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The Moment of Truth
Posted By: Azrael and Russ
Date: 20 July 2006, 6:42 pm
Read/Post Comments
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When I first heard the ship-wide battle stations order some months ago, I asked my CO why the ship's voice was always female.
"Because the powers that be realized that young men listen to a broad's voice when sex is on the line and follow instructions from it when they're about to die. You got any more questions, son?"
One thing was for sure; I was not getting laid today. And, unlike what my Gunny had eluded to, I felt no special urgency at the sound of this voice. It could have been a male, child or even a flat computer generated voice, and I would have felt the same suspense. Well, maybe not a child's voice—that might be too eerily.
Regardless of what voice announced the approaching enemy, the Telemachus was being boarded, and for that I was grateful. Most times a space-faring Marine never gets the chance to fight the Covenant in space battle. Today the enemy was giving us the courtesy of face-to-face bloodshed, and I was more than up to it. A Marine can't go forever without facing the enemy that gave him a job.
My name is Lance Corporal Eric Whaler, and despite the anticipation flowing through my head, I really can't decide how I'm feeling. All my buddies who I've known through the years of combat school and who had come back from the front told me the same things. One, it's worse than you think. Two, your friends will die. And third, your training is all you will fall back on. All of those points were sticking with me as I willed my mind to focus. Even with all the time the UNSC puts into us during basic training, it's fucking hard to put on your body armor and fix up equipment while klaxons blare in your bunk and your ship, once stable and secure, tilts back and forth like a busted pinball machine. By the fourth "All hands, prepare for boarding action," I'm ready—right?
Right?
The assault craft seemed to float soundlessly towards its victim, something that no being or force could replicate at a time like this. While the pilot of this cylindrical craft carrying my boarding team looked around nervously as we neared the gray hull of this alien ship, the seemingly soundless and untouched entry swept across us with an unmistakable calmness. A calmness that I rarely get to experience moments before engaging this filth in battle.
I am Lor 'Kuilakee, Major Sangheili, and I have lived through enough battles to know that tranquility is a luxury rarely afforded before combat. Usually, stillness such as this exists before we have even departed on our calling, our charge—yet it exists here and now. It exists so close to this barbaric race that I find it hard to even grasp.
Though, not surprisingly, this peaceful ingress would not last. Before I could even flinch at the sight of the flashes emitting from the dark, metal hull, shards of steel begin ricocheting off my assault craft's fuselage. My small, bulbous vessel vibrates intensely as this pathetic species flings hot metal debris at us, in what I can only suppose is a half-hearted attempt to defend their desolate vessel from defeat.
"Carry on!" I find myself shouting to the nervous Unggoy at the helm. Even from the back of this somewhat cramped craft I can see the control interface clearly, and the shields indicator was unevenly decreasing as more of those primitive pieces of metal try in vain to disable us. Though I know that, in spite of the shear number of rounds fired from those primeval weapons, we will persevere and reach our objective, not merely to eradicate more of this troublesome and unrighteous breed, but to continue our fulfillment of Our Order and Our Calling.
Finally, with a growl of relief, we pass by this alien's point defense network and make our final approach to the line of hatches along my enemy's hull; the hatches left behind as they flee in their truly basic escape "pods." The craft slows, and the securing probes extend from the front. The plasma welders on the probes heat up and began cutting into the rudimentary hull even before we latch on to the alien ship, effortlessly searing into the unshielded metal. Even though I cannot see it, my seasoned mind clearly shows me the molten iron that must be floating away into the depths of space as we slowly begin the process of boarding this ugly, indecent vessel.
My imagination is complimented by the hissing sound that jolts my small craft, indicating that the probes have pierced into the hull, allowing the gases from this species' reeking atmosphere to escape into the emptiness of the void encompassing us all. The delight coursing through my tense and ready body is momentarily displaced by the foreboding of what I will be forced to face once we exit this assault craft, and aside from the foul, almost unbearable environment that these aliens subsist in, I will have to endure their pathetic shrieking and their irritating, nearly useless weapons. Why do they even hope for life after we are so near?
"We are secured, master."
The tactical display shows me my entire unit's vitals and signals; the men of Alpha Squad. Tavarez, Starr, and Michovich are green. We've been bunking together since our deployment from Tectron, and to say we're close would be a severe understatement. Starr still doesn't know I'm the one who stole half the holo vids of his girlfriend back home, and right about now my conscience is gnawing at me to tell him before I have a guilty conscience about it for life. Why? I'm sure we won't all live through this mess.
Finally, that female voice hits home. Those fuckers are entering.
"All hands, intruder alert. Hostile boarding parties in pod bay Echo."
"No shit," My CO mutters from behind our Titanium-A battle shelter as sparks fly into the corridor ahead of us, some cutting-tool from outside slicing through the hull. The lean-to plate we kneel behind has us in a pretty good firing position facing the escape pod hatches, and we can see flashing scene all too clearly. Combat analysis had told us the Covenant are most likely to use our own escape pods as breach points, so we've got several heavy support guns lined up with good lines of sight. It's not ideal, but with luck and a lot of ammunition, we can hold boarders off. It's unprofessional, but I really do feel more secure when I'm surrounded by Orbital Drop Shock Troopers, all of whom have their weapons trained toward the pod bays. I just wish the bastards would speak.
"Whaler," the CO calls to me again, clapping a hand against the back of my helmet, "Get your head in the fucking game and bring up more ammo from the armory. When those pieces of alien shit poke their Godforsaken melons in my sights, I want enough rounds to kill 'em twice, you receive me?" Fuck. I forgot the extra rounds for the heavy support guns. I'm as eager to leave the relative safety of our emplacement as a bird is eager to cross the skyway at rush hour.
"Yes, sir!" I respond with as much vigor as I can, but I can feel my voice about to give out. Why am I so fucking nervous? I safety my new, black BR55 Battle Rifle and place it behind my back, giving me more mobility as I turn away from the sparks and molten metal heating up the space ahead to haul ass along the sleek sliver, gray and blue corridors back towards the armory.
I find myself running faster as I pass the windowed walkways providing the unnerving sight of the black, outside world littered with bright blue and purple explosions. My eyes blink as the flashing against the side of my face intensifies, and anxiously I try not to look out at the scene beyond these thick walls. It's true what they say, I guess: we're really handicapped in ship-to-ship combat. Thank God they're coming to us. Get to the armory. Kill every goddamn thing that gets in your way. Space is one thing, but this is my home field. Here, I have the advantage.
Uh huh. Yeah, right.
I heft my rifle to lean against my shoulder as the small Unggoy pilot manipulates the controls and powers down the engines. Now, only the hatch before my assault team stands between us and victory. Only the seconds that remain separate this filth from their demise, from their end. And with unspeakable delight, those seconds are quickly evaporating.
The circular door snaps open, and with a sharp hiss we immediately pressurize to match their atmosphere. The rotten smell of these beings sweep over us, and their distasteful air fills our lungs. For this first moment, I almost envy the small Unggoy and their breathing apparatuses, since they will never have to know the stench that these humans exist in.
"Kig-yar, deploy."
At my command, the four smaller soldiers activate their shields and file through the hatch ahead, careful to avoid the still sizzling metal around our entrance. They move out tensely from the comforting violet light in our boarding craft and into the repulsive, white-drenched corridor of this ship. Two immediately turn left and the other two right, just before the sounds of those primordial weapons begin echoing in this filthy expanse. The white-hot shards ricochet uselessly off the Kig-yar's shields, clearing my enemy's field of fire for the rest of my team to board.
The remaining seven, four more Unggoy and three of my brothers, follow me into the corridor, leaving the relative solace of our craft and entering this dreary, putrid ship inhabited by the debauchery that we are charged to kill. Immaturely, the Unggoy begin returning fire haphazardly as we, the Sangheili, move in to kill these worthless beings. Two of my comrades move to the right while I sprint to the left, quickly closing the distance between us and the humans firing from behind their small, armored obstacle.
Those metal shards cause my shields to flare up, and send meaningless pierces of pain through my body, but those mere feelings are quickly put aside. We are called to a purpose high above the natural, and as such pain and all related sensations are but minor distractions to Our Cause. I am focused, determined to fulfill my destiny and perpetuate The Order given to each soldier of Our Covenant.
The rifle in my hand fires from nearly point-blank distance as I skid to a stop next to the armored obstacle, the hot plasma tearing into one of the filth, who then screams in some unknown tongue as his body turns to burning articles of flesh. The stench of their atmosphere is now eased slightly as the agreeable scent of their bodies burning fills the air around me. This is something the Unggoy will never be able to share, as I think back. They will never be able to smell the glorious fumes of these cads burning.
My next target turns to fire at me, its slow reflexes reacting to its now dead ally at my feet. These humans, although resilient, do not boast the same reflexes that my kind do under combat. I have encountered their trained, elite soldiers before, who themselves do not share this shear incompetence, but their standard conscripts lack sufficient skill to even defend themselves—forget their vessel.
The smaller entity manages to send a burst of shards into my chest, the force pushing me away. The distractions—the pain—course through my body, and a growl of anger escapes from my seething throat, but I can only allow a grin to follow this gasp of pain as my brother sweeps around and swats this human down like an insect. The snapping of this fiend's back meets my ears with satisfaction as the body crumbles to the floor, the swift hit from behind immediately paralyzing this human.
As my shield begins recharging from its near depleted state, I look back to where the Kig-yar were, along with the frantic Unggoy. To my fury, they had not advanced upon the enemy, and were still in the open of this corridor, taking fire from the better-manned armored shelters on the other end. My eyes quickly focus in on the distance as I watch one of my brothers kill a human, only to receive a single shot from the side. The weapon, a literal cannon that fired not one shard, but hundreds of tiny shards, was deadly at close range. And I watch as the shields glimmer and fail, allowing the second blast from that primitive weapon tear into my brother's side.
"Fools! They are not assisting us!" I look over at the soldier standing on the other end of this human bunker, the able 'Kopforee, with the bodies of the two filth between us. No more of their kind were on this end of the corridor. "Akul, entice our lesser troops into battle and assist our brethren. I will continue from here."
With a barely discernable nod, my fellow Sangheili turns and sprints down the corridor, running towards the skirmish filling this small section of the alien vessel. On any other terms, I may have done this myself, seeing as how I am the commander of this boarding party and those are my soldiers, but something else—something intrinsic—directed my instincts to send 'Kopforee to do that work.
I have learned to trust my instincts, especially in battle, and they were telling me to advance past this human defensive-shield. Ahead, away from the battle near our entry point, was a right-angle turn in this corridor, and I couldn't help but feel compelled to advance alone. Ahead, around that corner, was a battle that the Gods had set up, a battle designed solely for me.
And without hesitation, I will meet that battle. I must.
The armory wasn't far, but the box of ammunition was heavier than I remember. I try to take a moment to thank God for my skills as a rifle sharpshooter and not as a heavy support gunner, but I don't have time. The low rumble of breaching charges and heavy ordnance make the armory floor tremble. A few boxes of ammo clatter to the floor, along with several SMGs and sidearms, but that doesn't have my attention.
Tactical flashes in the upper right-hand corner of my vision take priority—Tavarez and Michovich's vitals go red. I'm clutching a small screwdriver to help me pry the boxes open, but it's not working, and I throw it in a rage against the wall. It's not fair! I haven't even seen the bastards and two of my friends are already dead! I glance quickly at the drab olive steel box of rounds and try to decide what to do. The COM network decides for me.
"Whaler! Forget the fucking ammo and get your ass to Bravo unit's position! Move it!"
I spin on my heel and run for the door. I can't explain it, but as soon as I enter the Telemachus' hallways, I feel as if time slowed down and I just received ocular implants; I can see every slight imperfection in the walls. I can hear distant sounds down long corridors, though it's of little comfort to hear the sounds of war and death fill my ears.
It's a hike to the Bravo unit's last known position. They had set up shop on the upper floors of our main concourse. The long, curving stairway would make any advance costly, and if the Covenant were trying to occupy Engineering, they'd have to go through there. I try to push it from my mind, but if there's action there, we're already in a tight spot.
It's hard to believe, but for all the Marines and crewmembers aboard the Telemachus, I'm the only one in this hallway, a fucking long one at that. The long walk intersects with several Marine quarters, briefing rooms, the mess hall, and a couple other walkways. From here it's only two left turns at the end of this hallway, up the stairwell, and I'm at Bravo unit. Unfortunately, there are more than a few opportunities for something hostile to whack me on my way. Another curse slips through my lips in a breathy whisper. I used to hate cussing back home. What is wrong with me?
As I realize that my team itself is in trouble—the reality of those two red lines finally sinking in—I take a half second to consider going around the shiny, well lit corridor leading to Bravo, or the dimly lit deathtrap otherwise looking like a innocent intersection that leads back to Alpha; as I stand here, all I can think about is Starr, whose vitals are still green, but blinking. He's in combat, and I'm guessing it's not looking sunny over there. It's the fastest way to my last living friend. Fuck Bravo, my squad mate's life is worth more than mere orders.
Deathtrap it is.
Turning my back to the fight on the other end of this corridor—a gray and beige hallway tainted white from overhead lights and awash with red from the annoying flashing alarms—I move forward, stepping out of the oppressive light and into an unlit portion that persists all the way to the corner ahead. As I advance, my steps silent yet fast, I cannot help but scrutinize the environment this filth created and inhabits. It is a far cry from our vessels, and lacks the ornaments and gentle colors that signify greatness.
Indeed, these vessels have very little appeal to them, which only reinforces our resolve against their creators. Humans lack every fundamental that make Our Covenant great, and their deficits are evident in their creations. It does not take Our Order to clearly show that this species is unfit for existence in a galaxy meant for so much more. Undeniably, they truly are a plague to this universe, a virus that must be exterminated.
As I near the corner, my resolve strengthens. They are the nemesis of Our Covenant and of the cosmos we know, and we have been called to remove them. There is no room for question or tolerance. Nothing could be more clear than the task that has been set before us in Our Order.
Their destruction is the will of the Gods.
And we are their instrument. No calling could be more explicit.
With determination, I step quickly around the corner. My instincts—the slight foreboding that anticipated an enemy to appear—prove infallible yet again. Ahead of me, no more than several arm reaches, is one of this filth. A single one, albeit an unwavering one. I can see in the reaction across its ugly face that it is not one that cowers and falls with the slightest hope of defense. No, this one is different, and does not turn to run. With unlikely fortitude, it turns to squarely face me.
As I move into this murky corridor, I don't get more than halfway towards the corner ahead that would lead to Alpha's location before the fucking thing turns into my path from around the bend. I knew it would only be a matter of time before I encountered what my instructors called "Squid heads," "Big, ugly suckers," or just "Elites." Even as the ship rocks from another blast and I notice almost all of Alpha's vitals have gone red, I can't help but be amazed at the sheer size of the thing. It's easily eight feet tall, and it's nearly crouching in the space of the hallway. I must look puny to this thing. A younger, greener Marine might have spent the rest of his short combat existence checking out the enemy's good form, menacing in its red armor, but at that moment I feel the all-too-familiar wash of reality jerk me back to present. Back to the fact that this is the enemy.
Two options: assault or tactical retreat. In the space of this hallway I might be able to turn and beat the alien to Bravo's location, where more firepower could even the odds, but I have no idea what it's even like there. Frying pan into the fire. Once again, I don't get the luxury to think about this. In an instant, all my decisions are made for me. The safety's click registers in my mind and instantly the rifle's sights register in my tactical display. A shrill tone sounds in my left ear as well, informing me that the Elite's plasma rifle is powered up and ready to fire.
But above even this, Starr's vitals, scrolling in the top right hand corner of my vision, suddenly go red, replaced instantly with blinking crimson letters.
Starr, Keith. KIA (1629.34)
The damning red letters showing the death of my friend were only reinforced by what follows.
Alpha Squad, 2-Platoon, C-Company, all other members KIA (1629.36)
The men of Alpha—the men I knew, trusted and fought with—are now nothing but additions to the list martyrs for humanity's defense.
At this moment, the hulking hostile in front of me is now an embodiment of everything I've just lost and everything I don't have time to feel. I want to rend the motherfucker limb from limb. It looks equally enthusiastic about beating me to that punch, though. Our eyes, if you can call the beady pebbles on the side of its head "eyes," lock for what must be less than a second. People say in the movies that in that instant you can hear a person's thoughts, their feelings, their pain. All I hear is my drill instructor's roaring voice in my mind from years ago: "Their shields are weak around the head! Make me a proud daddy and put nine point five millimeters of 'fuck you' into that left eyeball! And when you stand over their Godforsaken carcasses, you tell 'em they messed with the wrong species!"
My rifle has never weighed less as it comes to my shoulder. My sights have never registered a target more willingly. My aim has never been more true. I'm scared shitless, but I will not miss.
My perception of time slows, as it always does before such an encounter. My vision zeros in on my target, each and every other detail becoming nothing but fragments in my indomitable mind. Despite the unprecedented defiance I sense from this creature, I know it is a misplaced defiance that will lead to its downfall. Scores of these soldiers have been slain by my hands, some of them fearful and weak, others bold and formidable, but none have lived to see another day.
What makes this cad any different? As I raise my weapon to center it on the body of this filth, my certainty remains. Many have fallen before me, and many more will in the time to come. This mere hindrance will meet the same fate as its peers, all by the will and command of the Gods. It was meant to die, and that doom was unfolding in this gray, dimly lit corridor.
As one last breath exits my mouth before the inevitable, I suddenly find the future harder to grasp. For the split second that remains between the present and my rifle firing, my confidence momentarily fails to show me the end of this encounter. My instincts neglect to perceive the impending moment of this fiend's death. Was this a sign? Or was this the last second before another foe fell, sensations and impulses aside?
Only this next moment would define the very future I seek to fulfill. Only this next moment.
The two figures stood alone in this portion of the steel gray corridor, stark shadows of each soldier stretching directly behind them, their blind hate illuminated in fierce contrast as the red light of an alarm shone square across their faces. The sounds of war—the screams of death and the wails of fright—echoed meaninglessly as these two warriors faced one another. No command and no action could break the impending engagement as both combatants committed themselves to battle.
The black Battle Rifle, spotless and maintained with loving care, reflected ever so slightly in the blood-red alarms rotating from the ceiling. The Elite's instrument of combat, the Plasma rifle, nearly shimmered with the reverence it had been given. The aqua radiance of the plasma's imminent discharge gave a faint afterglow as it was brought to align with the target.
The mixture of surprise, honor, fear and determination filled the expanse between them. The Marine's rifle came to action effortlessly with the short distance from chest to shoulder and the Elite lifted its own instrument of war, their aim aligning with their hatred, their eyes locked. These were eyes of determined survival; these were the eyes of trained killers. Yet in spite of the vast differences between these beings—born, raised and taught differently—there was no ambiguity, no doubt in what they saw in each other. They saw only one thing, one reality, one certainty.
This was the enemy.
So help me God, I will fucking kill you.
Only one last thought ran through each mind as the inevitable unfolded. Each being had only one last desire rush through their hearts as the last moment before the inescapable occurred. Those twin thoughts, so bent on the end of the other's life, so bent on triumph. With silence as soft of a bird's gliding, it quickly prepared to depart to make way for the intensity of gunfire.
By the will of the Gods, you will fall into the depths of Hell.
The fingers tensed as they pulled back, and in one concurrent motion both weapons energized. In one instant, each warrior discharged their attempt at victory, their last shot at life.
Years of military training, rigorous discipline, religion, duty, blood, honor, loss, class, fate; all of it met in this cataclysmic instant, this one damning second.
And it passed on to the moment of truth.
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