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Angel Wings Chapter 2: Seven?!
Posted By: Neil Yudsponwy
Date: 3 July 2008, 5:30 pm
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With Bugler gone, Garrison leans back in his chair, as if Bugler was a weight off his mind. Not quite the ONI way but if Bugler is just a front for more serious cloak and dagger dealings, the less a yapping lapdog knows, the better I suppose.
"What I am about to tell you in the strictest confidence is classified. From any other person it is rumour, myth; a fallacy concocted by the Covenant as propaganda to destabilize and demoralise our military forces."
I feel like I'm being read my rights.
"Should you divulge this information to an enemy agency and the fiasco come to light, regardless of whether or not there is proof of your testament; your life will be terminated."
The suit never changes tone, as if he were reading quite blasé some generic fast food menu. I don't know if that makes it worse but my nuts suck up into my pelvis as an indication it might be.
"Nine months ago, seven Spartans went rogue off The Plates of Aruan Sparkles, a front opened up by Covenant raiding parties on certain military resources in that region."
For a second I thought my ears were deceiving me.
"Whoa there, seven..." I roll my hand over and over at the wrist, my head being all ears and gesticulating for him to say the next word again.
"Spartans." He duly repeats.
"Spartans." I sheepishly echo.
I thought I was hearing things but his reaffirmation makes me giddy with excitement.
I've capped rebel Elites for cold hard cash, speared dumb Brutes for safari sport and generally had my fill from across the elite spectrum caste of warriors, but I've always considered the Spartans as part of the crème de la crème when it comes to combat. In fact, the only other contender for the title of tastiest bounty is the suit in front of me.
ONI spooks are demon fighters. Their frail, slight appearance belies their speed, agility and shear power when it comes to the unarmed crunch.
There's footage doing the rounds with one of these stick insects on a besieged Warship. It's grainy and all you get is static for sound but when the room gets rushed and the first grunt is force-fed his own mask with a palm strike, you realise all is not as it seems.
Even as the grunt hits the ground clutching his face, the suit is pouncing on some other poor bastard with about the same level of compassion; a bird holding up its shield to fend off its lethal assailant while simultaneously trying to infiltrate the room.
The stick scoops up the bottom of the shield and buries it straight into the nearest wall, separating the Jackal's head and upper beak from the rest of his body.
But the bit with the elite always leaves my jaw on the floor in awe of these guys.
The ONI suit pretty much defies all known laws of gravity and propels himself across the room at head-whipping speed, skipping the writhing grunt and bouncing over an upturned desk.
The spook lands a single punch.
A single punch.
He's probably half my weight with his feet clear of the ground and yet the blow is enough to crater-slam the elite.
Now I've taken down Sangheili and punching them once -even grounded- is like punching a horse: pointless. So a mini fistball of fury from an airborne waif shouldn't register. It shouldn't even be enough to make the squid-kid mad.
But go figure, the strike works its magic like a blow from a two ton Jackhammer and a three storey drop. Something the largest of mammals wouldn't be getting up from in too much of a hurry without a massive dose of painkillers.
A cowardly Covie just outta shot throws in a glo-ball that clings to the spook's shoulder as he lands on the floor; he just looks at it like it's shit he's gonna scrape from his shoe.
The video goes down at a large flash but I reckon the spook's still going somewhere.
Why, they all ask?
Because ONI suits don't die, the assholes just respawn somehow.
I'm surprised they don't use spooks on the front but realistically I know why; because ONI guys panic the home crowd as much as they do the Covenant.
They just ain't natural and they certainly ain't stupid; you wouldn't have Lekgolo and smash things yourself, would you?
That's why the UNSC has Spartans; ONI's great poster boys and gals, their one and only triumph in the PR arena for the hearts and minds of the average Joe and his porky wife, Jane.
They're born, eat, sick, shit and piss for the first six years of their lives and are then ground through the Spartan mill for fourteen years; coming out the other side ready to breathe fire for the UNSC.
Shit, on some backwater planets the backwards inhabitants lay flower petals at their feet like they're living deities. That's how much they're revered by those less-mentally involved.
Troops only have to hear of one aboard their ship and there's hurrahs all round; contrast that with the whisper of a spook-suit haunting the carrier's hallways and everyone's wondering what the fuck is going on.
I reckon the difference to be tremendous.
Sitting across from one of them, you can just tell that they aren't human, they're something much older, more primeval and yet more intelligent as to remain completely outta sight. You never heard of them throughout the ages but I reckon they've been there, secretly pulling the strings of all humanity like some archaic order with a vested interest in our survival. Only God knows why and he's keeping a low profile, probably because the suits have a few questions they'd like him to answer.
It's always the way with things you let loose, sooner or later they come back to bite you in the ass. That goes double for spook-suits but also applies to those rogue Spartans on the next tier down of the food chain having just bitten the cold hand that feeds.
"Mister Ephialtes, are you listening?"
"Sure." I nudge back, "Sure I am: Spartans, Aruan Sparkles, seven of them; half a dozen and then some."
I'm counting them off as each one takes a dirt nap from my plethora of weapons.
Garrison stops me in my tracks, pointing to the inside of my shoulder where my body ends and the prosthetics of the Symbion shell take over.
"Now I am aware of your personal history with the Spartans, Mister Ephialtes, or would you prefer: Martin Chambers?"
The name is a blast from the past that's for sure. I haven't been called Martin or Marty for nigh on fifteen years, not since my mother's funeral in fact.
My dad left some eight years earlier, leaving me with the only worthwhile sentiment he'd ever given me.
As a seven year old boy, he took me firmly by my flaccid arms before leaving my life forever:
"Son, be good at something; it doesn't matter what it is, just be good at something."
That little token gesture from a full-time absent father was on the day of his redundancy, the day he walked back into the offices of Metacore and shot dead twenty-five of his work colleagues.
The counselor provided by the school couldn't understand the irony of the one that got away: the MD that fired my father, was actually away sunning his face on holiday at the time, leaving my dad's co-workers to bear the brunt of his emotional fallout concerning the MD's budget cuts.
They got a lot more feeling from the robotic old coot than I ever did.
I on the other hand made my first kill at the tender age of thirteen -some six years later. A glory boy by the name of Jariel Coombs and his high school sweetheart, Diana Swansea.
Jariel Coombs represented all that I admired and despised: physical perfection.
It's not that I'm heavily disfigured but as a child my arms were lame and shrivelled up just enough to be nicknamed 'Dino-boy'; small, pathetic limbs that simply hang there beneath my chin like a T-Rex and are generally useless for anything involving fine dexterity.
Jariel decided that his relationship with Diane meant more to him than being Quarterback of our football team.
Quite aside from spurning his genetically heroic mantle, he'd thought his valiant, romantic stand would rally his peers to his aide and to be honest, they did; but for juniors like me that relied on such inspiration, it was all the back we needed to duly knife.
In hindsight, I reckon I did everyone a favour, a hero that does not rise to the challenge expected of them but prefers instead to squat with the common fold mark themselves out by their fake sincerity.
I make the most of who I am and stand proud as both reason and example to show how far I have come from 'Dino-boy'; a kid no-one believed had the power to pulley a rope carrying the all-star chump's body over the stair banister and rightly leave hanging from one of his parents' grand chandeliers.
ONI never felt that way and I still have their letter of rejection taking pride of place over my sofa bed wall; yellowed with age, worn and with long dried up tear marks all over it, the A4 sheet held sentimental value. Now, with the chance to rub it in some deserter's golden visor, it holds something more.
I've always been a fan of the underdog and after also falling short of the Spartan induction; Ephialtes struck a chord within me. Here was a man willing to fight and die for his country, wronged by a profoundly stupid (and almost undoubtedly a true blue-blood, inbred) king who believed his beloved and homosexual clique of three-hundred Spartans would ultimately save his country from Xerxes' invasion forces; nothing to do with anyone else's efforts or what was happening elsewhere in the lands.
It doesn't take a genius, just an even amount of brain cells, to work out that there is strength in numbers.
From ships to weapons, food, lands, ideas, people, money and even fucking brain cells: quantity is a quality all of its own.
The sensationalist author of those historic events, Herodotus, never saw it that way either but since he's dead and I'm not, redeeming the name of Ephialtes hasn't been too hard.
For three thousand years the word and the man has dragged through the mud, even Judas found some positive reviews for his gospel sometime in the twenty-first century.
But Ephialtes?
They poured scorn over his heartfelt pleas and rubbished his diehard efforts.
Now things are different.
He has me to champion his cause and after an award-winning documentary, two channel nine series and a dozen comic novels detailing my hunting exploits across the known galaxy; millions of folk revel in the archetypal bad-ass good guy they've come to know and love as Ephialtes.
The wretched little gimp they all believed wouldn't amount to much in life now pulls the boogey monster out from under their bed, puts the barrel of an M9 Trident down his gullet and turns him into a bloody sieve.
The kids love it -I'm expecting calls to release action figures of me and my ship Connie any day now.
"I'd prefer it if you didn't Mister Ephialtes."
Garrison's comment gatecrashes the idle bittersweet daydreaming of a casual monologue and for a brief second I consider the possibility that he's not only a spook-suit, but also a telepath.
I forgot to take my blockers this morning and gusto-filled monologues have got me into bother in the past.
"Didn't what?"
I sling loose a bluff, hoping to improvise mental focus and wing any further questioning.
"Allow personal feelings to interfere with your ability to carry out your duties."
I spit polish and rub sentiment all over our pact.
"On that you have my solemn word, Mister Garrison."
Shame it don't mean shit; a bullet hammered from the chamber and breaking free of the barrel tends to give me a lot more satisfaction if I don't like its intended recipient.
I've always reserved a special brand of spite for the goody-two-shoe Spartans and these seven rogue soldiers -having shirked their heroic mantle- have already made themselves worthy of my aggression.
"You do know that I don't deal in live bonds anymore, right?"
"Of course Mister Ephialtes, extremis malis extrema remedia."
I haven't the foggiest idea what Garrison's talking about so I simply lay it back to him.
"Ditto."
"There is one thing I might add before you depart." He says. "As instigators of their defection, the squad leader and her second are of particular interest to me. If you could find it possible to bring their heads back, intact, I would be most grateful, perhaps even in your debt.
"I'll bring them in to fanfare and on a silver platter, how does that sound?"
"Splendid, Mister Ephialtes, absolutely splendid."
After a frosty start that could've froze the drool of an Iovian -followed by a couple of verbal head knocks- we've discovered a mutual love of violent deaths and decapitation and are now getting along like a planet afire. Garrison does his fang-and-dimple curtsy again and I do my best to match it.
I shake the old devil's cold hand once more and say goodbye, he leaves me with a friendly gesture.
"I wish you the best of luck."
And it sounds genuine enough.
I backtrack through the hallways the way I came in and Bugler greets me near the door to the chaotic bay.
"I will be your-"
"Liaison, I know."
The lapdog strokes his upper lip with a manicured thumb.
"Yes well, if you actually manage to acquire any of the products, we expect you to ship them in airtight containers so there will be no risk of contamination or infection."
Bugler's just an idiot; a mouthpiece that has no idea of what's going on or what his boss is really like.
"Infectious?" I shoot Bugler a cheeky smile.
A disease that had Spartans deserting their posts and going to ground; that'd just about be ONI and Garrison's worst nightmare.
The cavalcade of explosive noise hits me as the bay door swings open and we descend the stairs.
Halfway down I press Bugler on my chances.
"You don't think I can do this, do you?"
Garrison's pet throws a brazen, dismissive hand over towards Candy's orphaned pup, like he owns the Goddamn bay.
"You've seen the current success rate this mission has produced thus far, haven't you?"
Bugler grins from ear to ear, like a cheap imitation of his owner's smirk.
"What I think doesn't matter but I give it a fortnight before your mutilated corpse turns up cluttering an alley somewhere."
As we draw near to my baby, there are service technicians swarming all over her.
"I reckon I'll have this bounty wrapped up by the end of May." I reply. "And with three million credits burning a hole in my pocket, I'll take a well deserved break somewhere real nice."
Bugler scoffs before I plant the big one.
"Maybe aboard the Eudaimonia!"
His face goes a pale ashen grey, another equally contemptible imitation of his master but this time, I like it.
The lapdog hands me a black folder which I slide under my arm and ascend the ramp to my baby.
"I'll be in touch, Mister Byooler." I dish out nasally over my shoulder.
"We'll see, Mister Ephialtes." I hear his deadpan reply. "We'll see."
Heading for the cockpit, I rifle through the black folder.
Several data sticks, a bulk of paperwork that could be made into a trilogy and a few photos, none that I haven't seen or illegally picked up elsewhere. Spartans in combat, grouped Spartans, Spartans taking their make-up off, hanging out the washing. The everyday shit that super soldiers generally do when they're not flying the patriotic flag.
I round into the main lounge of my ship and a small shadow of a man steps out right in front of me, his brown, heavy twill service cap coming up to chest.
I immediately dispense with all niceties for the diminutive intruder.
"Get the fuck off my ship."
With the giant collar of his ecru beige shirt smothering any sign of a neck, his body drowning beneath a mocha blazer and half his head sucked up into his cap: all that's visible is a little pink bulb of a face and a thick pair of black spectacles. A mole of a man.
"My supervisor instructed me to transfer control from the Valhalla to your ship's Construct, Sir."
Candy's pup, I was going to drag her to a shipping yard when I'd settled up with the bounty but I guess I could sell it sooner, maybe take a look around and see if there's anything worth pilfering. It's doubtful because Candy only leched over three things: men, women and beer. She could be a real bitch 'n ball-buster if she didn't like you, but you had a friend for life if she did. I loved Candy the way I love bullets, she was a useful old crow so long as she wasn't trying to get inside me and I've had a complete posse of projectiles attempting to do that.
"Are you done? I ask the dawdling technician.
"Just about." He replies, wondering around in my cockpit and tapping various instruments.
"Then can you get the fuck off my ship -it's not a museum."
"I was just thinking." He says.
"Why break the habit of a lifetime." I ad lib, setting the folder down on my central workstation and feeding one of the sticks into the hub.
I shut down the auto display function, fold my arms and stare over at the audacious little flunky mole still poking around in my cockpit.
"Is this a real Aspis or a replica?"
It's hard for most people to believe that I would have a genuine Aspis because of the phenomenal cost involved and the shear amount of ass-kissing you'd have to do in order to get the Krohlm to even consider making you one -I'm still making payments and puckering up chapped lips.
And the very nerve of this 'assmole' enquiring is enough to make me want to flatten him a few further feet into the ground so he'll have trouble reaching up and digging into his wife's trouser pocket for his pay-packet.
But three million credits wag their dirty rotten fingers as if to say: 'uh-uh, play nice; let's not fire any nosy moles into space'.
"Are you for real?" I reply exasperated. "Get the fuck off my ship."
He's seriously rubbing my ego up the wrong way and as a means of appreciation; I introduce him to Connie's nasty streak.
"Connie." I call out.
'Yes, Heff?' Comes the ambient sound of her beautiful voice.
"Show this buffoon the exit."
Connie's internal security measures whirr into life; three pinpoint accurate (nigh-on atom-splitting) turrets emerge from the lounge walls and line themselves up along his body. The nearest wall into the cockpit aims for the head, the one behind me and located over the leather sofa bed revolves out from behind the rejection letter and guns for his knees. The one opposite the ramp and entrance takes aim for his groin; even without a visible bulge in the dick-less moron's crotch, the turret will still hit the proverbial nail pin on the head.
In smooth unison, the guns all wave him over towards the exit. Realising he's beat, the flunky makes a hasty, backpedaling retreat.
"I'll take your word for it." He says before scarpering down the short hallway and clanging down the ramp.
I order Connie to weigh anchor and set sail.
"Let's blow this sorry freakshow, babe."
And as she takes us out the Paragon's bay, I hit enter on my touch-screen display.
There is a grinding noise of metal on metal and a few slapdash bangs thrown in, noises that raises the hackles of anyone still making payments on their ship.
"Have you been at daddy's secret stash of liqueur again, Con." I cry out loud. "What the hell was that?!"
'Rookie pilot flying manual just clipped us trying to line up on his way into the bay.' She informs.
"Any damage?" I ask hesitantly, half-curious and half not wanting to know.
'Just a few small scratches along the finish of the hull, nothing serious.'
"Cool." I breeze, blowing out a visible sigh of relief.
"And the clumsy pilot?"
'The Paragon is sending a rescue squad.'
I let out a roar of laughter and mull over the audacious little mole's comments while mooching around in my ship.
"Replica, my ass!"
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