nearly two hundred meters—completely empty. For the eleven hours that they had followed the men, they never saw them even walk at a brisk pace, let alone run. To have already covered the length of the alley, however, they would have had to be moving quite fast. Tom began to advance slowly. Several meters behind him, Ricky entered the alley and began to move forward at the same pace.

Suddenly a blur dropped from the sky and ripped the gun from Tom's hands. Powerful arms wrapped around his body like constricting steel cords, pulling him down until he lay on his back in the alley. What he saw behind him made him curse his ability to see in the dark. The huge redhead yanked Ricky off of the ground as if he were no more than a child, and held him tight against his barrel chest. Placing a hand on each side of the rebel's head, he twisted it cruelly, until bones cracked and Ricky's chin dropped limply between his own shoulder blades. Lying terrified on the ground, Tom remembered his dead friend's words. I was warned against following that redhead into the dark.

Death let Ricky's lifeless body fall to the ground with a dull thud and walked slowly over to Tom. There was something different about the way that redhead walked now—something that he had not seen earlier. His motions were too quick, too precise—too powerful. Death's arms pulled Tom off of the ground and grabbing his neck with a single hand, pinned him against the wooden wall. The redhead brought his face so close that the rebel could see only his assailant's eyes. For the second time in less than a minute, Tom cursed his night-vision goggles.

"Your friend died quickly." Death spoke with cold reason. "No screaming, no yelling, no begging me to end his life. Is that how you want to die?"

Under any other circumstances, Tom would have been defiant. But staring at those eyes—eye filled with cold, bottomless, cruel resolve—the rebel could not be brave. And so, like a scolded child, he nodded.

"Good. I have some questions . . . what is your name?"

"T-Tom."

"I have some questions for you Tom. Each time I get an answer I don't like I'm going to hurt you bad. Do you understand?" Tom nodded. "Okay, question number one: who do you work for?"

A weak voice replied. "Commander John Burrows." Without warning an iron hand closed around Tom's left forearm and snapped the bone in two with grim effortlessness. The rebel screamed in agony, but the sound died as Death's other hand squeezed his throat.

"Oh, you're funny!" Chuckles laughed. "Care to try again?" The grip on his throat loosened enough for him to breath.

"I swear!" he yelled, tears of pain streaming down his face, "His name is John Burrows! Ask anyone!"

Death paused for a moment, and then nodded. "Okay, Tom—we'll get back to that one. Question number two: why are you following us?"

"B-because you came on a ship . . . a Prowler. We assumed you were from ONI." The irony amused Chuckles. A Prowler was used for stealth, and yet it had turned into an ONI calling card.

"Very good, Tom. Question number three: where can I find Commander Burrows?"

Tom saw his chance and took it. "I can lead you to him." Shaking his head like a disappointed father, Chuckles pulled out his eighteen-inch combat knife.

"And you were doing so good . . ." The blade plunged into Tom's side, just below his rib cage. Caleb nearly vomited before turning his head away. When he the young Spartan looked again, Chuckles was waving something in front of the rebel's wide, terror-filled eyes. "Tom, you do know what this is, don't you?" The wretch nodded. "The human body has twenty-four ribs, Tom—which means that you could go through that twenty-three more times." The rebel's eyes opened even wider and his head shook back and forth in panic. "Then I suggest that you don't answer any questions that I don't ask. Let's try that one once more. Where can I find Commander Burrows?"

Tom's voice was barely audible. "Mickey's . . . Mickey's Tavern."

"Excellent. Now, back to the first question: who do you work for?"

"J-John Burrows." Chuckles stared into the rebel's pitiful, agony filled eyes as he answered. He was telling the truth. Without hesitation he snapped wretch's neck, putting him out of his misery. When he turned to Caleb, he saw fear in the young man's eyes.

"How could you do that to him?" He shook his head slowly, staring at Chuckles as if he were a demon. "You're a monster. My God, you were laughing! You actually enjoyed it!"

"Keep your voice down. I did not enjoy it, but I had to make him think that I did—that I lived for it." Chuckles looked down. "That way he'd break quicker and suffer less."

"But what you did—"

"What I did was get him to tell me what he knew in less than four minutes. Yeah, I could have been nicer. I could have broken fingers, or smacked him around. What would that do? Huh? Make the torture last for ten times as long? Is that what you would have done?" Caleb stared silently. "There is no humane way to beat information out of somebody, kid. But you can make it end as quickly as possible." Standing in that dark alley, Caleb had to admit that the older Spartan was making sense—and the realization sent a chill down his spine.

"Why did you think he lied about the Commander's name?"

"Ever hear of Elvis Presley?" Caleb nodded. "Well, 'John Burrows' was the alias he used when he traveled. Maybe it is a real name, maybe it isn't." Chuckles wiped his knife on his black pants and carefully slid it into its sheath. "Only one way to find out. Thirsty?"

"Yeah, but I don't know if I'll ever be hungry again." The older Spartan pulled green knit cap out of his back pocket and pulled it down over his mass of red hair; somehow stuffing it all inside. Despite the horror that Caleb had just witnessed, he could not help but smile. "I always thought redheads looked good in green."

"Thanks."

As they left the alley to look for Mickey's Tavern, Chuckles tried in vain to forget what he had done. Although he had apparently satisfied his young partner with his little speech, he had failed to convince himself. Chuckles had danced on that side of Hell before—he knew the ordeal was far from over; at least for him. The rebel's tortured face would appear every time he closed his eyes, and play in his dreams as stylized horror for months. Was he a monster, or did the bad dreams and guilt prove that he possessed a measure of decency? Either way, the answer would have to wait. In a few short minutes he'd be dropping in on a rebel leader—decency would be taking the rest of the night off.

It was already dark when MiNeS and Kale approached Ian's home. The small town of Canaan sat on beautiful rolling hills, nearly sixty kilometers northeast of Sikyon. As he looked at the modest home of his dead brother, MiNeS tried desperately to mask his fear. But it was guilt that caused him the most pain. Fake. Impostor. Murderer.

"Kale, this is something I want to do alone. I'm not sure how she'll react."

"I understand. Make sure that we see each other tomorrow, Ian. We have a lot more to talk about."

The impostor nodded, and then turned towards the house—towards his judgment. Strong, unbreakable legs felt weak as he headed up the narrow brick walk and on to the porch—and just stood there. Did Sarah know that a murderer waited so close? Could her children feel the approach of the genetically altered freak who crushed their father's skull? Knock, knock! I'm home! Please open the door. Open the door . . .

To a monster.

The knob turned easily in his sweaty hands and the door swung open with a slight squeal of wood rubbing on wood. Directly across the small room, a beautiful young woman sat on a sofa.

The monster stood motionless. She looked up at him, brought two hands to her mouth and then ran one through her long, blonde hair. Thoughts, feelings and emotions flashed on her face, clearer than any spoken words. With the first glance she regained her husband, only to lose him again with the second. Tears welled in her large eyes, overflowed and finally streamed down her cheeks. A gentle smile appeared on her face—a smile like MiNeS had seen on Ian's dying face at the moment of recognition.

"MiNeS." She walked forward and with all of the strength in her small arms she hugged the monster—and he finally broke. Bending over and crying softly, he wrapped his arms around Sarah's neck and held her so close that her hair clung to his moistened face. "Ian always knew you would return." She took a deep breath. "He's dead, isn't he MiNeS."

"Yes."

Sarah squeezed the monster even tighter as deep, choking sobs caused her body to shake. A door creaked open to their right, and two small children—a boy and a girl—stepped into the living room. MiNeS lifted his face, and their little eyes brightened.

"Daddy!" They ran forward and clung to their father's killer with joyful desperation. MiNeS—the impostor, the killer, the fake—once again went rigid as his thoughts searched desperately for an off-switch; and found none. Will I always be a monster? As the children's joy turned to shock and then to grief and finally to something worse, MiNeS felt that he knew the answer.

Mickey's Tavern, like most establishments possessing a dubious past, was not hard to find. Everyone knew where it was, but few of them had ever darkened the door. From the outside it looked like a church, with its beautiful, vaulted architecture and fine woodwork—but that impression disappeared the moment you stepped through the thick, walnut doors.

Chuckles and Caleb walked in quietly and sat in stools at the bar. The bartender, a huge, bearded man with tattoos running up both arms, gave them an unfriendly look.

"We don't serve women or strangers here, ladies. Get out of my bar."

"Our apologies," Chuckles replied sarcastically, "But we couldn't resist. We heard that Elvis was here tonight. Is that true, or has he left the building already?"

"I told you to get out of my—"

"Well then," Chuckles said, cutting him off, "is John Burrows here?"

"That's it," the bartender hissed, and then reached his ham-sized fist across the bar to grab the Spartan's neck. Stepping quickly to his left, Chuckles gripped the huge arm with both hands and yanked the man over the bar, sending him crashing to the floor.

"I have an idea," the Spartan bent over the man as patrons looked on in disbelief. "Why don't you go tell Burrows that I want to see him."

"No need for all that," a voice boomed from across the bar, "I'm John Burrows." Chuckles stood to his feet as the crowd parted to let a large man pass. "I swear, you seem to think violence is the answer to everything." Stopping in front of the two Spartans, the man smiled—and Chuckles nearly fell over. Reaching out with sincerity, Burrows clamped a hand on the Spartan's shoulder. "It is good to see you, old friend."

Good to see me? You pathetic little— Moving with blurring speed, Chuckles pulled his combat knife from its sheath and pressed the blade to Burrows' neck. All over the room, weapons were pulled and rounds chambered in a metallic symphony.

"Yeah," Chuckles said, turning to place Burrows between him and the pointed guns, "Good to see you again too." Fresh anger filled his eyes as he ripped off the Commander's right sleeve and looked at Caleb. The young Spartan's mouth fell open as he stared at the blood-red tattoo just below Burrows' shoulder. To Caleb it looked like a three-legged guy hailing a cab. To Chuckles it looked like the Grim Reaper. But to most people it looked like something much more ordinary. To most people, it looked like a clown.

C.T. Clown

Waking the Dead (part five): A Night at Mickey's
Date: 15 August 2005, 8:23 am

Waking the Dead (part five): A Night at Mickey's

July 27, 2533. Sikyon, Captitol City of Epsilon Indi 2 (The Planet Pella).

"Ben, you need to listen to me." Lieutenant Vladimir Palatov placed a hand on his friend's shoulder as he spoke, but both his voice and caring touch went unnoticed. On the other side of a large window, four doctors attended to an unconscious woman with steadily increasing urgency. Three nurses suddenly rushed in, filling gaps between the doctors and making it almost impossible for Benjamin Cutlass to see his wife. One of the nurses, seeing the patient's immense abdomen for the first time, nearly fainted.

"How can this be, Pal?" Ben said, staring at the commotion on the other side of the glass, "Caroline is only five months along." Palatov tightened his grip on the big man's shoulder and gently turned him around.

"Look at me, Ben."

"MiNeS and Ian were large babies, but—"

"Ben, look at me!" Weary eyes finally obeyed, and Palatov immediately regretted his harsh tone. He pointed a finger towards the operating room. "They are taking care of Caroline. Everything that can be done will be done. You have to start thinking about your boys, and especially yourself." With no time to weigh his words, Palatov was blunt. "Benjamin, your entire family may be in danger." The worried eyes of a concerned husband changed instantly to those of a capable and concerned father.

"Danger?"

How much can I tell him? "Some people have shown an interest in your wife's pregnancy." Ben grabbed Palatov's shoulders.

"Who has and why? You have to tell me, Pal."

"Why? You're a scientist, Ben—why do you think?" Benjamin's blood turned to ice in his veins.

"Oh my God. It's ONI, isn't it?" He did not wait for an answer. "Of course it is." Ben pulled his arms away and took a step backward. "So this isn't just a theory, is it?" Palatov, an ONI officer, dropped his gaze to the floor and shook his head.

"No, it isn't."

A sudden commotion filled the operating room as doctors barked orders and nurses scurried here and there in a barely controlled panic. Something had gone horribly wrong. Ben glanced through the window, and then at Palatov; nearly torn in two as each crisis screamed for his full attention. "But ONI can't just take people, can they?" As a nurse pushed a large machine past them and into the operating room, Palatov stared silently at his friend; and that was answer enough. Ben's face turned red with anger. "The boys—where are my boys?"

"Safe, for now. Tracy has them at our house. Frankly, I'm much more concerned about you. One of Ackerson's men believes that—" Palatov fell silent as a doctor emerged from the operating room, slowly pulling off his mask as he walked over to his friend. Looking into Benjamin's eyes with sincere compassion, the doctor spoke softly.

"Mr. Cutlass, we did all that we could. I'm very sorry."

The two strong men embraced and wept, momentarily setting aside all but the memory of a loving wife and dear friend. But not all ended in death that day. Some families are able to survive in harsh, cold places where most everything else would wither and die. Within three years Benjamin and his son MiNeS would disappear without a trace, leading most to write the Cutlasses off completely. But those who really knew Benjamin, Caroline and their remarkable sons thought something entirely different. Yes, someone may have dealt a staggering blow to the Cutlasses.

But that someone had messed with the wrong family.

Chuckles pressed the blade hard against John Burrow's throat, and as he stared at the crowd of rebels that filled Mickey's Tavern, thirty-four guns stared back at the Spartan with cold indifference. Still, nobody except Caleb noticed the blood-red tattoo on the rebel commander's upper arm. Long seconds passed; eyes darted, palms became slick and trigger fingers itchy. Tension filled the room like an explosive gas, and every man in the building knew: this explosion lacked only a spark.

"Lower your weapons!" Burrow's voice boomed, shattering the silence and causing more than one man to jump. With Chuckles' knife all but puncturing the thin skin of his neck, the rebel commander swept his gaze over the entire room, meeting each set of questioning eyes. "Lower them now!" Confused men glanced at their leader and then at each other before slowly obeying the order.

"Very touching," Chuckles whispered in Burrow's ear. "Nice to know you still have my back. So what happens now?" A twisted smile snaked across his sickly-white face. "I have an idea: how 'bout I show your little army our matching tat's and give them a short history lesson? I'm sure they've all heard of the Clowns. We'd be celebrities, sure, but do you think we'd make it out of here alive, Lexicus?"

Utterly unaffected by his former partner's mind-games, the rebel leader replied in a calm, reasonable voice. "You have no idea what you're into, Chuck. All I need is five minutes of your time. Five short minutes." Accepting the hard fact that he would have to hear Lexicus out, Chuckles shook his head in frustration and then slowly pulled the knife away from his neck. Several men raised their weapons, only to be angrily waved off by the man they called 'Burrows'. But it was not until the large redhead sheathed his massive blade that the rebels finally holstered their guns. Lexicus turned to face his old friend. "We need to talk alone."

Turning to Caleb, Chuckles' face was almost apologetic. "Stay up here and keep an eye out. This won't take long." The young Spartan nodded and then watched cautiously as the two older men walked through the soldiers and sat down at a table in the back of the room. Amazingly, the crowd of rebels poured drinks, resumed conversations and generally went back to whatever they had been doing as if nothing had happened. Just another night at Mickey's.

Chuckles glared coolly from across the table. "So what do you have to tell me, buddy."

"It really is good to see you," Lexicus said, answering sarcasm with sincerity. "You were the one thing that made me want to stay. How have you been?" Chuckles snorted with disgust.

"You are unbelievable. I find you here; a traitor commanding a small army of rebels, and you think we're going to sit around, chew the fat and catch up with each other's lives?" The words hit their mark, and Lexicus leaned back as if wounded.

"I guess I was wrong."

"You guess?" Chuckles stood to his feet in anger. "Well Lex, it's been fun, but I'd better get going. Not that I'm not used to spending time with rebels—I am. It's spending time with living rebels that feels strange." After one last look of disgust, he turned to walk away.

"You're nothing but Ackerson's lapdog, Chuck. You talk real tough, but when he gives an order you just wag your tail, lick his hand and obey." Bull's eye. Chuckles turned around and glared, but Lexicus waived dismissively. "Go on, get out of here. Run on home to daddy."

In a blur of motion, Chuckles palmed his knife and lunged—but his anger made him careless, and he remembered too late the skill of the one he fought. Throwing himself backwards in his chair, Lexicus slammed his back to the floor and shot his legs up where his head had just been. With a burst of speed and strength that surprised even Chuckles, he clamped his legs around the knife-wielding arm and twisted it with such force that the red-haired Spartan went flying into the wall and the weapon fell harmlessly to the floor. Lex was on his feet in an instant, leveling his pistol at Chuckles' forehead.

"What? Did you think I'd gone soft?" Lexicus gestured towards the chair with a slight dip of his gun. "Sit down. We're gonna talk whether you want to or not." As Chuckles grudgingly obeyed, Lex flipped his chair upright with his foot, holstered his weapon and sat down. "I'm not what you think I am, Chuck. I am not a traitor." The reply was predictably sarcastic.

"Well, I hope you'll forgive me for jumping to that conclusion, Commander. So I guess you just give orders to traitors then, right?" Chuckles' statement hit so close to the truth that Lexicus almost smiled.

"I am not against the UNSC. If the human race has any prayer of winning this war, I know that we need to stay united. If I am a rebel, I am only rebelling against Colonel Ackerson. Chuck, I'm as loyal to the UNSC as you are."

His face finally softening, Chuckles pointed a single finger at the room full of rebels. "Do they know that?"

Lexicus smiled. "I sure hope not."

In that moment the tension between them vanished, as did the two years of separation. The deep connection they had formed before had returned—and small wonder. No one can go from close companion to mortal enemy faster than a friend. Only they can truly betray, because betrayal is always personal; and only they can truly forgive, because forgiveness is never blind.

"You know Chuck," Lexicus said, relaxing for the first time, "I'm not the only rebel leader who feels this way. Ever heard of Vladimir Palatov?" Chuckles looked down at the table.

"Yeah."

"Until ten years ago, he was an ONI officer working closely with Ackerson. But then, like me, he discovered something so horrible that he had to leave." Lexicus leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Palatov was not a trusting man. It took me over a year to convince him that I wasn't an ONI spy. A couple of months ago I told him what I saw at Ackerson's arctic base and it seemed to make sense to him. He told me that I had given him an important piece to a much larger puzzle. Unlike me, I think he knew what was going on. We were going to meet last week, but . . . " Lexicus looked down at the table, and then into the eyes of his oldest friend. "Did Ackerson send you to kill him?"

Suddenly ashamed, Chuckles found it hard to look Lexicus in the eye as he answered. "Yes."

"Well, you couldn't have known."

Barely able to stay in his seat, Chuckles shook his head in exasperation. "Couldn't have known what? I still have no idea why you deserted in the first place."

"Do you remember those large trucks that used to come and go each week at the base?" Chuckles nodded. "I saw one of them leaving one night while I was on patrol. About seven klicks out from the base, the truck flipped over and spewed its contents all over the snow. When I arrived at the crash, blood was everywhere." Lexicus looked down, his eyes distant and sad. "At first I thought the blood was the driver's, but then I saw the bodies. Must have been over a hundred mangled, bloody corpses lying there in the snow."

Chuckles leaned forward, careful to keep his voice low. "Were they wearing uniforms?"

"No, but get this: I stopped the next truck a week later and found the same thing. Think about it; two weeks, and over two hundred bodies." He could see that his friend was indeed thinking about it. "Those trucks came every week for how many years?" The realization hit Chuckles like a blow to the stomach.

"My God. Why? What was Ackerson doing?"

Lexicus shook his head gravely. "You mean what is Ackerson doing. Whatever it is, Chuck, you're helping him do it—just like I was. When I told this story to Palatov he became upset and started talking really fast and heated; but not to me. It was as if he were continuing an argument with Ackerson from long ago. He was yelling, 'I told you! I told you! I knew that it would lead to this! To death, to pain, to cruelty! I said that you were playing with fire!'" Lexicus stopped for a moment, clearly shaken by the memory. "He went on like that for several minutes. When I couldn't take anymore, I grabbed him and asked what Ackerson was trying to do that was so dangerous. Palatov calmed down and then spoke to me as a father speaks to a child who is too young and naïve to understand his words. 'Waking the dead, Lexicus; he is waking the dead.'"

Outside Mickey's Tavern, beyond the glow of any light, something waited in the soft summer rain: something with a heart darker than the unlit streets of Sikyon. A total of eight men had left the tavern and headed for home this night. One dangled three feet from the ground, his neck in the iron grip of an armored giant: the rest lay broken and dead in the alley behind him.

"Where do the Cutasses live?" Death spoke in a cold, reasoning manner. It took all of the poor man's strength to gather breath for an answer—but he could not keep his voice from quaking.

"C-cutlass? I-Ian Cutlass?" Panic began to seize the wretch's mind as the massive hand closed tighter around his throat.

"I did not ask for the name." Cruel and unstoppable, the gauntleted fist squeezed steadily harder, crushing soft tissue. "I already know the name. Where do they live?" Finally, Death's grip loosened. After several failed attempts the man responded; each word like a knife to his damaged throat.

"C-Canaan. It's a t-town fifty or sixty k-kilometers north." Instantly the hand opened, dumping him to the ground, coughing painfully. The sickening taste of warm blood filled his mouth as he lay on the stone floor of the alley waiting to die. But to his amazement, Death merely helped him to his feet and asked a question.

"Are you still able to talk?"

"Yes."

"Good. I have a message for you to deliver."

Chuckles and Lexicus looked up from their table as Mickey's suddenly fell silent, and saw a man stumbling towards them in a daze. A purplish read bruise ringed his neck like a collar, and blood trickled steadily from each corner of his mouth—but neither the bruise nor the blood had caused Mickey's patrons to stare in silence. An expression haunted his face, its exaggerated proportions like the images found in a child's nightmare. Closer and closer the wretch came, until he stood in front of a seated Lexicus. Opening his mouth, he spoke to the rebel leader in a voice as pained and tortured as his face.

"He says—" the man grabbed his throat and doubled over, splattering blood on the floor with a thick, wet cough that made even Chuckles wince. After a moment, the man stood straight again. "H-he says g-goodbye."

Lexicus looked cautiously around the room. "Who says 'goodbye'?" The question fell on deaf ears.

"He s-says that you were a fool—" The lights suddenly went out, plunging Mickey's Tavern into darkness, "—to let him live."

Chilling screams—first one, then many—cut through the blackness from the direction of the door. Chuckles threw the table out of his way and snatched his knife from the ground. As he turned towards the sounds of slaughter he heard a dull, wet thump followed by a painful gasp.

"Chuckles, get out of here now!" The urgent, agony-laced voice belonged to Lexicus. "He's wearing his armor! Go!" And then, as the cries of death drew nearer, Chuckles finally understood.

Simjanes. "No, I can't abandon you—not to him." Lexicus dropped to the floor like a sack of grain, and his breathing became uneven. It seemed that Hell itself marched through Mickey's Tavern that night, but Chuckles knelt down slowly, as if they were the only two men in the room.

"There's no time, Chuck! My God, if we all die, Ackerson wins! Please, go!" Heavy footsteps drew closer, as did the horrible screams, but Chuckles, who had only had one friend his entire life, could not move. Lex began to shake as the quick and shallow breathes of impending death convulsed through him. Kneeling next to him, the redheaded Spartan gripped his friend's shoulder with his left hand, and his eighteen-inch combat knife with his right. He was not going anywhere. He'd fought next to Lexicus for most of his adult life: he could die next to him as well.

Without warning Caleb's huge fist slammed into the back of Chuckles' head, dropping his unconscious bulk on top of Lexicus.

"Get him out of here!" Lex yelled with more breath than he could actually spare. He felt the weight lift off of him, followed by heavy, hurried footsteps. All over the room, screams became moans, and moans became silence as the voices died with the men.

"Hello Commander Burrows." Although Lex had not heard anyone approach, the cold words were spoken from directly above him.

Looking up into the darkness, Lexicus smiled. "Hello, Sim. How's the leg?"

"Better, but I'll always limp without my armor." Simjanes placed his massive boot on the gaping wound in Lexicus' gut and pressed down cruelly. "How's the stomach, Lex?" The only reply was desperate, shallow breathing. "Well, enough catching up. I'm here to ask a question. It was almost two years ago that I was the one on the ground, flailing like a fish as the MJOLNIR armor played my broken leg like a violin. I was completely helpless, and yet you left me alive. I've always wondered: was it an act of mercy or cruelty?" The boot lifted, allowing the dying man to breathe.

Lexicus laughed and then spoke in an amused, raspy voice. "Ask me again in a few days . . . after Chuckles finds you." In the darkness above him a shotgun chambered an eight-gauge slug with metallic staccato. A second later, Lexicus could feel a warm barrel pressing hard into the skin on his forehead.

"Yeah," Simjanes squeezed the trigger and the weapon thundered in his gauntleted hands. "I'll do that, Lex."

Waking with a jump, his eyes shot open—but then shut just as quickly. Light only made his head throb worse. Shading his face with his hand, he slowly opened his eyes again. Leaves? Chuckles stood shakily to his feet and looked around. Trees surrounded him on all sides. Hadn't he been at Mickeys with Lexicus? Shouldn't he be dead? Caleb lay shivering on the ground a few meters away. It had apparently rained most of the night, and both of them were soaked to the bone.

"Hey kid," Chuckles said, waking the young Spartan with a gentle kick. "Where are we?" Caleb stood up, a look of caution instantly on his face.

"We're on the ridge just north of Sikyon."

"Yeah, and why don't I remember how we got here?"

The young Spartan was visibly nervous. "You were knocked out." Chuckles probed the back of his head and found a painful lump.

"If Simjanes knocked me out, then why didn't he . . . " Eyes suddenly burning with angry realization, he leveled a lethal gaze at Caleb. Without warning, Chuckles smashed his fist into the young man's face, knocking him violently to the ground. "You pathetic little—"

"I had no choice! You weren't going to leave!"

"I didn't want to leave! I was staying to defend Lexicus! Did you consider that?"

Caleb stood to his feet and got right in Chuckles' face: it was his turn to be angry. "Yeah, I considered it. I considered that you were going to fight a Spartan in MJOLNIR armor wearing nothing but civvies! Your shirt, shoes and knife against his boots, armor and shotgun!" He waited a moment for the words to sink in and then continued, his rage unabated. "You obviously weren't thinking clearly, Sir, so I had to take control of the situation." The kid was right, and the older man knew it. Embarrassed and deflated, Chuckles again felt the back of his head.

"That was quite a hit. You carried me all the way up here?"

Caleb nodded.

"Thanks."

Finally awake and in his right mind, Chuckles walked through the trees toward the valley, followed closely by Caleb. After about one hundred meters, the ground dropped away and the city of Sikyon sprawled out before them. A soft rain had fallen the entire night, and as the sun began to peak past the receding clouds, a rainbow appeared like a brilliant painting over the valley; dwarfing it in both size and beauty. Without taking his eyes from nature's spectacle, Chuckles spoke to Caleb.

"Men may do evil, may do it forever, but some things remain; things they don't have the power to corrupt or destroy. Goodness and beauty will still be here when worthless men are nothing more than dust; because for all of their cruel deeds, it is the one thing that they will never be able to touch." Barely able to believe his ears, Caleb looked at Chuckles as if for the first time. Without another word, the older Spartan started walking down into the valley.

"Where are we going?" Caleb asked, still amazed at what he had just heard. Chuckles turned to the young man, his face full of resolve.

"Back to the ship to get our armor—and I don't care who sees us wearing it. I think we've been pushed around long enough. It's time we pushed back."

C.T. Clown

Waking the Dead (part six): Musings of a Child
Date: 8 September 2005, 3:58 pm

Waking the Dead (part six): Musings of a Child

July 27, 2533. Sikyon, Captitol City of Epsilon Indi 2 (The Planet Pella).


As Dr. Sherwood Azrael wheeled the steel cart down the hallway, it was fitting that he took all the care of a mother steering a baby carriage, for a newborn lay in the cold metal basin on top; covered in uncomfortable plastic and unnatural silence. Finally arriving at his office, the doctor entered, pulling the cart in after him. A man sat waiting on the other side of his desk, his face frozen in an angry scowl.

"I was supposed to be in the operating room, doctor, not locked in this office for hours! I work for the Office of Naval Int—"

"I know who you work for, Mr. Saettia." Sherwood brought the cart to a stop beside the desk and then looked up at the ONI spook, somehow hiding his disgust underneath his fatigue. He saw Vincent Saettia as nothing more than a government-sanctioned bully; a man without rank or title, who wielded the public's fear of ONI like a child wields a gun. Azrael, however, was not an easy man to intimidate and Vincent had endured a decidedly uncooperative day.

"You know who I work for?" Saettia responded, doing his best Gestapo imitation. "Your men met me outside and led me in here at gunpoint! You will soon learn exactly who I work for, doctor!"

Azrael sat down in his chair. "My apologies, Mr. Saettia. Sometimes our security guards can be a bit overzealous." He rubbed his eyes and then shook his head as if trying to stay awake. "I've been on duty for almost two days, so I'd like to get this over with."

"Fine. Is the subject finally deceased?"

You worthless, pathetic little piece of trash! "Yes, Mrs. Caroline Cutlass is dead."

"Good, and what of her pregnancy?"

Sherwood pulled the plastic from the top of the cart, revealing the corpse of an extremely large male baby. "Only five months after gestation, this baby weighs nearly eight kilograms and is over seventy-six centimeters long." Even as he repeated the numbers, he had a hard time believing them. These were the measurements of a six month-old, not a baby a little over halfway to term.

Staring at the dead body as if it were nothing more than a hunk of meat, the ONI thug responded to the figures with nods. Finally lifting his gaze from the corpse, he looked at Dr. Azrael with suspicion. "She was pregnant with twins. Where is the other one?"

"It died as well."

"You knew that we needed one of them alive. For your own sake, I hope you didn't let those babies die in an attempt to save that woman." Leaning back in his chair, Vincent shook his head like a disappointed parent. "How would you like to wake up tomorrow in a filthy, rotting hole of a prison—and call that 'home' for the rest of your life? The inmates might get a kick out of having a doctor around." If the words had any effect on Azrael, his face did not show it.

"Both babies died before the operation began," he responded in a voice so relaxed that it was almost sleepy. "We have several hours of video and instrument readings that testify to that fact. I can get them copied for you if—"

Saettia shook his head. "Don't bother. We'll know everything after the autopsies." He smirked and then sat up. "Now bring me the other body. Dead or alive, I'm taking both babies with me."

Over two decades before, Sherwood had graduated with honors from the Cefalo Medical School at Boston College. Glancing at the diploma hanging on the wall to his right, he wondered what the Jesuits might think of this sordid conversation—but only momentarily. No matter how things turned out, that line of thought would bring no comfort. Suddenly aware of the corpse exposed next to him, he quickly pulled the plastic cover back over the basin. "Mr. Saettia, explaining the disappearance of one baby will be hard enough. If both come up missing, people may start to ask questions." The response turned his stomach.

"Don't worry," Vincent said, looking slightly amused, "we have ways of dealing with that."

Okay moron, let's try something you can actually understand—fear. "Do not underestimate this family. Benjamin Cutlass is one of the UNSC's top scientists, with connections throughout the entire military—and that includes ONI. These babies are identical twins, so anything that you could learn from one, you could learn from the other. Why risk being exposed if there is nothing to gain?" Sherwood leaned across the table and spoke as if counseling a friend. "Let this pass without unneeded controversy: give the family something to bury."

After thinking it over for several seconds, Saettia nodded. "Okay, I'll only take one."

"Good, so we'll get the body ready for—"

"But I still need to see the other corpse, doctor."

"The baby is dead, Mr. Saettia. You can ask me or any of the other ten people who were in that room."

"I am not asking anybody. I will not leave this hospital until I place my hand on that baby's neck and feel for myself that there is no pulse." Vincent jabbed his hand into his coat, pulled out a silenced pistol and held it on his lap. "Take me to it now."

Azrael sighed and stood wearily to his feet. "Follow me." Exiting his office, they walked through the hospital corridors for several minutes before entering the pink and baby blue walls of the pediatric wing. After passing through several more double doors, Sherwood finally stopped in front of a room. "We're here."

The doctor pulled down on the handle, the door opened—and Mr. Saettia's jaw dropped. Laying inside a clear incubator in the middle of the room was a large baby, and it was very much alive. The ONI agent spoke without turning his head.

"Enjoy prison, Dr. Azrael; you've certainly earned it." Now smiling, he walked towards the baby, but as he stepped through the door he saw movement to his left—meaningful movement. Alarms went off in his head and he whipped the gun around—too late. Before he could pull the trigger, a large hand caught his wrist in an iron grip and snapped it like a branch. An instant later, Saettia's legs were swept out from under him and he fell forward—only to be knocked upright again by a wicked blow to the Adams apple. Stunned and unable to breath, he could only watch in horror as three silenced shots slammed into his chest. The ONI thug tumbled backwards like a broken doll. Lying helplessly on his back, he saw the assailant's face for the first time—and his eyes wide with surprise. Lips moved soundlessly as he tried in vain to speak.

ONI Lieutenant Vladimir Palatov pushed the pistol back into the holster beneath his coat, knelt down and then spat on the man dying at his feet. "Enjoy the heck out of Hell, Vince—you've certainly earned it." It was the first time Palatov had fired his weapon for anything but practice since leaving the ODST's for officer training. As a Helljumper, he had seen his share of action, so this piece of filth had not been his first kill—not by a long shot. But as he silently thanked God that Saettia had not been wise enough to take the dead baby and leave, something occurred to him. Every other time he had ended a man's life he had felt a profound sense of regret. This time, however, although the feeling was just as profound it had nothing to do with regret. Yes, he had just killed a man. He had fired three bullets into the heart of a fellow human being—but those bullets had done something beautiful.

Nineteen Years Later . . .


Soldiers lined up outside Mickey's Tavern like mourners at a funeral parlor; but they were not waiting to pay their last respects. Even though every rebel in Sikyon had awoke to the news of John Burrows' death, they still found it hard to believe. Men died and the rebels accepted that, but Burrows was somehow different—as different from them as iron was from clay.

The first time they had seen John fight was the night he single-handedly defeated the former rebel leader—along with his entire security force—armed with nothing but a combat knife. The now legendary battle ended only a few seconds after it began, with fifteen dead or wounded men scattered on the ground at John's feet. No one who had been there would ever forget. No one who had been there would believe he had been killed—not until they saw it with their own eyes.

A large man approached the tavern and the crowd quickly parted to let him through. Just inside, a young rebel stiffened as the man entered and shut the door behind him. "Good morning, sir!" the soldier said, snapping off a crisp salute. Such gestures were rare in the rebel army, reserved for officers who commanded great fear or great respect. Ronald Brondyke commanded both. Since nobody knew for sure what rank he held, the men referred to him only as 'sir' and a select few called him 'Ron'.

"I want this door kept shut," Brondyke said, leveling a hard gaze at the young rebel. A disgusting odor suddenly assaulted him with all the violence of a left hook. Yanking out a handkerchief almost involuntarily, he held it to his nose in a vain attempt to stifle Death's stench. "Nobody enters for any reason, understood?" The nervous soldier snapped another salute so fast that he nearly struck himself in the forehead.

"Yes sir!"

Brondyke stood motionless for a moment, staring into the room, letting his eyes adjust to the low light. All too quickly it came into clear, bloody focus. Corpses lay twisted and broken all around, each face frozen in pain and terror. But as Ron began crossing the floor with careful steps, he knew that the body count was the least of his worries. He had received a disturbing call on his way over from Dr. Liton Nadu, and if the elderly physician was correct, they had made a horrible mistake. A man stood to his feet in the back of the room and waved his hand.

"Over here, Ron." The old man had been like a second father to the rebel leader since childhood and was one of the few people who had both his friendship and his trust. Brondyke stepped gingerly across the room and found the doctor kneeling over John Burrows' corpse.

"Oh my God."

Liton nodded. "Yeah, that's just what I said." He pointed a gloved finger at the head. "Near as I can tell, he was killed with a shot gun," he placed his hand four inches above what used to be a face, "fired from about here."

Brondyke stared at the denuded skull and shook his head. "No, that's not possible. His entire head would have been blown off."

The elderly doctor gave Ron a scolding look. "Young man, I've been treating battle wounds since before your father cut his teeth. I know what I'm looking at." He pointed at the head as if it were exhibit 'A'. "Nearly all of the soft tissue was blown from the front of the skull. If it wasn't a shotgun, what was it?" Brondyke stood silently, knowing that Nadu had to be right. "But do you see all of these little craters and pits caused by the blast?" The officer nodded. "Bone does not act like that—no bone I've ever seen, anyway. The teeth were obliterated, which is normal, but look right below the nose." Brondyke bent over and saw some sort of thin, white veneer fused to the facial bone.

"What is it?"

The doctor spoke with an ominous tone. "Armor." He pointed at several places where he had cut the flesh away on Burrows' arms and legs. "It is grafted onto his entire skeleton, and judging from the condition of the skull, it is nearly unbreakable." Ron's stomach twisted into a square knot as he finally accepted the obvious.

"Spartan."

"Yeah, and it gets worse." Nadu pulled Burrows' right sleeve up, revealing a blood-red tattoo on his upper arm that looked vaguely like a clown. Tattooed above it in military block letters was the word 'LEXICUS'. Ron, a life-long Catholic, crossed himself and stared in disbelief. Could it be? Could John—a good friend and rebel leader—be one of the Clowns? He began to shake his head.

"No, no Liton, no. It's just a tattoo."

"Maybe. But three of my sons fought for Turpolev in the Bishkek rebellion. They were found dead in the Wilderness of Moshe along with two thousand other rebel soldiers." Nadu pointed at the tattoo. "That God-forsaken symbol was scratched on everything from trees and vehicles to my sons' bodies." The old man stood to his feet and kicked Burrows' lifeless head in anger. "He was one of them, Ron. I know it."

Brondyke closed his eyes and calmed himself with a deep breath. If Burrows had really been a Spartan then he was almost certainly working for ONI. News this bad could cause panic, and that could lead to mass desertion. "Does anyone else know about this, Doc?"

Liton shook his head. "No, not yet."

"Good. Bag the body immediately. As far as the men are concerned, John lived and died a rebel." Ron pointed towards the tattoo and armored skull. "This never happened."

"Never happened?" Nadu's face burned red with anger. "No, son, this did happen. We fed, housed, clothed and served this filthy murderer for almost two years. Two years!"

"Keep your voice down. I'm telling you, the men must not know." The doctor merely shook his head.

"No, Ron. Not this time. First we're going to tell those men the truth," a vengeful, toothy grin spread across his whiskered face as he pointed at the hulking corpse "and then we'll watch the buzzards pick this freak clean." With that, Dr. Liton Nadu began walking towards the door.

How could you do this to me, John? Ron pulled a pistol from his coat, grimaced and then aimed it reluctantly towards the old man's head.

"Liton, please stop."

"No," the doctor said as he neared the exit, "I can't let this killer become a martyred hero. I won't. I'm sorry, Ron." As Nadu placed his hand on the knob he saw a bright flash reflect on the polished wooden door. He tried to open it, but his hand would not respond. That's strange. Before he could try again, his legs gave out and he fell to the ground—dead. More flashes, more reflections and the body of the door guard dropped next to him.

Brondyke looked at the smoking pistol with disgust and then hurled it across the room. I'm sorry too, old man. I'm sorry too.

The COM on his lapel beeped. This had better be important. "Yes?"

"Sir, this is Private Mercy Plotternick. Those two big men that Burrows had us watching just returned to their Prowler."

What did it matter anymore? "Roger that, Private. I want you to return immed—"

"Forgive me sir, but there's more. You're not going to believe this, but I think that those two guys are Spartans! One of them came out of the ship a moment ago and it was like nothing I've ever seen. Sir, I know this must sound crazy. Wait . . . they just started the engines. Sir, are you there?"

"Yes. Did you attach a transponder to the ship?"

"Sir, those Prowlers are like nothing you've ever seen! The surface is covered with some weird material. It's metal all right, but it's not magnetic. Nothing seems to stick to it either. I bet you couldn't even get chewing gum to—"

"Dang it, soldier! Did you put a transponder on it or not?"

The voice beamed with pride. "Sir, you bet I did! Are we gonna follow it?"

Ron ignored the question and tapped his COM. "Hank? This is Brondyke. Get Wiley's squad in a Pelican immediately and have them meet me behind Mickey's."

"Yes sir. Is there any information I can give him? I'm gonna have to wake him up, and he might go easier on me if I have something to tell him."

"Tell him he's going on a hunting trip."

"Hunting, sir? Hunting what?"

"Superman, Hank. Tell him he's going after Superman."

Ninety-five kilometers north of Sikyon, a man and woman sat on a park bench watching two kids play. Like the entire city of Seleucia, this park had seen better days. Weeds had long since conquered the grass in the small play area, and the equipment looked as if it had been through a war—and lost. The bench the man and woman sat on had not seen a new coat of paint in more than a decade. But the two five year olds did not seem to care and the large man was lost in thought. The woman, however, was a different story. She did not like this run-down park, or the filthy run-down city that surrounded it.

Sarah Cutlass looked over at MiNeS and decided to make another attempt at conversation. "Why are we here? We have bigger, better parks near the house in Canaan." She looked around and then scrunched up her nose as if catching a bad odor. "I hate this city. I don't feel safe bringing Nicholas and Ellen here."

MiNeS, who had been staring at the ground, looked up at the kids. Nick had just reached the top of a rusted metal slide that looked as if it would not hold even his meager weight. On the other side of the small park, Ellen went back and forth on a swing. Looking at his brother's fraternal twins brought both joy and grief. From the moment they had met, MiNeS had fallen in love with the two kids. But even as they played in the park, he could see sadness darken their faces. They had just lost their father—and it was all MiNeS' fault. He turned to look at his brother's widow and saw the same sadness.

"It's not safe for me to be near your house. It puts you and the kids in danger."

Sarah could hardly believe her ears. "Oh, and we're safe here, in the middle of the most dangerous city in the system?" The mere thought of what he would do to anyone who tried to hurt this family caused a smile to appear on MiNeS' face.

"Trust me, Sarah. I won't let anyone hurt you or the kids." He looked away. "You've been hurt enough." She reached out with her small hands and turned his face towards hers. Sarah's wise, beautiful eyes looked into his for several moments, until MiNeS felt as if she could read his thoughts.

"MiNeS, your silence is hurting me. Your coming home is the only joyful thing that has happened in this family since Ian—" she fought to keep control of her emotions. Sarah Cutlass did not cry in public. "Since Ian left. But you don't talk to me or Nick or Ellen; and God knows we need someone to talk to." She smiled and touched his face. "Ian has been telling us about you for years, and now you're here. It's like a miracle." He gently pulled her hand away.

A miracle? If she only knew. "I've done things, Sarah, things for ONI that I'm ashamed of." Again, he stared at the ground. "Things so bad that all I can feel is hate. I hate ONI for making me do them, and I hate myself because I obeyed their orders." He turned to look at her and the pain in his eyes nearly made her back away. "Being here, seeing what a wonderful wife my brother had, and seeing the kids, it just reminds me of what I can't go back to; it is the part of me that ONI killed." Tears began to form in his eyes, reminding Sarah again of her husband. Unlike her, Ian had never been ashamed to cry. "I can never go back. I have the memory of love, but my reality is hate."

Sarah shook her head. "MiNeS, do not blame ONI if you choose to hate. My husband lost everything—you, his mother and his father, but he never used it as an excuse to give up. He smiled, MiNeS, and he—" she could no longer hold back the tears, "and he laughed. He played with his kids, he helped his friends, he worshipped his God. He went on with his life because that is all you can do. If Ian could still live and love, why can't you?"

MiNeS turned his back to her and sat sideways on the bench. "You have no idea what I've done."

"I would if you told me."

He shook his head. "I can't tell you."

"Yes, you can." She put a hand on his shoulder, but he pulled away.

"No, I can't! And you have to stop asking me." Grabbing both of his massive shoulders, she tried in vain to turn him around. When he would not move, she spoke to him bitterly.

"Me and the kids loved Ian more than you could imagine and now," she took a deep breath, "now we've lost him forever. You returned at the time we needed you most, but you're too selfish to care about anything except your own problems! Nothing that you've done could be worse than—"

Suddenly MiNeS turned around, interrupting her with a voice as low and dead as his eyes. "I killed him, Sarah. I killed Ian. That's how I knew that he was dead." He made two fists and then looked at them as if they were poisonous snakes. "I killed my own brother with my bare hands." Horrified, Sarah backed away from him, not wanting to believe his words—but knowing that he spoke the truth. Conflicting feelings intersected on her face, twisting it into different expressions as one confused thought after another crashed through her mind.

"You killed Ian? You knew it was him and you still killed him?"

MiNeS shook his head. "No, not on purpose. I didn't know, oh God, I didn't know. Not until he was already dying." He reached into his pocket and pulled out several pictures. "He smiled at me, like he was glad to see me. Then he gave me these."

She took the photos from his hand and flipped through them. They were pictures of Ian, MiNeS and their parents, years ago when the boys were young. They were images of happier times. Sarah covered her mouth as she began to cry harder. "He took these with him everywhere." She looked up at MiNeS and managed a smile. "They were for you, in case he found you. Ian must have been so happy when he finally did."

MiNeS remembered back to that day, to the look on his brother's face and suddenly realized that Sarah was right; Ian was happy. His dying face was one of joy and peace, not anger or hatred—and that realization changed everything. That memory, which up until now had condemned MiNeS to a life of guilt; that same memory now set him free. Sarah wrapped her small arms around his neck and pulled him close.

"I don't blame you for what happened. You didn't know it was Ian. And think about it—if you had not been there he still would have been killed, but he would have died without ever seeing you again. Thank God you were there."

MiNeS thought about it for a moment, and it seemed that darkness and depression fled from his mind. A gentle, genuine smile spread over his face as he spoke words that five minutes before would have been unthinkable.

"Yeah, thank God I was there." He looked at Sarah's loving, forgiving face. "And thank God I am here."

Eight hours later they all sat in a restaurant, laughing and eating pizza. Normally it would not have been safe for a woman of Sarah's beauty to spend a day in Seleucia; but any would-be troublemakers took one look at her muscled escort and decided to leave her alone. For the first time since he was six, MiNeS laughed and played and talked with those he loved, free of guilt, and especially free of ONI. Just before sunset, Sarah, Ellen and Nicholas headed home. MiNeS, however, decided it would be safest for the family if he stayed in Seleucia.

It was almost ten at night when Sarah finally returned home, bringing her husband's Warthog to a stop in her gravel driveway. As usual, the kids jumped out and raced for the house; and as usual, Ellen won.

"So Nick," she said smiling ear-to-ear, "do you think you will ever beat me?" His only reply was an annoyed glare. Now laughing, Ellen turned the doorknob and began to walk in. "Maybe if you ate pizza that actually had vegetables on it you would—mommeeeeee! Mommeeeeee!"

Sarah heard Ellen scream, ran into the house—and froze. Standing no more than six feet inside the door was a hulking figure in white armor; and it held Ellen as if she were a tiny doll. Nick who had stopped just inside the entrance, stared at his sister with wide, frightened eyes.

The monster spoke in a cold voice. "Mrs. Cutlass?"

"Yes."

"Have you been contacted by somebody named 'MiNeS'?"

"No."

The white monster wrapped a huge, gauntleted hand around Ellen's tiny arm and began to squeeze. The little girl screamed in pain.

"No!" Sarah ran at him desperately, but a powerful arm swept out and sent her flying into the wall. Ellen screamed louder.

"Do you want watch as both of your children are tortured? Do you want to see their faces twisted in unimaginable pain as they beg you to save them, to make it stop—only to endure more pain? And finally, just before the life is snuffed out of their small bodies, I will make them watch as I tear you apart piece by piece. I will do it, Mrs. Cutlass." Even as he said it, she knew that it was no bluff. "Where is MiNeS?"

"He's not here, I swear!" Again, the white monster squeezed Ellen's little arm, and again she screamed in pain.

Sarah became hysterical. "Stop! Stop! Please! She's only five! Stop!"

But he didn't stop. He continued to squeeze, slowly increasing pressure on the thin bone. Ellen shrieked and kicked and begged as tears flowed down her small, terrified face. Then suddenly, even above the screams, Sarah heard her daughter's arm snap.

"I'll get him! Oh God, I'll get him!"

"That's better, Mrs. Cutlass. Send MiNeS to the barn at the back of your property by three in the morning. If he does not show up by that time you will get this child back in pieces. Do not disappoint me, Mrs. Cutlass."

Sobbing and unable to speak, Sarah nodded. A moment later, the monster was gone—and so was her frightened, injured little girl.

Ellen Cutlass was usually sleeping at two fifty-eight in the morning, but not this night. No, this night she sat on a bale of hay, staring at a huge, white monster. The pain in her broken arm had finally calmed down to the point that she could relax if she did not move it. Fixing a poisonous gaze at her massive captor, Ellen spoke with the maturity of a much older child.

"What is your name?"

The armored demon turned, surprised not only by the question, but by the strong, fearless voice that posed it. "My name is Simjanes."

"Well, Simjanes, you should know that there is no way that my mom is going to send you my uncle MiNeS."

The Spartan almost chuckled. "No?"

"No. We are Cutlasses, Mr. Simjanes, and we don't take to having others tell us what to do. It's just not our way." Sim walked over to the girl and lowered his head until Ellen could see her reflection in his visor.

"If your mommy does not bring your uncle here in the next minute, I will kill you and do this all over again using your brother."

The little girl laughed. "I don't think so. I think that the you'll be the one who dies."

Oh yeah? I'm going to enjoy this more than I thought. Out of the armor came a cold, merciless voice—a voice of cruelty; the promise of certain Death. "You were right about your mother: she did not send me MiNeS. And it is now one minute after three." He pulled out a large, gleaming knife and held it to the little girl's throat. "Time for you to die. Any last words?"

Ellen nodded and then, leaning forward until her lips almost touched the monster's helmet, she spoke in a clear voice. "You're. Gonna. Die."

Even though he knew that these were just the ramblings of a tired little girl, something about the way she spoke unnerved him. Despite himself, Simjanes could not shake the feeling that somehow his life was now in danger.

"Who is going to kill me?"

"My uncle. He likes me a lot, and it makes him really mad when people bother me."

"I thought you said that your mommy wouldn't send MiNeS here." Suddenly the ground beneath them began to shake, but rather than frightening the little girl, it made her smile even wider.

"Not uncle MiNeS. I'm talking about my other uncle." She giggled as the ground quaked even more, causing the walls of the barn to sway and showering them with dust from the rafters above.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

An icy chill shot up the Spartan's spine as he came to a sudden, horrible realization: the shaking was not being caused by an earthquake, but by footsteps. Ellen was now beaming. "Heeere heee comes! You're gonna die, Mr. Simjanes!"

For the second time that night he heard the musings of a traumatized little girl—and believed every single word.

C.T. Clown

Waking the Dead (part seven): Hide and Seek
Date: 3 November 2005, 2:31 pm

Waking the Dead (part seven): Hide and Seek

In the last two weeks, I have finally seen some of the consequences of my research. My first creation, which lived less than an hour, spent its entire life screaming in pain. They are now staying alive for nearly a day, and although their ability to vocalize is destroyed after about seven hours, their ability to feel pain obviously remains. Since you were concerned about their intelligence, you will no doubt be pleased to hear that one of them actually figured out a way to kill itself. It appears that they learn quite quickly. Access to living subjects has also allowed us to investigate some of our heretofore-unanswered questions. Unfortunately, I may have all but confirmed something extremely disturbing.

. . . without a completed subject there is no way to be certain, however, the mere possibility of such an outcome carries with it enough horror to warrant the closure of this project. We now know beyond any doubt that we are working with genetic material consistent with that of the older part of the species, and the differences between the earlier and later skeletons are more than alarming—they are unnerving. I can say without reservation that I would rather fight the Covenant on our present terms than bring even one of these things back into being. Consider, Colonel: if this project is a success (which, given the new information, is unlikely) you will give humanity a somewhat better chance of winning this war. If this project goes the way I suspect it will, you may very well give mankind an enemy that is much more terrifying than the Covenant.

As I said earlier, I have finally seen the consequences of my research. Death. Pain. Suffering. My creations take in breath only to scream, and although they do not have knowledge enough to hate me, I do not share their ignorance. The fact that my intentions were good is of no comfort; nor is the fact that I am not beyond the touch of guilt. I've had decency enough to feel shame for my actions, but not enough to do something about them—until now. May God forgive me for what I've done, and for what I'm about to do. May God forgive us all.

From a note written by Dr. Alexei Imanov just before his suicide on May 12, 2548.

Four years later . . .

Colonel Ackerson leaned back in his chair and smiled. Sometimes death is good news.

"That's excellent. Do they kill willingly?"

"I'd say a bit too willingly." Major Samuel Cousins Jr. replied from the other side of the desk. "They start to attack the moment someone steps through the arena door, and they don't stop until well after their opponent is dead. I'm fairly sure they enjoy it." As the Colonel smiled for a second time, Sam sipped from a glass of water. His mouth had suddenly gone dry. "We haven't even trained them to attack. They do it on their own, without provocation. It's unnerving."

Sitting straight in his chair, the Colonel spoke with subdued excitement. "Good. The Covenant has had a monopoly on intimidation for too long."

"Yes, sir." Major Cousins said, trying not to roll is his eyes. Bravado was not without its uses, but it had no place at a research facility. "The demonstration will begin in a few minutes, sir. We had better get going."

Rhinox had always wondered what happened in this building. From the outside it looked like a relatively small and enclosed arena, possibly for training. But he had never seen Spartans or any other soldiers use it. Sitting inside the building for the very first time, he knew one thing for sure: it gave him the creeps.

He had just begun his daily patrol when he was ordered to the mysterious facility. An unfamiliar soldier had met him at the front door, wearing fatigues but no insignia designating service or rank. The man looked Rhinox over as if he were a circus attraction and then beckoned him forward.

"Follow me." He spoke the order in a crisp monotone voice, turned on his heal and then walked briskly through the hall. About thirty meters down the corridor, which wrapped all the way around the circular facility, the man stopped at an unmarked door. Rhinox grunted and shook his head.

"Is anything here marked?"

Ignoring the question, the soldier punched in a code and the door swung open automatically. Rhinox felt a twinge of caution. The door, which had seemed normal enough when shut, was nearly half a meter thick and looked to be on loan from the national treasury. The unmarked soldier pointed into the room. "Please, step inside." The big Spartan suddenly felt his caution turn to fear—and that did not happen often. Something was wrong.

"Why do you need that?" Rhinox said, pointing at the thick door.

"You'll know soon enough. Now please, step inside." Against every instinct, the big Spartan entered the room—and without warning, the door slammed shut behind him with a heavy, metallic thud. He turned around and felt for a handle, but the surface of the door was perfectly smooth and had shut flush, all but becoming part of the wall. Directly across the small room, another door swung open—and Rhinox froze in terror.

The new opening led into a circular arena surrounded by steel walls that were topped with clear, thick glass. Something stood in the middle of the floor—something huge. Armored from head to toe and standing over three and a half meters tall, it looked like a creature out of a storybook. A large helmet, not unlike a Spartan's, covered the head. But from the neck down it wore a suit of what looked like gleaming titanium-A. Rhinox saw a warning light flicker on his HUD and a pleasant female voice informed him that his heart rate was dangerously high. A moment later, the ground began to shake beneath his feet. It was running towards him. In that moment, as the thing charged at him, Rhinox' fear dissolved and years of combat training took over. The Spartan knew nothing of giants, but being attacked?

That he understood.

Eyes brightened under his visor as his heart rate calmed and his senses became hyper-aware. Everything around him seemed to slow as he took in every detail and planned his first move. Finally, with the monster less than a stride away from the doorway, Rhinox sprang to life. With a sudden burst of in-human speed, he exploded from doorway and ran to the middle of the arena. Apparently confused by the Spartan's quickness, the giant stared at the empty space for several seconds before realizing that Rhinox had ran past him. Turning around, the thing moved towards him again, but this time slower and more cautious.

Observing from above, Colonel Ackerson turned to Sam and smiled. "He learns quickly."

"Yes, sir," the Major replied with a nod. Maybe a little too quickly.

With each footstep sounding thunder, the giant approached Rhinox in a purely offensive stance, expecting him to run. But he had never fought a Spartan before. Rushing forward in a blur of motion, Rhinox launched himself into the air feet-first and slammed two armored boots into the giant's chest; knocking him backward like a felled tree. Before his opponent had even hit the ground, the Spartan attacked again, leaping onto his upper torso and smashing his fist into the giant's helmet so hard that it cracked open. But before he could strike a second blow, a gigantic hand closed around his body so tight that he could feel his MJOLNIR armor buckle inward. Rhinox pulled at the massive fingers with all of his strength, but they would not move. Cruelly, the fist closed even tighter. Holding the Spartan like a trophy, the behemoth stood to its feet, threw its head back and let out a deep, rumbling, inhuman cry.

Finally the giant squeezed with all of its strength and Major Cousins felt a sudden chill. After all, it isn't every day that you hear a Spartan scream. With another cry of rage, it pulled its hand back, lifted Rhinox above its head, and then with surprising quickness, moved its arm forward in a circular motion and slammed the Spartan into the ground, killing him instantly.

But it was not over yet.

Standing above his lifeless opponent, the giant balled its right hand into a fist. By design, the titanium armor came together in an almost seamless, three-inch plate when the hand was closed; starting at the top of the knuckles and extending down past the curvature of the fingers. Without a moment's hesitation, it bent to a knee and brought the titanium fist down again and again, pounding the Spartan into a broken, bloody mass of flesh, bone and armor. Major Cousins winced, but Ackerson smiled.

The Colonel had just watched as one of the greatest warriors in the history of mankind was defeated as if he were little more than a child—and it had taken less than two minutes. He turned to say something to Sam, but stopped cold. The giant, having ceased his assault on the Spartan corpse, was now staring at him. Since the observation glass started three meters above the floor, the monster's head was at the same height as the seated officers. Cousins was right about these things; they are unnerving.

"What is he doing, Sam?" Before the Major could answer, the giant ran towards them and smashed his titanium-armored fist into the nearly impenetrable glass. Ackerson all but jumped out of his seat.

Cousin's spoken in a grave, matter-of-fact tone. "Like I said, they enjoy killing. He's trying to break through." Again, the fist slammed into the glass, this time with such force that it felt like an earthquake. The Major turned and looked the Colonel in the eye. "He's trying to kill us."

Ellen Cutlass was still giggling when something exploded through the far wall of the barn—something huge. As the only Spartan brought into Colonel Ackerson's trust, Simjanes knew what he was looking at: but he had never seen one; and knowing was far different than seeing. For the first time in his life, he faced an opponent much larger than himself. For the first time in his life, he felt fear. Still, he was armored and it was not.

Pulling his knife away from the girl's throat, he took two steps towards the charging giant and then launched himself into the air, towards its head. But a massive fist met him halfway, striking him with the force of a warthog. Tumbling end over end, the Spartan crashed through the opposite wall and into the trees outside.

"Uncle Danny!" Ellen yelled, waving her good arm, "I'm over here!" Without a word, the giant guardian scooped Ellen up and ran towards the Cutlass home. Easily hidden in the gentle, giant hands, the little girl looked up and smiled. Tears were running down her uncle's face.

"How is your arm, honey?" His voice was deep and strong; but also sad and angry. Suddenly remembering that her arm had been broken, Ellen clutched it and pain shot through her body.

"It hurts, Uncle Danny." She began to cry. "That man in the white armor broke it."

"I know he did, honey." His lips pursed in fury. "I know he did." Stopping a couple hundred meters behind the house, he could already see his sister-in-law, Sarah Cutlass, emerging from the rear. Lying deep within his arms, Ellen began to weep harder as the full force of the horrible ordeal began to hit her. Danny held his niece tight as her little body began to shake with increasingly bitter sobs. He turned his head and looked back towards the barn, silently praying that Simjanes would not get away.

Sarah ran up, grabbed her daughter and wept. "Thank you, Danny," she said between sobs. "Thank you." Suddenly the little girl let out a horrible, pain-filled shriek as her mother's hand accidentally brushed up against her break. Sarah looked up at Danny, thankful that Ellen could not see her face. She spoke to her brother-in-law through clenched teeth. "Did you kill him?"

"I'm not sure, Sarah. I don't dare check until I know you're all safe." She shook her head in anger.

"No! Look what he did to my daughter! Go, find him and make sure he's dead."

"But what if he comes back to the house?"

"Then I'll take care of him," she said as she looked down at Ellen's arm, "and he'll wish to God that you had found him first."

Chuckles and Caleb had spent the entire day searching for information. Flying all over the area, they asked their questions without caring who saw the Prowler or their MJOLNIR armor. Some people spoke freely, some resisted, but eventually everybody talked. It was well after midnight when they finally caught a break and headed for a house in the small town of Canaan.

"Your turn to knock," Caleb joked as they walked up to the door. Unfortunately, it had been a long day and Chuckles did not appreciate the humor. He gave the door three hard raps, nearly cracking the wood with each blow. After several seconds, the door swung open to a beautiful young woman—holding the biggest shotgun either of them had ever seen. Without a word, she pointed the barrel straight at Chuckles' head.

"Mrs. Cutlass?" He lifted his hands slowly.

"Shut up! You," she glanced at Caleb, "step out from behind him!"

"Yes, ma'am." Hands lifted, he obediently stepped sideways. He knew that if she pulled the trigger on that cannon she would lose her right arm, but that would not make the blast any less deadly. Leaning forward slightly, she quickly glanced left and right and then looked back at Chuckles.

"Is your friend with you?"

"Friend?" He shook his head quizzically.

"Simjanes." She spit the name out as if it were poison. "No wonder MiNeS was ashamed to be one of you!"

Bingo.

"They were both here? Did Simjanes . . ." Chuckles paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. "Is MiNeS okay?"

The concern in his voice surprised her. "Yes, he was already gone." Sarah's tone softened slightly, but she held the gun steady. "Why are you here?"

"Ma'am," Chuckles said, "we're trying to save MiNeS' life, and with all due respect," he glanced down at that shotgun barrel, "we are wasting time."

Ellen and Nicholas Cutlass emerged from the hallway behind Sarah, looked towards the door and screamed. Sarah turned her head—and Chuckles saw his chance. Moving faster than the human eye can follow, the Spartan snatched the weapon from her hands and shoved her onto the couch to the left of the door. Caleb pulled out his pistol, Ellen and Nick continued to scream and Sarah shrank back in terror. But Chuckles, standing smack in the middle of it all, merely admired the massive weapon he'd just grabbed, like a kid admiring a new toy.

"Is this a six-gauge?" He said with barely subdued glee. Looking up from the couch, Sarah nodded. "Nice. Very nice." He grabbed the box of shells on the ground by her feet, pulled out his pistol and tossed it next to her. "Let's trade. That's not nearly as big, but at least you'll live to fire it twice."

"Hey, Chuck." Across the room, his partner was kneeling by two young children. It was then that Chuckles noticed the little girl's arm. Caleb looked up. "This is an ugly break. She says that someone did it to her on purpose—someone who looks like us."

Concealed behind his MJOLNIR visor, Chuckles' face turned red with anger. "Mrs. Cutlass, you need to tell me what happened. You need to tell me everything."

Wiley stared at the data pad and, for the first time in almost twenty-four hours, he smiled. Sitting next to him in the Pelican, rebel Commander Ronald Brondyke looked at the screen with equal enthusiasm, but he didn't smile. He never smiled. Wiley walked to the front of the ship.

"Okay, Murph," he said, handing the pilot the data pad, "they're finally sitting still. Set us down," he pointed to the screen, "right there, and don't worry about wasting fuel."

Murph smiled. Oh yeah. "Roger that, sir! You'd better strap in!" Wiley returned to his seat, buckled up and spoke over his COM.

"Okay, men, we'll be landing in about three minutes. The targets are believed to be in a house at the front of a large farm." He lifted the data pad and pointed at the screen. "We will have tree cover on all sides but the north. We have a kill-zone of almost two-hundred meters to the south and just over one-hundred meters to the east and west." Every man in the Pelican smiled. He might as well have told him that the targets were bound and gagged.

"I want Sal and Lambert covering three to five o'clock; and Randy and Paul at seven and nine. That leaves me six." He turned to the largest man in the ship. "Mike, I want you and your .50 cal within forty meters of that house. Turn that place into Swiss cheese. And fellas, try your best not to kill him."

Mike shook his head in wonder. "Sir, why don't we just blow the house up?" Several men nodded agreement.

"We believe that our targets are Spartans," Wiley replied in a cautious tone. "We can leave nothing to chance. A Spartan could very well survive an explosion, and then use it as cover to escape. And make no mistake, you do not want to face one of them on equal ground. Once a target is down, make sure that it stays down. Pour it into them beyond any doubt. Any questions?"

Sal spoke up immediately. "Sir, since this is a farmhouse, there could be non-combatants inside. If so, how are they to be treated?"

Wiley was silent for a moment and then turned to Brondyke. "Your call, boss."

"Men, you need to remember that these Spartans are not only elite soldiers, but also agents of ONI. That means that they are trained to use our compassion and humanity against us, while at the same time recruiting the very people that we give our lives to protect. Thus, ONI leaves us with no choice but to view every contact they make as intentional and malicious." Apparently thinking that his instructions were clear, Brondyke leaned back in his seat. Wiley rolled his eyes.

"Which means, sir?"

"Kill them. Man, woman or child—kill them all."

Nearly half and hour after she had begun, Sarah finally finished the sad story of the Cutlass family. Chuckles stood in shocked silence. The account had started with the attempted kidnapping of a baby giant—and then it got weird. But it also made sense. He now knew why he had been sent to kill MiNeS. He also knew something far more important: he knew what Ackerson was doing at the arctic base.

"Did Danny injure Simjanes?"

"He thinks so, but he isn't sure."

Chuckles kneeled down so that they were face to visor. "You have to assume that he will come back, and ma'am, he won't fail twice—not Simjanes." He stood and looked around the room. "We need to get these windows covered."

Suddenly the glass behind him shattered as a high-velocity round whizzed past the Spartan's head and slammed into the wall behind the couch. Chuckles leapt toward Sarah, yanking her to the floor just as two more windows exploded, spraying the room with glass. Sarah scanned the room for her children. Caleb had been talking with them a few minutes before, but he had left to get medical supplies out of the Prowler.

"Ellen! Nick!" Sarah screamed, and a second later the two five year-olds emerged from the hallway. More rounds whistled through the broken windows, hitting the wall next to the children. Rolling across the floor, Chuckles pulled them to the ground with a thud and then yanked them over to their mother. Ellen banged her arm and let out a horrible scream.

"Caleb," he said, speaking into the COM as calmly as possible, "we are under attack!"

"Roger that!" Caleb replied. Running to the front of the Prowler, he swept the aft camera along the tree line. "I see at least three subjects. I'll land the ship behind them and—"

"Negative! Get out of here and go get MiNeS!"

"But, sir—"

"That's an order, kid! If we all die, they win. Now get out of here—move!"

It was the hardest order Caleb had ever received, but he knew Chuckles was right. Within moments the ship rose silently into the air.

None of Wiley's men had seen the Prowler, and it was gone before anyone could get off a shot. Adding insult to injury was the fact that the area immediately surrounding the house was lit so well that they weren't even using night vision. Wiley slammed his fist into the soft ground beneath him and let go with a string of random expletives.

"Sir," Randy said over the COM, "was that an order?"

Wiley ignored the joke. "Okay Mike, there's still at least one Spartan in there. He's all yours."

"Yes, sir!"

The gunfire stopped for a moment and a strange silence filled the house. Glass tinkled around them as the wind blew softly through the shattered windows. And then like a whispered promise of death, a metallic sound floated in from the yard—a sound Chuckles had heard many times before.

"Heads down!" the Spartan yelled, and an instant later the wall began to explode one hole at a time, as .50 caliber rounds marched back and forth across the room in a ghoulish search for flesh. "Does this place have a basement?" Chuckles screamed over the thundering gunfire.

"Yes," Sarah yelled as the bullets walked closer and closer, "but the door is in the other—" Before she could finish, Chuckles got to his knees and slammed his fist into the floor, smashing a hole through the floorboards as if they were made of balsa. Using both hands, he tore at the sides until the hole was big enough and then slid in headfirst. Within seconds he had the entire family in the basement.

Chuckles turned to Sarah. "Where's the electrical box?" His voice was so cold that she took a step backward.

"Over there," she pointed, "at the bottom of the steps. What are you going to do?" The Spartan walked over and flipped open the small, metal door.

"I'm gonna kill them; every last one of them."

"Cease fire!" Wiley yelled, pleased that they were finally making progress. "Okay, Sal and Paul, eyes on the rear exit. Randy and Lambert, eyes on the front. Mike, fire at anything that moves. Let's all sit tight and let them come to us." Suddenly, every light in the house and on the property went out, causing Wiley to chuckle. Must be amateur night. "Okay, everyone, switch to night-vision."

Within a few moments, the area around the house was once again visible, and each sniper smiled and took careful aim. After all, it was only a matter of time. Sooner or later, whoever had lived to turn off those lights would make a break for it, and when he did, they'd blast him to doll-rags and that would be that. Ignorance, however, is not always bliss: sometimes it is deadly. Had they known what they were up against, they would not have smiled. Had they known, they might have been more defensive and less careless. Had they known . . .

But they had no idea.

Suddenly an explosion went off near the house; momentarily turning darkness to day and night-vision to torture. To a man, they tore the equipment off, but not before their eyes were assaulted by the brightest flash of light they'd ever seen. With their pupils reduced to pinholes and the illumination of the explosion lasting little more than a second, they were now completely blind.

Wiley took a moment to calm his nerves, strapped his goggles back on and looked around. The darkness, a friend and comfort just a moment before, was now a terrifying, unknown enemy. But he had no time for fear: he had a squad to pull back together. "Okay, men, put your goggles back on immediately and find deeper cover. Mike, get yourself back to the Pelican and cover Brondyke." No response. "Mike?" A slow, cold chill began to creep up Wiley's back. "Can anyone see Mike?"

"Oh God," Lambert said, speaking a little above a whisper. "I can't find my goggles. I dropped them when I pulled them off. Oh God, I can't see my hand in front of my—" Wiley heard a short shriek, a thud and then the sound of escaping air.

"Lam?" Wiley asked, knowing in his gut that there would be no response. "Sal, do you know what happened to Lambert?" The answer came in a frightened whisper.

"Oh man. I'm wearing my night vision and I, uh, I was only about ten meters from Lambert, but I didn't see a thing." Wiley heard panicked breaths.

"Sal, can you see Lambert? Is he dead?"

"Oh God! He's, he's br-broken in freaking two! Who's that? Is that one of you guys? No. No! Wait!"

Without even thinking, Wiley backed further into the trees and lay flat on his belly. After a couple minutes he heard two shots ring out somewhere to his right. No!

"Randy? Paul?" There was no answer—and he knew why. Sliding on his stomach, he pushed himself even deeper into the woods and assessed his situation. Before Burrows showed up a couple of years before, Wiley had been considered the toughest rebel in the system. And, as anyone could have told you, he was pure death with a sniper rifle. But this time he had not planned on fighting all by himself, but with a group of men. Now they were dead and, tough or not, he was unprepared for this fight. Out of his meager set of options, Wiley chose the only one that held any merit: getting to the Pelican just as fast as his legs would carry him. Silently, he got to his feet and headed away from the farm and towards the ship.

"Murph, are you there? Murph?" Nothing. "Ron?" Silence. After letting loose with another barrage of curses, he moved through the darkness with speed and skill until he came to the edge of a small clearing. A Pelican sat in the middle of the field, less than fifty meters ahead. Wiley pulled the scope off his rifle and carefully checked the LZ. Nothing. Fear shot through his body like electricity, but he had survived hairy situations before, and with that confidence he moved towards the ship. As he neared the ramp, he pulled out his pistol; wishing to God that he had brought a shotgun. After ascending slowly, he walked to the front of the Pelican. Before taking the final couple of steps, he stopped and spoke in a loud whisper. "Murph? Ron? You guys okay?" When nobody answered, fear asserted itself once again, painting graphic pictures of what he might find up front and paralyzing his legs.

Pull it together, man. Two steps, just two steps. It was like moving solid lead, but the legs finally responded. Wiley stepped into the cockpit—and nearly vomited. Both men were slumped back in their seats, with their eyes wide open and their throats cut to the spinal cord.

Wiley stifled a gasp, uttered a fearful curse, turned around—and ran into a wall of MJOLNIR armor. A gauntleted hand seized his throat like an angry vice, lifting him from the floor and slamming him into the wall.

"How did you know we were here?" Death spoke to the rebel through clenched teeth.

Finally able to look upon his enemy, Wiley felt his fear dissolve and his anger swell up. "Easy, we just followed your stench."

"Oh, funny-man!" Chuckles violently tore off Wiley's helmet and smacked him across the face; knocking out so many teeth that the rebel nearly choked on the blood. He spoke again. "How did you find us?"

Without a word, Wiley spit a mouthful of blood and teeth at the Spartan's face. Under his MJOLNIR helmet, Chuckles actually smiled. Tough rebel. "You know, if I hadn't seen you trying to kill a mother and her two small kids, I might have mistaken you for a real soldier."

"Brondyke gave that order, not me. It wasn't my call." The Spartan laughed humorlessly.

"It was your finger on the trigger, soldier!" The Spartan pulled out his knife and pointed it at Wiley's face. "It was your call!" With quick and deadly precision, he swept the blade forward, slashing the rebel's throat. After tossing the body from the Pelican, Chuckles gave it one last look and then shook his head in disgust.

"What a waste."

Caleb found the park that Sarah Cutlass had described; a neglected square of overgrown bushes and crumbling equipment sitting right in the middle of Seleucia. Descending from the night sky with surprising silence, he landed the Prowler next to the rusting playground and exited the ship. After several minutes of fruitlessly searching through junk and under graffiti covered concrete benches, Caleb began to think Mrs. Cutlass had made a mistake. But then he remembered hide-and-seek.

Years ago, during their first years in the SPARTAN program, CPO Mendez used to have them play hide-and-seek as a method of training. He would take them to a place that offered little obvious cover, give them two minutes to hide and then Mendez and the adult trainers would begin to look for them. Anyone found in less than a minute missed the next two meals, while those found in less than two minutes would miss only one. Since everyone was almost certain to miss at least one meal, all of the trainees hated the exercise; all, that is, except MiNeS. Possessing the uncanny ability to vanish no matter what the surroundings, the young Spartan had never been found in less than two minutes. In fact, Caleb could remember at least two occasions when Mendez had spent several hours searching for MiNeS, only to find him sleeping like a baby.

Bringing his thoughts back to the present, the young Spartan sighed. If MiNeS did not want to be found, the search could take hours. To his relief, he heard a voice behind him.

"Caleb?" He spun around and saw MiNeS climbing out of an overgrown bush about thirty meters away. Then, as if it suddenly occurred to him that his old friend might have been sent to kill him, he backed up a few steps. "Why are you here? Did Ackerson send you?"

"Of course he was sent by Ackerson," someone called out from the entrance of the Prowler. They both turned their heads to see a Spartan in white armor stepping out of the ship. Caleb's blood ran cold as he came to a horrible realization: he had taken Simjanes straight to MiNeS.

"Good work, Caleb. The Colonel will be pleased." Sim stopped about five meters in front of the ship. Caleb started to walk sideways towards MiNeS as Simjanes continued. "You are still working for the UNSC, aren't you?" Still making his way to his old friend, Caleb suddenly pulled out his pistol and aimed it at the white-armored head.

"Yes," he replied, "for the UNSC, but not for Ackerson."

Simjanes shook his head in mock sadness. "That's too bad." In an astounding display of speed, he had his pistol out and aimed at Caleb before the young Spartan could respond. "Poor Chuckles is going to lose another partner."

"Chuckles!" Caleb yelled over his COM, praying that he had lived through the attack on the farm.

The older Spartan had just strapped into the rebel Pelican. "Still here, kid. What's wrong?"

How could he say it? "I found MiNeS, but Simjanes was in the Prowler." Caleb could almost hear the older Spartan wince. "What do I do?"

Chuckles did not hesitate. "Run! Run now, or he will kill you!"

Simjanes began to move towards MiNeS; MiNeS started to walk sideways towards Caleb, and Caleb had to think fast. If he followed Chuckles' order, MiNeS, who was not wearing his MJOLNIR armor, would almost certainly die. On the other hand, Simjanes' skills were legend. If Caleb stood his ground it would certainly cost him his life—but it would at least buy MiNeS a little time.

"Better get here just, Chuck. I'll hold him off as long as I can. Out."

"Caleb? Caleb!" But the young Spartan had closed the channel. Chuckles steeled his nerve, started the Pelican's engines and buried the throttle. As he roared into the pre-dawn sky, he knew that, at best, Caleb could buy him two or three minutes. And at worst? Caleb and MiNeS were already dead.

C.T. Clown

Waking the Dead (part eight): Dead by Dawn
Date: 30 December 2005, 12:11 am

Waking the Dead (part eight): Dead by Dawn

The first complete skeleton was found outside of Gaza in April of 2263; and just like that, billions of history books became obsolete. Less than a month later in the same area, archaeologists unearthed a massive ancient tomb, its contents confirming once and for all something that had been taught in Sunday school for hundreds of years: giants were no fairytale.

Aside from gloating theologians and euphoric scientists, however, this revelation, though exciting, was purely academic. Over two thousand giant skeletons were thoroughly researched and exhaustively catalogued. But as the years passed, the generation that witnessed the discovery passed with them, and giants became as passé and familiar as dinosaurs.

And then, in 2525, the Covenant appeared and ONI geneticists began looking to our ancient past with envy. Within the year they were scouring medical records for carriers of a recessive gene consistent with the DNA from the giant bones. But, as is often the case in times of crisis, they were in too much of a hurry and thus made a crucial mistake. ONI rushed forward carelessly when they should have been looking backward carefully; towards the past and two thousand skeletons that spoke a tale of caution to unhearing ears.

Back in 2263, scientists were disappointed that the giant skeletons gave no clue towards their origin—at least, no clue that a scientist would willingly follow. The earlier skeletons, which there were much fewer of, were different from the latter ones in ways that were striking, and even a bit disturbing. The younger skeletons had the teeth and jaws of an omnivore, and save for the size, looked like those of normal men. The more ancient ones, however, were far different. They had teeth like those of a lion—only much larger. Their lower jaws were slightly elongated and connected to the skull by a simple hinge; giving them none of the side-to-side mobility needed to grind vegetation. They were the teeth and jaws of a pure carnivore; of a predator.

Of a monster.

Many theologians believed that Goliath and others that the Bible refers to as the Sons of Anak were likely part of the latter, more "normal" group of giants. Many of these same scholars also believed that scripture made reference to the early, more predatory group of giants by a different name. In many if not most Bibles, the word is either left un-translated, or defined simply as "giant"—but that is not what it means. It is a simple word that explains all that man ever need know about these terrible, ancient creatures.

It is the Hebrew word nephilim, which translates into English as the fallen.

It was only a few minutes before dawn, but darkness still clung to Seleucia, concealing its decay like a shroud draped over a rotting corpse. For the first time in many months the din of constant activity was absent, replaced by a silence that, for this troubled city, was both sweet and strange. If, however, any of its harried inhabitants wanted to step outside and savor the rare confluence of peace, they would need to hurry. A confrontation in one of the city's neglected parks was about to reach critical mass.

Peace wouldn't live to see sunrise.

Save for the different color armor, Caleb and Simjanes looked like mirror images: each held a pistol in an outstretched arm, aimed at the other one's head. Caleb spoke to Chuckles over his COM, his tone belying the escalating situation.

"I found MiNeS, but Simjanes was in the Prowler. What do I do?" Chuckles' reply was immediate.

"Run! Run now, or he will kill you!"

Simjanes began to move towards MiNeS; MiNeS started to walk sideways towards Caleb, and Caleb had to think fast. If he followed Chuckles' order, MiNeS, who was not wearing his MJOLNIR armor, would almost certainly die. On the other hand, Simjanes' skills were legendary. If Caleb stood his ground it would cost him his life—but it would at least buy MiNeS a little time.

"Better get here fast, Chuck. I'll hold him off as long as I can. Out." He closed the channel before Chuckles could reply: this was no time for a debate over the chain of command. Sensing that the lid was about to blow, MiNeS ran the final few steps and stood behind his armored friend. Simjanes stopped about five meters if front of them and spoke with all the emotion of a computer.

"This is your last chance, Caleb. Get out of my way and I'll let you live."

The young Spartan shook his head. "No, Chuckles will be here in a couple of minutes and I'm going to make sure you're still here to meet him."

"I might still be here to meet him, Caleb, but you won't. You'll be dead." Considering that the kid was little more than a rookie, Simjanes expected him to fight defensively and die quickly. But he was greatly mistaken. Caleb had already accepted the fact that saving MiNeS would cost him his life—and few things in this universe are as dangerous as a Spartan with nothing to lose.

Stepping quickly sideways, Simjanes fired three quick shots, but each bullet missed as Caleb, in a bold and unexpected move, somersaulted through the air, catching Sim off guard and slamming a MJOLNIR boot into his chest. The legendary Spartan flew backwards and hit the ground with a thud.

"MiNeS, run!"

Looking up from the ground just as Caleb began to charge and his mission objective started to escape, Simjanes faced a dilemma. He could not let MiNeS get away, but shooting him was out of the question, since he could not risk killing the young Spartan before he had questioned him at length. He had only one option. Still lying on his back, he grabbed his pistol by the barrel and threw it with inhuman skill, hitting MiNeS in the head; knocking him out cold.

Caleb took his eyes off his opponent just long enough to follow the throw, but that was all the time Simjanes needed. He leapt to his feet and palmed his combat knife. It was his turn to charge.

Spinner around, the young Spartan wanted to fire, but Simjanes was already too close. Death's blade shot forward and Caleb stepped backward, knocking it clear with his pistol less than a centimeter from his throat. Death spun, slashed again, and again met the steel of the gun. The knife work was extremely quick and precise, and the fact that he had been able to repel both attacks filled Caleb with confidence. But as many a dead men could have told him, Simjanes often toyed with opponents at the beginning of a fight. Whether it was to measure the enemy's skill before attacking in earnest or merely to fill them with false confidence, not even the dead knew for sure. But one thing was certain: when the toying stopped the killing began. Beneath his dull white helmet, Simjanes smiled.

Goodbye, Caleb.

In a sudden explosion of speed and skill like Caleb had never seen, Simjanes attacked once more; his arms, hands and weapon dissolving into a single, lethal blur. Reacting with quickness he did not know he possessed, the young Spartan blocked the first few jabs before the gun flew from his hand and clanked to the ground.

Death was now so close that he could smell its stench, and every instinct cried out for him to run, to get out, to live to fight another day. But he was not listening to those voices. No, he remembered what he had vowed just moments ago, before the fight had begun. He was not here to win or even to survive. He was here for MiNeS; he was here to die.

Suddenly, with Death just inches from his face, Caleb stopped, lowered his head and ran straight into it—and for the second and final time in the fight, Simjanes was caught off guard. His knife hand slammed into Caleb's MJOLNIR helmet—which had appeared seemingly out of nowhere—and the weapon slipped from his grasping fingers. The young Spartan's head collided with Sim's chest, knocking him back on his heels. Simjanes tried to regain his balance, but Caleb struck too soon, smashing a gauntleted fist into the side of his head so hard that he almost blacked out. Pulling out his own knife, the young Spartan placed both hands on the handle and plunged it towards his opponents' neck with all his remaining strength.

Simjanes' foot flashed forward with insane speed, kicking the knife out of Caleb's hands. Whirling around in rage, he kicked again, striking the center of the young Spartan's chest so hard that he flew through the air like a rag doll in a storm and crashed headfirst into a tree.

Everything became peaceful and quiet for Caleb: no worries, no emergencies and no pain. Something grabbed him under the arms and yanked him upright; and as he moved the world around him smeared like wet paint. Slowly, things seemed to come back into focus and he saw something white standing in front of him. The white thing suddenly smeared and Caleb heard a flurry of muffled thumps. His MJOLNIR armor began to press hard against his chest and lower abdomen, and he felt a slight, distant pain. The world smeared again as Caleb's legs gave way and he fell to his knees.

More thumps, more pressure and it seemed that his lower back all but came out the other side of his suit. He tried to look down and see what was happening, but everything began turning black, and he could no longer tell where one thing ended and another began. Cool, refreshing air suddenly hit his face and it felt so good that he forgot about how weird his armor was feeling. He even forgot that the world had been painted black. From now on he would wear that stuffy helmet less and enjoy life more. How long had it been since he had felt this peaceful? Too long. Thoughts began to melt into the same dark paint that coated the world, and Caleb decided he was far too tired to think. Cold blackness poured into his mind, pulling him slowly into its permanent embrace. There was no life in it: only peace. Soon he would have no more cares and no more pain. It was only a matter of time.

When Simjanes had finally ended the savage beating, the young Spartan's armor looked like a crushed can and the tree he'd been propped against was nearly uprooted. Caleb swayed forward and back like a drunk and then fell to his knees; smacking his bloody helmet into Simjanes' leg and leaving a red smear.

"Careful kid, these suits are hard to clean." A merciless hand yanked Caleb off the ground and removed his battered helmet. Glassy, unfocused eyes darted this way and that; looking at everything and seeing nothing. Simjanes' chuckled. "Still alive? I'm impressed." One of the combat knives lay in the grass a couple meters away. Dragging Caleb along, he walked over, snatched it off the ground and placed it's razor edge against the young Spartan's throat—and froze as a familiar sound grew loud in his ears. Suddenly a Pelican cleared the nearest building at terrific speed and roared into the park like a comet. Before the ship even touched the ground, the ramp fell open and a huge figure jumped out, carrying a massive shotgun.

The Clown had come.

Somewhere deep in his twisted brain, Simjanes acknowledged a measure of defeat. Caleb's only goal had been to keep him in the park until Chuckles arrived and he had done just that. To make matters worse, Sim was armed with only a combat knife and had no time to locate his pistol. The young Spartan had, however, made one crucial mistake: he had stayed alive too long.

Jarred from their sleep by the thundering engines, people living in nearby buildings began peeking out windows and spilling into the streets to see what was happening. As the crowds neared the park, eyes went wide and mouths dropped open. They'd all seen Spartans during the UNSC's propaganda blitz, but that was on a video screen—this was in person. Supposedly these mysterious super-soldiers were almost single-handedly turning the tide of the war. What was about to take place under the haunting yellow glow of the park lights, however, was not a battle against the Covenant, but rather an old fashioned show down—and from the looks of things, it was going to be good.

Ignoring everything but the two figures standing near the tree, Chuckles lifted the six-gauge cannon to firing position and walked slowly across the grass. At first he was relieved to see that Caleb was still alive, but as he came nearer and saw the full extent of the damage, a lump formed in his throat. Blood streaked down the young Spartan's sleepy face like tiny red rivers and the eyes—the eyes told the rest of the story. The kid was fading fast. More than anything, Chuckles wanted to pull the trigger and blow Simjanes' head off, but the white-armored demon had placed himself directly behind Caleb, making the shot impossible. Coward. The Clown stopped about five meters in front of them and gestured towards the young Spartan with a slight dip of the shotgun.

"Get a little carried away, Sim?" His voice was pure poison. "I've gotta hand it to you; you're Hell on wheels against rookies and little girls."

"At least I don't leave my partners alone and overmatched. Did you send him to soften me up a little? I'm a bit surprised to see you here at all. I sort of figured you'd cut and run like you did the night I killed Lexicus." Time to twist the knife. "It's strange: you're never around when your partners are getting slaughtered. What was it this time? You have a girlfriend on this planet or something? I guess it doesn't matter whether they live or die, just so long as you get away."

The shotgun almost broke in Chuckles' grip. "Drop the knife and set the kid down now!" Simjanes laughed.

"Or what? You can't kill me without blasting a hole in Caleb."

Chuckles replied in a voice that chilled the air. "He's as good as dead anyway, and like you said; I don't really care if he lives or dies. Drop the weapon and back away!" The crowd around them, which now numbered in the hundreds, fell silent. This was better than a movie.

"I don't think so. If you had the resolve to do something like that, I'd be dead already. Here's my deal—and I'll only offer it once. Toss that shotgun into the bushes and pull out your knife. You do that and I'll let the kid go. If you don't, I'll slit his throat and take my chances." Pulling Caleb even closer, Simjanes pressed the blade hard into his neck. "I'll give you ten seconds to decide."

A dark red sky now loomed overhead and somewhere in the city a clock began striking five in the morning. Dawn was nearly upon them. But as precious seconds ticked away, Neither Spartan flinched. Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .

Moving so fast that the entire crowd jumped, Chuckles tossed the shotgun and palmed his knife. Simjanes leapt forward like a spirit, attacking the Clown as he had attacked Caleb earlier; spinning and slashing faster than the eye can follow. In all his years as a soldier, Sim had never met his equal with a knife.

But he had never fought Chuckles.

Fueled by a bottomless rage, the Clown sprung to life, matching Sim blow for blow and pushing his surprised foe backwards. As their knives clanged together like high-pitched thunder, Simjanes pulled out every trick he knew in an effort to turn the tide. But Chuckles advanced with the relentless fury of a hurricane, crashing into his enemy with unstoppable power and hitting harder with each successive blow. Sim felt his back bump into something and realized too late that he had backed straight into the Prowler. He was literally against the wall—and Chuckles didn't even slow down. Simjanes jabbed desperately, but the Clown swatted the knife from his hand and sent it flying into the predawn darkness.

Chuckles lifted his blade.

Simjanes lifted his arms.

The Crowd lifted a cheer.

They didn't know that Sim had slaughtered Chuckles' lifelong friend Lexicus. They didn't know that he had broken the arm of five year-old Ellen Cutlass. They didn't even know that he had beaten Caleb so viciously that the young Spartan lay dying in the grass. They didn't know . . . but Chuckles did, and as he lowered his knife for the killing stroke, all of his anger came down with it.

At the last possible instant, Simjanes spun sideways and the blade struck the Prowler's hull and snapped off at the hilt. Before Chuckles even realized what had happened, an armored uppercut smashed into his chin so hard that he flew backwards three meters and landed on his back with a thud.

Chuckles tried to stand to his feet, but his limbs refused to obey. Something slammed painfully into his side and sent him flying across the park. Again, he tried to move, but he no longer had control.

"You know," Simjanes laughed as he gestured to the crowd surrounding them, "this really isn't fair to the paying customers." He began to walk slowly towards the fallen Spartan. "That thing with the knives was pretty good, but I never figured you for a glass jaw. Too bad they weren't here to see me fight the kid. Now that was entertainment—especially the ending when I beat his organs into soup." A tingling sensation went through Chuckles body like electricity and once again he was its master. He slowly stood to his feet.

"I think you're right, Sim; it just ain't fair." He began to walk forward. "Come on. Let's give the people their money's worth." Odds were given and money changed hands while the two unarmed behemoths neared each other. As the system's star threatened to peek over the horizon and illuminate the filthy city of Seleucia, both Spartans knew that, one way or another, this was the end. One of them would walk away from this fight; one of them would be dead by dawn. As to who the winner would be, nobody knew for sure—but the crowd was giving even money.

The two Spartans met in the middle of the park and fought toe-to-toe; swinging, ducking and blocking like prizefighters from Mount Olympus. Neither of them backed away and neither of them advanced, but both leaned in, absorbing and dishing out punishment that would have killed a normal man many times over. Amidst the flurry of punches, the Clown suddenly landed a vicious left, and the crowd gasped as Simjanes head snapped backward and—for only a moment—the Spartan froze. Chuckles' huge right fist blurred forward, smashing through Simjanes' face-shield and popping his nose like a ripe tomato. Sim staggered backward, tried to regain his balance, and finally dropped to the ground.

The crowd watched breathlessly as the huge Spartan dug his big shotgun out of the bushes and then returned to his white armored foe. He removed the broken helmet and then spoke in a voice that caused those standing nearest to shudder.

"Open your mouth." Blood bubbling from his broken nose, Simjanes smiled in defiance of the order. Chuckles grunted. "Have it your way." Without warning, he plunged the six-gauge cannon into Sim's face, pulverizing lips and shattering teeth as he forced it deep into the Spartan's mouth. By the time the Clown finished, Simjanes' smile was halfway down his throat. "You should've stuck to five year-olds and rookies." He pulled the trigger, the gun thundered and his enemy was no more. Chuckles pulled off his helmet and spat on the corpse.

The crowd cheered.

Chuckles turned around and saw MiNeS kneeling over Caleb. Dawn's first light slid between office buildings and apartments, illuminating the patch of ground where the young Spartan lay. Looking up at the Clown with tear-filled eyes, MiNeS shook his head sadly.

The crowd began settling their bets.

A horrible look came over Chuckles face as walked over to his fallen partner and knelt down. MiNeS looked at the older Spartan and tried to speak, but his mouth refused to work. He wanted to say that he had been friends with Caleb since he was six years old; that no two brothers had ever been closer than they had been; that ONI had already taken so much from him that he didn't know if he could bear another loss. In the end, however, he managed only an anguished, wordless stare. But Chuckles understood the look more clearly than any spoken words. He too had lost his best friend; he too had stood by helplessly as ONI snuck in and snatched his soul. He knew that some things couldn't be put into words without being shrunk down and lessened. Some feelings that are far too large and expansive to be forced into the confines of language can be easily, if painfully, expressed in an anguished look.

But this was not the work of some impersonal agency, and MiNeS knew it. His father's disappearance, the killing of Ian and Palatov and now the death of his best friend—all of it was Ackerson's doing, just as sure as if the Colonel had done the killing himself. A once happy and successful family had been torn to pieces because of one man's obsession—and that man was going to pay. Rage quickly replaced anguish and looking again at Chuckles, MiNeS said it all in four words.

"I need my armor."

Seven Days Later . . .

The situation had come to its bloody conclusion over and hour before, but they could still feel the cold immediacy of slaughter. Even though the room was the size of a high school gymnasium, the white walls and floor had been almost completely transformed to red. And then there were the bodies—or what was left of them. Shielding his nose with an empty hand, Colonel James Ackerson turned to Major Samuel Cousins Jr. and tried to speak without choking on the stench.

"When are they going to start cleaning this up?" The startling reply came in a tired monotone.

"Sir, they've been cleaning this room for the better part of an hour."

Ackerson sighed. Nothing was going right anymore. "Okay, what happened?"

"About halfway through its daily tests, 005 broke free of its restraints. Three scientists and one soldier managed to escape, but the rest of them . . . " Cousins looked across the room and shook his head sadly. "We lost eleven men in all." Ackerson winced. All sentimentality aside, that was a lot of personnel to lose in a single incident.

"What, was it provoked?"

"No," Sam said shaking his head, "As far as we can tell, it was hungry."

The Colonel looked at him with genuine horror. "Hungry?"

"It consumed nearly half of the men it killed. There is video of the incident, although I do not recommend you view it." After thinking for a moment, Ackerson's face brightened slightly.

"Practically speaking, this makes the giants quite a psychological threat. This could actually work to our benefit, in the long run I mean."

Cousins turned to his superior, face red with anger. "My God, James! Did you hear a word I said? It ate them! Frank Borman, Ty Miller, Sasha Bradnikoff and eight others!"

"Now look, Sam, I was—"

"No!" Cousins yelled, too mad to care that he addressed a Colonel, "You look! This is exactly what Imanov warned you about four years ago, but you ignored him. I told you as much at your last visit, but you wouldn't listen to me either. Do you even know how many men we have lost to date?" Obviously at a loss, Ackerson just stared. Sam softened his tone. "Over one-hundred, James. This was supposed to be about saving lives, not losing them."

The Colonel dropped his gaze to the ground, but before he could respond, a soldier approached and snapped a crisp salute. Ackerson spoke without taking his eyes off the Major. "What is it, Sergeant?"

"Sir, this, uh, crashed through a guard-tower window a couple of minutes ago." He held the offending object in between the two officers and, for the first time in his life, he saw Colonel's face turn white. Major Cousins stared at the object with terror and spoke almost involuntarily.

"Oh, my God. Simjanes . . ."

The Sergeant held a white Spartan helmet with a shattered face shield; and painted just above the visor in bold, blood-red strokes was a funny looking symbol—and that symbol took the Colonel's breath away. The message was clear:

The Clowns had returned to the arctic base and soon, Ackerson would be just as dead as Simjanes.

C.T. Clown

Waking the Dead—the conclusion—Permafrost Hell
Date: 27 January 2006, 5:04 pm

Waking the Dead—the conclusion—Permafrost Hell

Sergeant Ryan Decker held Simjanes' ruined helmet between the two officers, and even in the room's low light they could see the Clown symbol painted in bold, blood red strokes above the shattered visor. Colonel James Ackerson shut his eyes and turned away from the offensive object, but the doomed feeling burning in his gut like a hot coal was not as easily set aside. This was how it always began; this was how the Clowns worked—sending fear ahead like artillery to soften the enemy before the attack. Ackerson knew it was a scare tactic, but knowing didn't help his stomach any. Their present setting only helped drive the enemy's message home. The bloody carnage surrounding them was not unlike the Clown's own handiwork during the Bishkek rebellion. Here he was, watching a dream that spanned more than two decades fall into ruin, and now even irony was against him. Fantastic.

"Sergeant," the Colonel said without turning around, "I want you to find Dr. Robert Conrad. Have him gather all the information he has on TREE STUMP and then escort him to my office immediately."

"Yes, sir." Decker turned to leave, but then paused. "Sir, what do you want done with this helmet?" The Colonel's eyes narrowed.

"Have the men use it as a latrine and then toss it back over the wall." The Sergeant wanted to laugh or at least smile, but Ackerson's tone told him this was no joke.

"Right away, sir."

Something about the Colonel had changed in the last minute or so, and that change made Sam's skin crawl. "You're meeting with scientists at a time like this?" Ackerson looked his old friend in the eye and nodded. There was a warning in the look, but the Major dared not stop before making his point. "For God's sake James, don't you know what that symbol means?"

"Better than you do!" he replied, face red with anger. "And I swear, if you call me 'James' one more time I'll have you guarding the outer wall wearing nothing but a helmet and boots! You may address me as 'sir' or 'Colonel'. Do I make myself clear, Major?"

Sam straightened his back. "Quite clear, sir."

"Good." After taking a deep breath, Ackerson spoke in a lower voice. "I need to find some answers, and since there's no telling how much of this facility will survive the next twenty-four hours, I need to find them fast."

They were ready to go, or at least, as ready as they'd ever be. Looking one final time at MiNeS' unshielded face and seeing the conflict that raged beneath the surface, Chuckles wished that there were some other way. But since they had to assume that MiNeS' father was still alive, their plan had to include a means of both finding and saving him. Unfortunately, they also had to assume that Ackerson would be smart enough to kill Ben a short time into the battle. Thus, the horrible but effective methods perfected by the Clowns during the Bishkek rebellion would work only to a certain point. At first the task had seemed impossible.

But they found a way. It was dangerous, unproven and riddled with enough uncertainty to make a tactician blanche; but it was all they had. Something other than danger, however, troubled the younger man. MiNeS had been through enough grief without adding more—but that was precisely what their plan would do, whether it succeeded or not. Chuckles wanted to reassure the young Spartan, or at least let him know that he understood, but he came up empty. After all, what could he say? Sorry MiNeS, life sucks?

The kid already knew that.

Chuckles pulled his MJOLNIR helmet down over his unsightly face and fastened it tight. As MiNeS did the same a moment later, the older Spartan looked on with a mixture of pride and sorrow. Although his partner wore the Clown symbol prominently above his visor, he was not Lexicus. Chuckles missed his old friend's presence worse than ever, and he knew that when the fighting started, he would miss his unbelievable skill even more. But he also knew that if anyone had the potential to match or surpass Lex, it was MiNeS. The kid already boasted the best aim in the UNSC, and no one could match his uncanny talent for disappearing in plain sight. And, as Chuckles had recently found out, this was Benjamin Cutlass' son: extreme intelligence ran in the family.

Grabbing his newly acquired six-gauge, Chuckles thumbed in a few shells and then slung it on his back. "Ready, kid?" MiNeS nodded.

"Do you think," he said in a low voice, "that he, that Caleb would, you know, understand?"

Hearing his name, Chuckles recalled Caleb's easy smile and quick humor—traits uncharacteristic for a Spartan—and the memory made him want to kill Simjanes all over again. "Understand?" The older Clown laughed. "I think he'd love it."

At least twice the normal number of troops rushed through the facility's narrow hallways, and most of them wore grim faces and additional weaponry. As he made his way through the odd crush of humanity, Dr. Robert Conrad tried in vain to keep his nerves in check. Not only was it highly unusual to be escorted to the Colonel's office by a soldier, it was unusual to go there at all. Even more disturbing was Ackerson's renewed interest in TREE STUMP; a subject so secret that the files were kept strictly in hardcopy and never reproduced. It had taken him more than half an hour to dig them out; and judging from the Colonel's expression as he entered the office, that was about twenty-nine minutes longer than expected. Conrad noted the presence of Major Samuel Cousins Jr.—and his nerves began to party even harder.

Ackerson glared at the soldier he'd sent to escort the scientist. "It's about time, Sergeant. Stand outside the door and make sure we're not disturbed for any reason."

"Yes, sir."

"Take a seat, Dr. Conrad." Like a kid showing up late for class, the scientist shuffled forward and sat down in front of the desk. "Doctor, according to the file sitting in your lap, Caroline Cutlass was carrying twin giants, each possessing a normal bone structure. Correct?" Conrad nodded. "Since our giants have a dissimilar structure, is it possible that we needed Caroline's DNA instead of Ben's?"

"Sir," the scientist replied in disbelief, "I've been telling you that from the beginning. Of course it's possible. At this point, in fact, I'd say it's probable."

Ackerson's face darkened. "If you suspected it from the beginning, why didn't we exhume her body?"

"Nobody knew where she was buried." Dr. Conrad replied with a shrug. "Ben Cutlass was questioned at length when he first arrived, but he was of no use."

"I find that hard to believe. Did they use Fitzjunk?" he asked, referring to ONI's favorite interrogation drug. The chemical had an official label but nobody used it; the inventor's name, Alexander Fitzjunk, was simply too good to pass up.

"They certainly did, and they came up empty."

The Colonel glanced at the clock on his desk and sighed. This was looking more and more like a dead end, and time was something he could not afford to waste. For some reason, however, his gut told him to keep digging. "Was he asked about the babies, Doctor?"

"Yes, sir." Conrad thumbed through the file and pulled out a yellow sheet of paper. "Cutlass said the same as everyone else: both dead infants were stolen from the hospital the night his wife died and never seen again."

Ackerson closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Ben Cutlass, maybe the most intelligent man to ever work for the UNSC, allowed the bodies of his children to be snatched out from under his nose, and didn't even know where his wife was buried? None of it made any sense. But then again . . . Oh, God.

"Doctor, who conducted the Ben Cutlass interrogation?" The scientist looked through the file for a few seconds and then handed the Colonel several pages held together by a paperclip.

"It should be right there, sir." Ackerson looked at the signature on the bottom of the last page and then slammed his fist down so hard that the desk shook. It was just as he'd feared.

Vladimir Palatov.

"Sergeant!" The soldier rushed into the door and snapped to attention.

"Sir?"

"Bring TREE STUMP here now, and God help you if you're not back within five minutes."

Private Willy Jenkins sat on top of the north wall admiring his .50 caliber machine gun as his partner, Private Victor Bingum, scoured the arctic wasteland with a pair of binoculars.

"See anything, Vic?"

"Yeah," he replied with a tired chuckle, "A whole lot of snow."

Willy nodded and flashed a nervous smile. "You know what they're saying, don't ya?

"Yup."

"Well," Willy said with a snicker, "you sure seem pretty calm for knowin'. I mean, if it really is the Clowns, well, I don't even wanna contemplate it." He checked his weapon for about the hundredth time and then turned back to Vic. "Did you get a look at that helmet?"

"From a distance. It had something red on the top."

"That's the Clown symbol! You know, I heard that not a single rebel who saw that during the war lived to tell." He let out a sincere sigh of relief. "Sure glad I didn't see it."

Vic's face twisted in mirth. "How in the world could it matter?"

"Well, it's like I said, none of them rebels who saw it survived, so I figured—"

"Willy, you're idiot, did you know that? You're a complete moron. If it really is the Clowns like you think, then it's just two soldiers against the lot of us, with nothing but endless white as far as the eye can see. You'd have to be on a mountain to get a bigger kill zone."

"Yeah, maybe, but that don't matter none. I had a cousin on the rebel side, you know, an' he said that whenever they saw that symbol on a vehicle or carved in a tree, the men would go plumb insane."

Vic smiled. "Well, unless you heard that during a séance, I guess at least one soldier saw the symbol and lived, eh?"

"I suppose." Feeling stupid, Willy checked the fifty again, looked back—and Vic was gone.

"Holy—" He turned to grab his gun, and saw his terrified expression reflected in a MJOLNIR visor. Less than a second later, he joined Vic beneath the snow.

"I said move!" Sergeant Ryan Decker yelled, speeding up his pace even more. Panting from exhaustion and falling further behind with every step, two soldiers trudged down the hallway carrying a large man in between them. His short sleeve shirt and baggy pants were hospital blue, and except for the hood pulled over his face, he looked more like a surgeon than a prisoner.

"This guy ain't light, Sarge!" one of them yelled. "And since he's obviously got legs," he took a raspy breath, "I don't know why he's not allowed to use 'em."

"Good," Decker shouted back down the hall, "because knowing stuff about this guy isn't exactly healthy, boy. Now shut up and move!" Just when then felt they could go no further, they arrived at the Colonel's office and sat the man down in a chair. Ackerson glanced at his watch and then nodded in approval.

"Well done, Sergeant. You and your men can wait outside."

"Yes, sir." After the door shut, Major Cousins rose from his chair and pulled off the prisoner's hood, revealing a bald, white-bearded man in his early fifties.

"Hello, Ben," the Colonel said in a flat voice. Colonel Benjamin Michael Cutlass, former lead scientist in the UNSC's Department of Weapons Development, lifted his head and fixed two unfriendly eyes on Ackerson.

"James."

"I need some answers, Ben, and I need them quick." A smile spread across the prisoner's face as he chuckled softly.

"Yeah, I can see the fear in your eyes. Did the UNSC finally figure out that you kidnapped me?"

"No," Ackerson replied, shaking his head, "I didn't kidnap you. You were taken and murdered by the rebels on Pella over sixteen years ago. Nobody's looking for you. You're dead, Ben; dead, forgotten and useless." Cutlass let out another chuckle.

"And yet, here we are James." Ackerson nodded at Dr. Conrad who immediately placed an injection gun to the prisoner's arm and pulled the trigger; pumping Fitzjunk into his veins.

Within seconds the powerful drug began to take effect, and Ben's mind became an open book. "Yes, Benjamin, here we are. I want to go back to 2533. After your wife died, where was she buried?" Even with his eyes glassed and distant, Cutlass answered through gritted teeth.

"I don't know."

"Does anybody know?"

"Yes."

"And who is that?" Ben's teeth ground together as he tried in vain to fight the drug, causing the answer came out so slowly that it sounded like three separate words.

"Pal . . . a . . . tov." Unaware that the Colonel had successfully assassinated Vladimir Palatov just weeks before, Dr. Conrad smiled and gave a sigh of relief. Ackerson got out of his chair and walked over to the prisoner.

"Who else knows?" Even in his drugged state, Benjamin could see that, for one reason or another, Palatov was out of Ackerson's reach. He looked up at the Colonel, smiling like a drunk.

"Who else knows? God, I suppose, but I'm guessing you and the Almighty aren't exactly on speaking terms, are you?" Ben began to shake with laughter

"Why you filthy—" Ackerson smacked the prisoner viciously across the face, splitting his upper lip wide open. "How do you feel now?" Ben didn't speak, but looked up, his face twisted in rage. The Colonel gave a humorless chuckle. "Well, I guess the Fitzjunk is working after all." He grabbed a page out of the file on his desk. "When you first got here you said that both of your deceased babies were stolen from the hospital. Is that true? Were they both stolen?" Benjamin's eyes squeezed shut, his face turned red—and Ackerson knew he'd hit pay dirt. He didn't even wait for an answer. "What happened to those babies?"

Ben's head shook as he answered, as if the gesture itself would negate his damning words. "One was cremated and the other was . . . alive." Ackerson was already standing, but the other two men jumped out of their chairs. Still shaking his head, the prisoner wept.

"Alive? Where?"

"Pella," he answered between sobs, "n-north of Canaan . . . in a forest." Ackerson was euphoric.

"How far north?" Ben shook his head sadly as the answers that would destroy his son poured from his mouth.

"I don't know, about fifteen kilometers."

"Does the giant have a name?" Cousins asked, speaking for the first time. Benjamin Cutlass turned to Sam, his suddenly lucid eyes pure poison.

"Of course he does. His name is Daniel."

"Well," the Colonel said as he sat down behind his desk again, "I guess you were some use after all, Ben. Thanks for all your help."

Looking up at his tormentor with the eyes of a dead man, the drugged prisoner began to beg. "Please, please tell me; did anyone survive? Is there a single member of my family still alive?"

The Colonel grunted. "God Ben, I hope not."

Up until the last couple minutes, it had been one of the worst days of his life. But now, not even the impending attack from the Clowns could keep Ackerson from smiling like an idiot. Somehow, mere hours before the probable destruction of the base and the resulting loss of ONI sanction, he had managed to not only save the entire program, but also to move it forward. With a living, breathing giant, he could skip the most time consuming part of the cloning process and have results in months instead of years. By the end of this day, ONI would hate him; but by the end of the month, they would be eating out of his hand.

He looked down at the miserable beaten man sitting before him, and his smile only got wider. This wretch had once been a Colonel, a genius and a monumental success. But neither his brains nor his power could have saved the human race from the Covenant. Ackerson had known this years before when Benjamin's exploits had obscured his own, and he knew it now, as he held the power of life and death over the pompous jackass like a man waiting to stomp a bug. And now, in a moment of surreal clarity, he beheld something more wonderful than he could have ever imagined: the truth. He—Colonel James Ackerson—had found a great hope for mankind, and he had not let anything stand in his way. In a broad academic sense he did feel a measure of sympathy for Ben and others who would not live to see their sacrifice culminate in his great triumph. But at least they could die knowing that it had been done to preserve humanity; to achieve a greater good.

Four feet to his left, however, the view had been quite different.

For reasons he could not explain, Major Cousins felt as if he had just witnessed something horrible. And then it occurred to him: they had forced a father to give up his son—another son—all in the name of saving humanity. But Sam didn't feel saved. No, as he sat in that room watching the interrogation, it seemed that every façade fell away, revealing something uglier and more foul than he could have ever imagined: the truth. He—Major Samuel Cousins Jr.—was willingly committing evil in the name of good. There was only one good man in that room, and he had been drugged, beaten and cuffed—but not before watching helplessly as ONI systematically destroyed his life and his family. And now, as they zeroed in on the one thing in Ben Cutlass' life that had been left unmarred, all they had to offer this grieving, broken man was laughter and ridicule: all in the name of humanity; all in the name of the greater good. Sam's hand slid slowly backward and rested on the pistol strapped to his side.

Still smiling, Ackerson tapped a button on his desk. "Captain Belnap, what's our status?"

"Quiet so far, sir."

"How often are your units checking in?"

"Every thirty minutes."

"Captain," the Colonel said as his smile disappeared, "make it every five minutes starting right now. When was the last one?"

"Twenty minutes ago, sir." Ackerson winced. "Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"Yes?"

"Sir, we have one-hundred and thirty Marines and nearly two-dozen ODST's on this base—some of the UNSC's finest—and every one of them is holding our latest weaponry."

"Your point, Captain?"

"Sir," Belnap said, obviously frustrated that he had to spell it out, "I feel that we are overreacting. We've mobilized over one hundred and fifty men to repel a two-man attack. Even considering that they're Spartans, we have an effective kill-zone of nearly a mile in every direction. Nothing is getting near these walls alive, sir. Nothing."

The Colonel grunted in disgust. "Son, I don't have time for this stupidity! My God, you were serving during the Bishkek rebellion; you remember what happened!"

"Yes, sir, but I always assumed that it was propaganda from—"

"During the seven years they fought in the war, the Clowns were personally responsible for over seven hundred-thousand rebel deaths! That comes out to more than two hundred-seventy kills a day, Captain! And we have how many men?"

"One hundred-fifty three, sir."

"I guess we're not even a full day's work then, are we?"

The voice was deflated. "Apparently not, sir."

"Check on your units, Captain, and then contact me immediately."

"Yes, sir."

After letting out a loud curse, Ackerson closed the COM, turned to Major Cousins—and found himself staring down the muzzle of a pistol. Had it been almost anybody else, the Colonel would have immediately disarmed him, since most people—including soldiers—have to work up their nerve before firing a weapon into human flesh. But this was not most people, this was Sam; if he pulled his pistol, he was prepared to use it.

"Forgive me, Ben," the Major said to the prisoner in a calm, sad voice. "I am so very sorry." A stranger to drawn and pointed guns, Dr. Robert Conrad turned pale and suddenly had trouble breathing.

Cutlass looked up with a sorrowful face. "A little late for that, isn't it Sam?" The Major nodded.

"More than a little." Cousins' eyes changed from remorse to smoldering anger. "Colonel, call Sergeant Decker in from the hallway, now." Ackerson knew better than to argue.

"Sergeant!" The soldier rushed in the door.

"Yes, s—" Yanking out his sidearm in a single, fluid motion, he leveled it at the Major's head. "Lower the weapon, sir!" he ordered with surprising authority. "Drop it, or I'll drop you!"

Ignoring him, Sam spoke to the prisoner so quietly that the contrast was jarring. "Tell the Sergeant who you are, Ben."

"I said drop it, sir!" He began moving towards the Major, but stopped as a frightened voice crackled from the COM on the desk.

"Colonel?" Ackerson didn't dare move. "Sir, this is Captain Belnap! For God's sake, answer!" Sam gestured for him to answer.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Sir, over half of my men failed to respond! My God, I don't know how they're doing it!" They heard labored breathing.

"Calm down, soldier."

"Yes, sir," He composed himself and then continued. "We no longer have sufficient personnel to watch the entire wall. I've ordered the men to fall back to the training center. Its walls may be thick enough to—" A wet smacking noise filled the COM, followed by silence.

Major Samuel Cousins Jr. got right back to business. "Tell the Sergeant who you are, Ben."

"Last chance, Major!" the Sergeant yelled. "Drop your weap—"

"I am Colonel Benjamin Michael Cutlass," the prisoner said, with a gravity to match his proclaimed rank. Sergeant Ryan Decker's mouth dropped open and his gun dipped slightly as he looked straight at the old man for the very first time.

"Holy—"

Ackerson took a deep breath. "He's lying, Sergeant!" Decker looked at his commanding officer, confusion etched on his face.

"But sir, that is Colonel Cutlass." An explosion shook the building, and debris clanked against the bulletproof window like steel rain.

Seemingly oblivious to the growing tumult outside, Sam continued. "Tell him why he's here, James."

"Why don't you tell him, Major? Or did you forget that you're in this thing just as much as I am?" Decker's wide eyes went from the Colonel to the Major and then back again.

"In what thing?"

A second, more powerful blast knocked out the lights and caused the floor to jump beneath their feet; dropping all three soldiers to the ground. Two shots suddenly rang out in the relative darkness, illuminating the room in a deadly flash. A few seconds later, the lights came back on, and Dr. Conrad took one look at his formerly white lab coat before bending over and spitting up his lunch. Lying on the ground near his bowed head was something far worse. Half of Sergeant Decker's skull had been blown off; and the brains, blood and bone that were not decorating the scientist's coat had spilled on the floor.

His smoking pistol at the ready, Colonel James Ackerson stood to his feet and looked around the room. Major Cousins lay slumped against the wall beneath the window, his face bent into a horrible scowl as he tried to plug a hole in his gut with two fingers. Even so, blood flowed from the wound; soaking his clothes and starting a puddle on the floor. In the middle of it all, Ben Cutlass sat motionless in his chair, wearing the same sad expression as before.

"Go ahead, Ben," Ackerson teased cruelly, "Tell Decker why you're here. Take your time, he isn't going anywhere." Walking over to the Major, he knelt down and lifted his chin with the barrel of the gun. "Why, Sam? I'll only ask once." As Cousins began to reply, spasms jerked his body back and forth so hard that the Colonel had to back away to avoid getting smacked by Sam's head.

"W-we used to b-be g-good men," Blood began gurgling up his throat, "J-James, w-wha—" he coughed, spraying blood all over the Colonel's face, "w-what h-h-hap-pen-n-ned t-t-to us?" But Major Samuel Cousins Jr. did not wait around for the answer. Lurching forward one final time, he let out a long, wet, rattling sigh. The Colonel stood up and wiped his face with a sleeve. "We did what we had to, Sam. Nothing more."

"Colonel?" a voice yelled excitedly through the COM on his desk, "Are you there, sir?"

"Who is this?"

"Sergeant Bradley, ODST. We got'em, sir! We got'em both!" Ackerson could not believe his ears.

"The Clowns?"

"Yes, sir!"

With two corpses bleeding out at his feet and his best friend's blood splattered all over his face, Ackerson smiled like a lottery winner and spoke into the COM. "Well done, Sergeant! Where are you?"

"Inside the training center, sir. And you'd better hurry—one of them is alive!"

After waiting several minutes for a soldier—a living soldier—to take Benjamin Cutlass back to his cell, Ackerson finally made his way through the rubble-littered streets to the training facility. An ODST met him just inside the door.

"My God, sir," the soldier said, examining the Colonel's face with concern, "Are you okay?"

What? "Yes, I'm fine. Now tell me what happened, Sergeant."

"But sir, you have blood all over your face."

Blood? He suddenly remembered what he'd done to Sam, and regret seared his heart like a branding iron. "Relax son," he said, his guilty eyes averting the ODST's gaze, "it's not mine."

"Thank God, sir."

"Yeah." Ackerson could feel the knife twisting. "Now tell me what happened."

"Sir, Captain Belnap told us to fall back here. We'd already lost half of our men, and we lost even more as we ran for—"

"Sergeant," the Colonel said, cutting him off, "just tell me how you caught them."

"Yes, sir. Not even a minute after we holed up in the building, a Warthog came down the street towards us and," the ODST cracked a rare smile, "I nailed it with a rocket." Ackerson patted the man's shoulder.

"Very impressive, Sergeant. Now take me to the Spartans."

They walked down the hall to an unmarked entryway and punched in a code. The thick, vault-like door swung open, revealing the two Spartans. One lay dead on the cold floor, his MJOLNIR armor battered, twisted and scorched. By contrast, the other Spartan showed little damage. Thick one-piece cuffs resembling miniature stocks bound his hands behind his back. His feet were chained to the floor.

"Welcome back, Chuckles," Ackerson said with obvious amusement. "I guess the Clowns aren't what they used to be."

"You could say that about a lot of things," he replied in a low, sad voice. The Colonel kicked the dead Spartan sprawled on the floor at his feet.

"Fortunate for us, this wasn't Lexicus, eh? I don't suppose he would have gone down so easily. I have to admit, when I heard that a Clown had been taken alive, I hoped it was Lex. But you'll do. You'll do just fine." He clicked his COM. "Doctor Conrad? Send 005 to the training center, armed and armored."

"Sir, I hope you're aware that a third of my staff is now dead. Could I ask that we hold off any further tests until at least next week?"

The Colonel looked at Chuckles and smiled. "This isn't for testing, Robert. Just get it here immediately." Ackerson clicked off his COM and walked over to the chained Spartan, getting as close as safely possible to his helmeted face. "Chuck, you've been working at this facility for years now and it's time you got a closer look at what we've been doing." A smug, triumphant smile spread across his face. "I think you'll be impressed."

After the Colonel left, Chuckles sat staring at the body lying on the cold, steel floor. Failure was not something he was used to dealing with, especially when it came to his partners. And although he hated to admit it, he had once again allowed himself to get too attached. Sitting there in chains, looking at the lifeless, armored corpse at his feet, the big Spartan felt helpless. I failed you, kid. And although I'll probably be joining you before the day's out, I promise you this: I won't be coming alone.

The bonds holding his hands and feet suddenly opened and fell to the floor. Chuckles grabbed the pistol out of his fallen comrade's holster and then watched in amazement as a door began to open, revealing a circular arena surrounded by steel walls, topped with clear, thick glass. Something stood in the middle of the floor—something huge. Armored from head to toe, the thing stood over three and a half meters tall. Its large helmet was not unlike those worn by Spartans, but from the neck down it had a suit of gleaming titanium-A. An enormous weapon hung on the thing's back, and the cannon-sized barrel jutted up nearly a meter over its left shoulder. Taken all it once, it was enough to stop a normal man's heart—but Chuckles wasn't scared.

He was angry.

Letting out an inhuman roar, it began to charge; each footfall shaking the ground like a small earthquake. Unused to fighting an opponent significantly larger than himself, Chuckles flipped through memories of his training on Reach at lightning speed. Being smaller than your enemy had drawbacks, but it also had advantages—and he would exploit them to the fullest.

With huge, thunderous strides, the thing raced towards him; but Chuckles merely stepped into the arena and stood motionless. As it neared the seemingly tiny Spartan, the giant balled its fist and, by design, the gauntlet formed an almost seamless, three-inch thick plate; starting at the top of the knuckles and extending down past the curvature of the fingers. Like an angry god of ancient myth, it brought the massive fist down towards its foe—and missed, as Chuckles moved at the last possible instant. Before the thing even knew what had happened, the Spartan jumped on its back and, placing one foot on the gargantuan weapon slung between its shoulders, reached for the seam at the neck, pulled a small latch, and with one powerful push, the giant's helmet thumped to the ground. Chuckles grabbed for his knife—and realized too late that Ackerson's men had removed it.

An armored hand swept backwards, swatting at the Spartan with lethal force, and missing by mere millimeters. Chuckles leapt from the beast, the thing turned around—and the Colonel got his wish: he was impressed. Thick, dark hair flowed down from the top of a head that was the size of the Spartan's torso. Huge, three-inch teeth jutted out of its elongated jaw like ivory daggers, and a pair of black horns rose from the middle of the head, curling slightly at the top. Perched in the middle were two blood-red eyes—and those eyes were staring at Chuckles with demonic hatred.

Something like a smile flashed across the giant's face as it grabbed the enormous weapon from its back and leveled it at the Spartan—and for the second and final time in the battle, Chuckles was impressed. With its unbelievably wide barrel and gargantuan length, the gun looked like a large artillery piece that had been fitted with a stock and trigger.

Suddenly, the weapon boomed, and Chuckles leapt out of the way. Striking the ground where the Spartan had just been standing, the shell exploded; creating a warthog-sized crater and filling the air with dirt. Looking around slowly, the giant pointed the weapon this way and that, waiting for the dust to clear and another chance to use the weapon. After a few moments, the cloud began to fade, and the monster finally something coming towards it. For the split second that it was able to observe the approaching projectile, curiosity overrode caution, and the beast's brain struggled to figure out what it was. Oh, it was its own helm—

Watching through the veil of dust, Chuckles saw the oversized helmet crash into the monster's face, hitting it so hard that the giant flew backwards, dropped its weapon and crashed to the ground like a toppled tower. Without caution or hesitation the Spartan attacked, somersaulting through the air and smashing a MJOLNIR boot into his opponent's lion-like snout; breaking off several teeth. In a sudden blur of angry motion, Chuckles delivered one punishing blow after another; breaking bone and splattering blood with every hit. But the giant didn't move or even flinch.
As the Colonel watched 005 take its beating, he began to wonder if Chuckles could actually die. Along with Lex, he had taken on the entire rebel army and lived. Simjanes had been sent to kill him, only to be killed himself. And now he was about to defeat a creature that had effortlessly killed four Spartans in the last two weeks. Ackerson's thoughts were interrupted as Chuckles suddenly halted his attack, turned around and pointed a gauntleted finger straight at the Colonel. The message came through loud and clear:

You're next, old man.

Turning back to his foe, Chuckles put both hands together in a massive fist, lifted it above the monster's head—and felt a giant hand yank him off the ground. Skull cracked, skin broken and half of its teeth littering the arena floor, the wounded giant nevertheless leapt to its feet and shook the building with a mighty roar. Two red eyes focused on the troublesome little Spartan trapped in its armored fist—and it began to squeeze.

Chuckles tore at the closing fingers in desperation; but strong as he was, he could not even dent the titanium-A that encased the hand. Popping and cracking noises filled his ears as the armor slowly gave way, pressing harder and harder against his body. For the first time in his life, panic began to seize his brain, filling him with strange fear and destroying his ability to reason. His armor closed in further, met his ribcage and kept pushing; crushing soft tissue as his ribs bent further and further in. And right there, on the edge of a horrible death, a voice crackled in his helmet.

"I found him, Chuckles."

Finally. "Good," he gasped, nearly unable to breath, "Blow it now!"

On the other side of the compound, MiNeS palmed a small, black detonator. Forgive me, Caleb. Closing tear-filled eyes, he pushed the button, sending a signal that flashed across the base at three hundred thousand kilometers per second, entered the anteroom at the edge of the arena and communicated with a receiver inside Caleb's MJOLNIR armor. A fraction of a second later, three Lotus anti-tank mines stuffed inside the young Spartan's hollowed body exploded; blasting off nearly a quarter of the arena's steel wall.

The shrapnel-laden shockwave slammed into the giant like a freight train, carrying it nearly ten meters before dropping it to the ground with an earth-shaking belly flop. Though spared the brunt of the explosion by the giant's girth, Chuckles flew through the air as well; his injured body landing with a painful jolt and coming to a rest near the beast's head. Lifting his gaze with great effort, the Spartan located his opponent and, to his horror, saw that it had somehow survived. Chuckles looked at the demonic beast—it's horrible eyes, its curved ebony horns, its massive jaws—and somehow knew that if there was a Devil, he was surely staring at his spawn. Crimson eyes stared at the Spartan, and they must have liked what they saw, because as the head lifted a couple of centimeters off of the ground, a broken smile spread across the hideous face, revealing what was left of the giant's smashed teeth.

But Chuckles was no longer looking at his opponent's grin; he was looking at something laying on the ground next to his right arm—his opponent's weapon. Placing two hands on the massive stock, he slid it across the dirt and pointed it directly at the giant's head. A gauntleted hand grabbed the lever-sized trigger and began to pull.

"Go back to H—"

Belching death and flame, the weapon exploded backwards; ramming into the Spartan's chest and launching him towards the opposite wall like a missile. Chuckles hit just below the observation glass and fell to the ground like a dropped toy; lifeless and still.

Ackerson looked down at the remains of giant 005, and then at the motionless Spartan across the arena. "Sergeant Bradley," he said to the soldier seated next to him, "Take some men down there and make sure Chuckles is dead. I want him in pieces."

Four elite soldiers stood in front of the thick, steel doors of his father's prison; each of them wearing advanced body armor and holding a powerful shotgun. MiNeS knew what he was up against; he knew the deck was stacked. But then, life isn't always fair, and besides; it wasn't his fault they only had four men.

The hall dead-ended into Benjamin Cutlass' cell about fourteen meters from the nearest corner. MiNeS lifted his sniper rifle to firing position and eased around the corner so slowly that not one of the soldiers discerned the movement. He took aim, squeezed the trigger and took out the first target with a perfect shot to the head—and killed two more before the body hit the ground. Dropping the rifle, he sprinted up the hallway in a blur of inhuman speed. The remaining soldier began lifting his gun, but compared to the blur, he was trapped in slow motion, and the Spartan was on him before he fired a shot. MiNeS ripped the gun from his hands, lifted the soldier by his scrawny neck and slammed him into the wall.

"How do you open this door?" The Spartan's voice chilled the air.

"V-voice ID."

"Well, soldier," MiNeS said, pulling out his combat knife and holding it to the man's throat, "for your sake, I hope your voice does the trick." Eyes wide with fear, the soldier recited a ten-character alphanumeric code. The large door swung open—and MiNeS could hardly believe his eyes.

His father's "cell" looked like a city apartment, and from where he stood he could see a refrigerator. An older man with a bald head and white beard walked to the entrance and stared with subdued curiosity. Tears began to form in the Spartan's eyes as he stared back; looking upon his father for the first time since early childhood. Opening his hands, he dropped the soldier and the man sprinted away without looking back. MiNeS spoke in a nervous, almost childlike voice.

"Dad." Ben's face lit up.

"No, it can't be. MiNeS?" The Spartan nodded, suddenly remembering his brother's dying request. I did it, Ian. I found him.

Benjamin approached, wishing to God that he could see through his son's armor. "Take off your helmet; let me get a good look at you."

"No," MiNeS said, returning his focus to the mission, "Not until all three of us are out of danger."

"Three of us? Who else is here?"

Blurry eyes strained to focus as pain attacked his body like a thousand burning, biting insects. However long he'd been out, it hadn't been long enough. Chuckles tried to breath, but his armor had been crushed in so far that taking in more than a mouthful of air was impossible.

Footsteps.

Thankful that his right arm still worked, he yanked out his pistol and slapped in a fresh clip. Lying on his stomach, Chuckles could see the large section of wall that had been blasted away; Caleb's final, brutal contribution. If they were coming, that's where they'd enter. Lifting the gun towards the charred entrance, he managed to crack a smile. I promised I wouldn't be coming alone, kid. About thirty meters away, an ill-fated soldier emerged from the ruined wall and the Spartan drilled a bullet into his neck. Two more ran in only to have their heads cracked open like melons by Chuckles' large caliber pistol.

"He's alive!" a voice yelled from the other side of the wrecked wall. Chuckles kept his gun trained on the entrance, and almost two minutes passed without any sign of movement. An arm suddenly emerged and hurled a small, round object that bounced twice before coming to rest just a few meters away.

Chuckles tried jumping to his feet, but his legs refused to move. Suddenly time seemingly came to a halt as a childhood memory flooded his brain, transporting him back to the planet Reach as a ten-year old boy . . .

He was lying on the floor guarding an entrance when a grenade bounced into the room and came to a stop a few meters away. With no time to run, he just covered his head as smoke began to spew from the sphere, indicating a virtual detonation. CPO Mendez ran into the room, face red with anger.

"You're dead, trainee—dead and useless!" Mendez snatched the training gun out of his hands. "Is this weapon loaded, trainee?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Is it jammed?"

"No, sir!"

"Do you know how to use this weapon?"

"Yes, sir!"

The CPO bent over so that he could scream directly into Chuckles' face. "Wrong answer, trainee! Any soldier who accepts defeat and probable death while holding a fully loaded and operational firearm hasn't got an idea in Hell how to use it!" Mendez aimed the gun at the training grenade, pulled the trigger and splattered it with red paint. "Now that might save your life, and it might not, but it's doing something—and doing nothing is unacceptable! You can think about that while you skip the next two meals!

Time began moving again and Chuckles leveled his pistol at the grenade, pulled the trigger—and the gun jammed. Mendez, you useless little— The grenade detonated, blasting the Spartan halfway across the arena, and ultimately reuniting him with the only two partners he ever had. And good to his word, he did not come alone.

Benjamin Cutlass had been one of the most celebrated officers in the history of the UNSC, and although it had been sixteen years since anyone had seen him, there was no mistaking who he was. And so, as he and MiNeS left the building where Ben had been imprisoned, they were met with dumbfounded stares rather than bullets. A few minutes later, the young Spartan stood over Chuckles' mangled body, balling his fists in a volatile mix of grief and fury. He pointed a gauntleted finger at Sergeant Bradley and spoke through clenched teeth.

"You! Where's Ackerson?"

The soldier shook his head. "I don't know, he just disappeared."

You don't know? We'll see about that. As MiNeS started towards the soldier, his father grabbed his arm.

"Calm down, son." He looked up at the young man, eyes burning with resolve. "I know where he's going."

The Planet Pella, three weeks later . . .

It was nearly an hour after dark, and on this particular dirt road just north of Canaan, dark took on a life all its own. Nobody knows for certain why Curly saw fit to build a tavern on what was little more than a trail through the heavily wooded hills, but he did, and one way or another, he made a go of it. Not that it was much of an investment to begin with: a few chairs, a few stools a few crates of liquor. On any given night, there wasn't a living soul within miles of Curly's Tavern, but it seemed that there was always a customer or two inside. This night was no exception.

The man had become a regular in the last couple weeks; always ordering a whisky, only to brood over it for hours without taking so much as a sip. He looked up at Curly, his face covered in sadness and several days worth of unshaved whiskers.

"Don't you have any music in this place?"

The short, portly man looked up from the book he was reading and grinned. "I don't sing, if that's what you mean. But if you want to belt out a tune, knock yourself out." Turning back to his untouched drink, the brooding man shook his head with frustration. Curly chuckled and went back to his book.

A man entered the bar wearing a long black coat. His aged, rugged face was clean-shaven and his head was completely bald. After nodding a hello at Curly, he walked straight over to the brooding man's table and sat down.

"Hello, James." Ackerson looked up at the bald man, and his heart sank.

"Benjamin." The Colonel started to reach for his pistol, but decided against it when the door swung open again, and a huge man entered. Stopping just in front of the entrance and crossing his arms, he stared at Ackerson with open hostility.

"You remember MiNeS, don't you James?" For the first time in his two weeks at the tavern, Ackerson took a sip of his whiskey.

"What is this?" the Colonel said with a sneer. "You want to have a conversation before killing me?" Ben shook his head.

"I'm not here to kill you."

"Oh," Ackerson chuckled, "then maybe you want an apology?" He took another sip of his whiskey. "Go to Hell, Ben."

"I know all about Hell, James. I've been living there ever since you took an interest in my family." Ackerson went to say something, but the look on Benjamin's face closed his mouth. "The night Caroline died, I didn't even have time to grieve her loss, or comfort my boys. No, I was too busy hiding my son Danny from your men. And less than a year later, MiNeS was kidnapped."

"You can thank Catherine Halsey for that, Ben."

"Oh, then why didn't they leave a clone?" Ackerson's face turned white. "I knew all about the SPARTAN program, James, and while my twins were genetically exceptional, Halsey wasn't about to take one of my boys." Ben pursed his lips in rage. "You thought you could use his DNA. I'm curious: when you realized he was useless, why did you make him a SPARTAN instead of killing him?"

The Colonel would have denied it again, but there was no longer any use. "He was six years old, Ben. I'm not a monster."

"You aren't?" Ben leaned forward. "Then what about my son Ian? What about Palatov? What about stealing sixteen years of my life? What about depriving my children of a father and," Ben took a breath as his voice began to break, "and what about keeping me from seeing my own children grow up?"

No longer able to look Ben Cutlass in the eye, Ackerson stared down at the table as he spoke. "If you're not here to kill me Ben, why did you come?"

"I'm here to give you a choice. You're a wanted man now, James. The UNSC knows that you kidnapped me, and they are in the process of turning ONI inside out to see who else was involved. So, I'll give you a choice."

"I'm listening."

"If you turn left when you walk out of the tavern door tonight, MiNeS and I will deliver you to the authorities alive and unharmed." Ackerson raised an eyebrow.

"And if I turn right?"

"Then you might just find what you came here looking for. Either way—"Benjamin lunged forward and smashed his fist into Ackerson's chin; knocking him clear out of his chair, "—you're gonna realize that you screwed with the wrong family."

By the time the Colonel's head cleared enough for him to stand, Ben and MiNeS were gone. Pulling out his pistol, he walked cautiously towards the door.

"Hey, wait a minute," Curly said, setting his book on the counter, "Ain't you gonna pay?"

"One way or another," Ackerson said, continuing towards the exit, "I'm sure I will." Opening the door slowly, he looked to the left and saw nothing. He clicked on his flashlight, shining into the thick trees lining the thin, dirt road. Aside from a squirrel or two, he came up empty. "You trying to scare me, Ben?" he shouted into the darkness.

There was no reply.

Turning to the right, he began walking up the tree-lined road. With no city lights nearby, the stars shined like jewels against the blackness of space. Ackerson gazed at the night sky and it was so beautiful that he almost forgot about his awful evening. He even turned off his flashlight to get their full effect. Wind rustled gently through the treetops, and it sounded like a thousand birds softly beating their wings. This has to be the most beautiful pl—"

A chill shot up his spine as he suddenly felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. Clicking on his light, he turned in a slow circle, but found only the dirt road and the thick forest, which now seemed more menacing than beautiful. For a moment he thought about Ben's offer, but for only a moment. If he turned himself in now, he would spend the rest of his life in a military prison—and that was unthinkable. No, he would eventually return to the UNSC, but not before he had some leverage; not before he proved the existence of a giant named Daniel Cutlass.

Again, the ground stirred, this time followed by the sound of crunching leaves somewhere out in the woods. He swept his flashlight beam through the forest, but the trees were so large and dense that it was impossible to see more than a few meters in. His mouth suddenly went dry as the snapping, cracking sound of breaking branches echoed through the trees; coming nearer and nearer.

Quickening his pace, Ackerson continued up the road, shining his light quickly here and there like a child lost in the woods. Panic began to take hold of his mind as the ground trembled again, and again. Something huge was coming, but in this godforsaken forest, it was impossible to know from where. Boom. Boom. Boom. Steadily, invisibly, something came nearer and nearer. Boom! Boom! Boom!

And then it all stopped. The forest became silent, calm. But for some reason, the quiet was much worse than the noise.

Ackerson suddenly felt as if someone—or something—was standing behind him. Steeling his nerves, he fought panic, spun around, and again saw nothing but dirt and trees. It's all in your head. Just get back to the ship, and forget about Ben and the whole Cutlass family. With his flashlight pointed down at the path, he started walking again, but stopped when he noticed something strange.

The stars were gone.

He lifted his flashlight towards the anomaly—and screamed in terror as, at long last, he finally laid eyes on Daniel Cutlass.

Less than a second later, his scream fell silent and his wide eyes saw nothing at all.

C.T. Clown

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