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In Amber Clad 3: Ad Astra Per Aspera
Posted By: Jackie<apocryphal333@aol.com>
Date: 13 March 2005, 9:30 PM
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Ninth Age of Reclamation//Covenant Holy City "High Charity," Public Amphitheater
"Heretic! Heretic! Heretic!"
The cries cut into Alai 'Platomee as any knife would, slicing though his flesh and bones to place the very essence of shame in his heart. He smiled to himself, four jaws parting, as he thought of this - funny, wasn't it, because the concept would soon become very literal.
Thousands of Covenant lined the stands of the amphitheatre; he looked up at them and down towards those crowding the streets below, feeling a slight sense of vertigo. He stood tall, nonetheless - Elites were creatures of honor, especially in times such as these, and he would not bow to death. These beasts would earn no satisfaction from his torture.
Tartarus, chieftain of the Brutes, led him down the center aisle to a podium that overlooked the city's center, where the Forerunner ship stood tall and proud, as a monument to 'Platomee's sins. Brutes flanking either side of him held out their staffs, criss-crossing his path - it was time.
Each gripped one of Alai's wrists and wrenched them up to shoulder-level. He tightened his forearms against their grip, watching their struggle with a slight sense of satisfaction. Still a warrior, after all.
The two Brutes locked him into place. With an electric hum, blue energy beams encircled both wrists. They weren't shackles, as he could move freely, but a white-hot, searing heat radiated from the bands, and 'Platomee was not keen to move.
Tartarus stopped walking and turned around and looked 'Platomee from head to toe. He grinned, baring crooked teeth and distorting his bulky features. "Drawn quite a crowd."
"If they came to hear me beg, they will be disappointed."
Tartarus chuckled, deep and gravelly. "Are you sure?"
With that, he reached down to the control panel and activated the two towers on either side of 'Platomee.
A brilliant arc of orange energy cascaded down through space to either wrist cuff. Barely controlled shoots radiated wildly from the main beam, twisting up and over and down again to Alai 'Platomee himself.
The pain was excruciating. His nerve endings screamed. He arched his back unwillingly, muscles contracting and releasing at fierce speeds, spasming and convulsing - the seizure entered his throat, arresting his windpipe and sent his vision searing with red - his jaws clamped wildly, and though he willed himself not to with every bit of control he had, a scream tore its way from his lungs and into the heavens.
And then, as suddenly as the pain had begun, it stopped.
He felt a shudder pass through him, and collapsed as far as allowed.
"Let there be no greater heresy!" Tartarus shouted to the crowd. "Let him be an example for all who would break our Covenant!"
Alai felt the Brutes strip his armor from his body. The plates would be grey now, dark and smoldering, in contrast to the brilliant gold sheen that they had once possessed. He didn't look down, he couldn't look down, he wasn't thinking, every bit of him ached so violently...
With a resounding clang, his helmet hit the floor of the podium. Dangling from the restraints, he dared to look up.
Tartarus stood before him, tall and brawny. He held a glowing, red-hot brand of steel up to 'Platomee's chest, and thrust it - hard - into his flesh.
The Mark of the Heretic, the ultimate disgrace. It would never disappear and never fade, from flesh nor memory.
Alai 'Platomee leaned his head back and fell onto the brand, screaming with agony. This was ultimate; this was shame.
Ninth Age of Reclamation//Covenant Holy City "High Charity," Penitentiary, cell #104119
'Platomee was thrown onto the hard, cold metal floor of his cell. The first public performance, he had soon learned, was only the beginning. He had lost track of the days he had been in the cell, for there was no light to judge day or night by - just constant sessions of interrogation and torment. Questions about the heretics - questions to which he had no answers.
He sat up, massaging his strained tendons, and heaved himself onto the bench. Stretching out and closing his eyes, he couldn't help but analyze the situation from a tactical point of view. He had no resources, no weapons, and no control - and he was certainly in no condition to fight. Brutes were strong, he knew - it was rumored they could tear apart even a Hunter - but Elites were quick and agile. Two Brutes always oversaw his sessions. Perhaps if he could take the rifle of one, when it was unexpected, there would time enough to disable them both...
But no. He wasn't even fooling himself. This was past the point of damaged pride, of stained Elite honor - survival, if anything, was the key.
And, just maybe, if he lived through this hell, he would have the chance to repent.
The cell door slid open with a mechanical hiss. Three brute guards flanked either side, their figures silhouetted in the soft hallway light. One stepped forward and reached for 'Platomee's arm. "Come," he spoke, voice deep and rough - Tartarus. There was a hint of a game in his voice, as if he was daring Alai to ask the occasion. Daring him to mention something about the brutality of two sessions not but an hour apart, daring him to show any remnant of the rebellion the guards seemed so insistent he possessed.
'Platomee did not respond, but stood and exited his cell, hoofed feet birthing echoes against the metal floor. Tartarus snarled and lifted his club, striking 'Platomee in the small of his back.
He grunted and fell to his knees, vision dancing.
"Look what you've done!" the second Brute exclaimed. "Now he's in no state for meeting the-"
"Silence," said Tartarus. "Grab an arm, each of you, and pull your share."
'Alai Platomee felt his arms being lifted, and then his legs dragging down the hall. Meeting who, he wondered.
They traveled in silence for a few minutes, past rows and rows of chambers. He could hear inmates hollering as they passed, banging on walls and shrieking. His eyesight began to clear.
The Brute on his left grunted and adjusted his grip on 'Platomee's arm. "How much further must we heft this baggage? Any cell will do." A group of jackals to the right burst into a fit of rage as the party passed. 'Platomee could hear them clawing at the barriers. He heard a clash of metal on metal - the brute had kicked at their cell. "Why not toss him in with this lot? They could use the meat."
The right guard grunted. "Why not us? My belly aches! His flesh is seared just the way I like it -"
"Quiet." The voice came from ahead. 'Platomee craned his neck to see Tartarus's graying fur. "You whimper like Grunts, fresh off the teat! This one is not meant for the jails - the Hierarchs have something special in mind."
They stopped moving, and 'Platomee felt a familiar jump in his throat. They were descending in a gravlift.
Unusual, he thought. Unorthodox. This could only mean -
But 'Platomee did not allow himself to hope.
At the bottom, they reached a bridge lined with Elites clad in traditional uniforms of red and gold armour, adorned with iridescent spears and head crests. Honor Guards. At the end was a door higher and wider than any other 'Platomee had seen - the entrance to the Mausoleum.
Inside, the walls were lined with metallic, grid-like doors, marching up at regular intervals until indiscernible. Each, 'Platomee knew, was a grave. The sight was magnificent. The Prophets of Truth and Mercy sat in the center, donned in full formal robes.
Tartarus fell to one knee, and the other Brutes followed suit. "Noble Prophets of Truth and Mercy, I have brought the incompetent," he said, voice filled with respect and admiration - and a hint of pride. 'Platomee bristled inwardly. That was no way to speak to a Prophet.
"You may leave, Tartarus," Truth spoke.
"But - I thought - "
"And take your Brutes with you."
The two Brutes, confused, glanced at Tartarus for guidance. He turned to face them, lip curled. "Release the prisoner."
They exited.
Alai 'Platomee struggled to bow properly before the Prophets, but could not manage. He remained on his hands and knees, face to the floor.
Truth paid this no mind. "The Council decided to have you hung by your entrails and your corpse paraded through the city," he said simply, and 'Platomee's blood ran cold. "But ultimately...the terms of your execution are up to me."
'Platomee struggled to his knees. He traced the Mark of the Heretic that scarred his flesh. "I am already dead."
Truth smiled. "Indeed." He glanced up towards the ceiling, motioning around the room with a fragile hand. "Do you know where we are?" he asked.
"The Mausoleum of the Arbiters."
"Quite so. Here rests the vanguard of the Great Journey...every Arbiter, from first to last. Each created and consumed in times of extraordinary crisis."
Mercy shifted his chair forward. "The taming of the Hunters," he cited proudly. "The Grunt rebellion - why, were it not for the Arbiters, the Covenant would have broken long ago!"
'Platomee heard the veiled rebuke, and admitted to it. "Even on my knees, I do not belong in their presence," he responded.
Truth nodded. "Halo's destruction was your error," he said, "and you rightly bared the blame. However, the Council's decision was..." he tapped the arms of his chair, as if searching for the acceptable word "...overzealous. We know you are know heretic."
'Platomee looked up, hardly daring to believe these words. Truth was smiling. "Yes, we know your faith is strong. This is the truth face of heresy - one who would incite rebellion against the High Council." Truth waved a hand over the arm of his chair, and a small holographic figure appeared.
It was an Elite, but with face and stance so different from the one 'Platomee knew. The holo flickered green, and then blue, and began to speak, gesturing wildly. "Our Prophets are false. Open your eyes, my brothers! They would use the faith of our forefathers to lead us into ruin! The Great Journey is - " And with another wave of Truth's hand, the image disappeared.
"This heretic, and those who follow him," Truth continued, "must be silenced."
"Their slander offends all who walk the path," stated Mercy.
'Platomee was puzzled. "But what use am I? I can no longer command ships, lead troops into battle - "
"Not as you are," Truth interrupted. "But become the Arbiter...and you shall be set loose against this heresy with our blessing."
A pod from the wall shifted down to hover just above the ground. 'Platomee climbed to his feet and watched, half in awe, half in wonder, as the door slid open and out to the ground like a ramp. Inside was a suit of silver blue armor, ceremonial and ornate, yet the most well-crafted he had ever seen.
'Platomee turned back to the Prophets. "What of the Council?"
"The tasks you must undertake as the Arbiter are perilous," Mercy responded. "Suicidal. You will die in your crusade, just as each Arbiter has before you. The Council will have their corpse."
'Platomee walked to the suit of armor, admiring it with reverence.
This was his chance for survival. This was his chance to repent.
He reached out for the helmet and placed it onto his head with practiced ease. It fit perfectly - as if he had been born to wear it.
"What would you have your Arbiter do?"
721 hours, September 13, 2552//Chiroptera-class vessel, Weapons storage//Flood-Control Installation #01
Kelly-087 was a biomechanical wonder. Her muscles were compacted and laced with wire, her bones reinforced with what might as well have been titanium alloy, her already-magnificent reaction time increased to something worthy of a demigod by regulated biochemical signals that originated at the base of her skull. Dr. Halsey could draw the list of modifications from the back of her mind without giving it a second thought. Demigod was, indeed, the correct term - and yet the word provoked its own misgivings. This war was on, after all, for them to remain human - that was what ONI Section II had told the public, and what she had told herself.
Hah. What of that, really? She had convinced herself of many things over the years, and few lessons taught by ONI still held true.
"Everything's in place, Doctor." Kelly drew herself upright, slipping a bag of supplies over her shoulder with ease and snapping on her helmet. She took a Magnum from the table and flipped it in her hand. "Ready when you are."
Halsey nodded and turned to the exit ramp; it slid open as she palmed the door, swiftly and silently. Kelly moved first, checking either side of the door before exiting and motioning Dr. Halsey forward.
The ship had docked in a vast underground cavern, almost akin to the pathways discovered in the depths of Reach. The only light came from the entryway of the Chiropteran-class vessel, illuminating the surrounding area with a soft, filtered light for half a second before it slid shut again- but it was enough. Doorways spiraled around the circular walls, each unnaturally tall and wide, to correspond with the cavern's scale.
This was not a human place.
Dr. Halsey had expected a lot, but nothing of this scope and scale. She withdrew a handheld computer from her coat pocket, and tapped into the files she had pilfered from Araqiel. "There should be directions on the floor," she told Kelly. "Step down, and you'll see."
Kelly stepped forward once, and then twice, footsteps heavy with MJOLNIR armor. Five seconds passed, and then an unearthly blue light began to fill the room.
Trailing from where they stood at the center of the room were paths of text, each leading to a different doorway. Cylinders of charged, sloshing liquid bordered each door, running along the floor and then up the walls, meeting kilometers above.
"I'm sending you a copy of the correct pathway. It'll set up a Navpoint, and we'll go from there."
Kelly nodded, switching on her helmet's high-powered flashlight. The white beam sliced cleanly through the darkness - but before Halsey had confirmed the file transfer, Kelly had started towards the correct entrance to the facility, near eleven o'clock.
"There's something I don't understand," she said. "The paths were activated when I stepped down. We know this happens - Fred did the same thing on Reach, and John mentioned it in his report from the first ring - but only with Spartans."
"And you're wondering if Colonel Ackerson's team..."
"Yes."
"I can't answer that," Halsey said simply. "Or even why it happens. Weight-related, perhaps - maybe Spartans in MJOLNIR armor are close enough in size to the founders of these rings that their presence is noted. Chemical or electronic activation. If Ackerson's team had the knowledge, they could easily simulate the presence of a Spartan and gain access to the correct facility."
"Is that what you think?" Kelly asked.
"I think that all of your team is properly accounted for, and that to assume otherwise is absurd. However," she continued after a moment, "Ackerson had quite the catalog of Spartan DNA filed away, which leaves open many possibilities." She chose her words carefully, as not to mention the flash clones created and killed so many years ago.
With that, they reached the end of the pathway. Metal inscriptions shone up and down the door before them, swirling with turquoise. A disfigured palm-plate slid out of the center upon their approach; Kelly placed a gauntleted hand on it, providing them entry.
Inside, everything was crisp and sterile - the ideal lab environment. Bright overhead lights set multiple metal instruments glinting. Sitting at a desk directly across from Dr. Halsey was an old man, fit in figure but tainted by age. Over a standard UNSC uniform, a white lab coat tapered down to his knees.
His eyes remained trained on his terminal upon their arrival. "James, the fourth -"
Kelly immediately snapped her gun to chest height with a clang.
The man looked up, and stopped speaking. He hesitated, eyes on the pistol, but stood, looking over the intruders with a deep, scrutinizing gaze.
Dr. Halsey placed a hand on Kelly's weapon, and she lowered it. She stepped forward, arms crossed.
The man did the same - and then his eyes danced with recognition. "Catherine."
"Jeromi," she whispered.
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