About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
Concept Art
Halo Bulletins
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum

Clan HBO Forum
ARG Forum
Links
Admin
Submissions
Uploads
Contact

Attack on Installation 06, part 1
Date: 8 June 2007, 11:26 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 1: Landing
Tharidanis, system of the same name, 2553

      Admiral Brett Harsoth had seen better days
      Once upon a time the Admiral had been the cream of the UNSC fleet, commanding the supercarrier Trafalgar, and had been slated for top command in the fleet.
      Then came Reach.
      The fortress world and its defenses had been utterly annihilated, the planet being glassed afterwards. The Trafalgar had been destroyed, and with it, Harsoth's career. He had escaped on board a modified Pelican dropship along with a Marine fireteam, but his career had been downhill from there.
      Harsoth, however, had never been a man to command awe or inspiration. He was a middle-aged man, thin almost to the point of emaciation, and had a piercing gaze. Some in the fleet joked he reminded them of a stern schoolmaster. But what Harsoth did have that commanded respect was a tactical genius that had once put even the now-legendary Jacob Keyes to shame.
      Of course, that tactical genius was being wasted just now.
      Harsoth had been placed in command of the Marathon-class cruiser Berlin, a large craft that was the replacement for the aging Halcyon-class cruisers that had been clogging up the Fleet rosters for some time now. Immediately after returning to UNSC command in Sydney, Harsoth had been welcomed back by Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood, given a pat on the back, and shuffled off to this meaningless command, patrolling the Tharidanis system.
      Harsoth, standing on the Berlin's command deck, surveyed his bridge crew. They weren't the geniuses Keyes had claimed to have had on the Pillar of Autumn, but they were good enough in their own right.
      Lieutenant Delckiss manned the weapons station. He was a stolid, thickly built man who knew a MAC gun inside and out and could put a round from the aforementioned weapon in a pickle barrel. If the massive slug would have fit, of course.
      Lieutenant Brie was the navigator. She was a slim, red-headed woman whose spectacular figure made her the attentions of the weapons, communications, and operations officers. But looks aside, she was a competent officer, and had more than once used her superior piloting skills to get the Berlin out of a sticky situation.
      Lieutenant Pieterson lounged behind the communications station. He was a relaxed, laid-back man whose lack of regard for military formality would have had him long ago shuffled to some out of the way command had the Covenant not come along.
      Lieutenant Cance was in charge of the sensors. She was, as fitted her post, an extremely attentive woman, with eyes like a hawk.
      Finally, Lieutenant Freyyr was in charge of operations. At the old (for a low-ranking officer) age of 40, he had been efficient enough to have been made Harsoth's aide.
      At the moment, the Berlin was in slipspace, en route to the planet that had given the system its name. Saber Six-Five, a Longsword ship modified with a slipspace drive for scouting missions, had picked up an anamoly there, and had requested the Berlin investigate.
      At the nav console, Lieutenant Brie called out, "Slipspace tunnel will fragment in five minutes, Admiral."
      Harsoth nodded. "Good. All stations, report readiness."
      "Weapons, go."
      "Nav, operational"
      "Comms, ready to rock."
      "Sensors, all clear"
      "Operations, set to go."
      Brie called out another alert. "Slipspace tunnel fragmentation in five...four...three...two..one...decanting."
      The Berlin shuddered as the slipspace tunnel she had been traveling through broke apart. For a second, the bridge crew stared out at Tharidanis, whose blue bulk filled the sky.
      The tranquility was broken by Lieutenant Cance's sensor console, which flared red and started flashing. "What's going on," Harsoth barked.
      Cance pressed buttons, and looked to be on the verge of emitting a swear. "Admiral, Sir, it's another one of those damn rings!"
      Harsoth grimaced. The "damned rings" were the Halo installations that had become the bane of the UNSC. Because where a Halo was, there would be---
      "Covenant battlecruisers approaching, Admiral!" came Lieutenant Cance's voice, a trace of desparation in it. "I count six CCS-class cruisers, Sir!"
      Lieutenant Pieterson emitted a swear, and for once, Harsoth didn't reprimand him. He felt the same. "Bring us about, Lieutenant Brie, and prepare to execute a Slipspace jump---"
      Lieutenant Cance interrupted him. "Too late, Sir! Covenant vessels are firing!"
      Indeed, the bows of the Covenant vessels had dissappeared behind blue bubbles of plasma, and the energy blasts were racing towards the Berlin. This time, it was Harsoth's turn to swear, and he yelled, "Lieutenant Brie, get us out of here!
      The Admiral's answer was a massive explosion that shook the Berlin. Screams and smoke filled the bridge of the Berlin. When the smoke faded, Lieuteant Pieterson's body was slumped over the Communications console.
      Harsoth sighed, and flipped off a salute to the fallen crewman. Mourning could come later. For now, action was needed. "Lieutenant Freyyr, what'd we lose?"
      The Operations officer mournfully shook his head. "Engines, Slipspace or otherwise, are offline. We're out of control, and that ringworld's gravity is pulling us in. A couple of those hits took us just aft of the bridge as well, and we're venting atmosphere in section A-04."
      Harsoth nodded grimly. "Brace for crash-landing, then. Contact Captain Kline, and have him get up here ASAP. And someone please get this corpse off my bridge.
      The crew belted out military style affirmatives, carrying out their commands.
      ***
      UNSC Marine Captain Joseph Kline was getting the first good night's sleep he'd had since Reach when his COM headset crackled to life.
      Kline, a slim, trimly built man, groggily awoke, and spoke blearily into the headset. "Kline here, who is it?"
      "This is Admiral Harsoth, Captain, get to the bridge immediately."
      "Yes Sir." Moaning and groaning to himself, Kline got out of bed, jammed on his helmet, slipped on his armor, and walked to the bridge.
      Harsoth was waiting. "Captain, we may have a situation here."
      Kline, still rubbing sleep sand from his eyes peered out the bridge viewport. "Oh, bloody..."
      "Indeed," said Harsoth. So get your Marines ready, Captain. We're in for a fight."
      "Yes Sir." Kline left the bridge, and Harsoth turned his attention back to the viewport. The ringworld was growing larger by the second.
      "A lot of chatter on the Covenant battlenet, Admiral," called out Lieutenant Freyyr, who had taken over monitering the comms console. "It sounds very agitated."
      "Interesting," said Harsoth. "They don't seem to like us still being here. Lieutenant Brie, what's our status?"
      "We've still got rudimentary maneuvering thrusters, Admiral, so we can keep this landing survivable."
      "Good. All hands: brace for impact."
      The Berlin was by now within the ringworld's atmosphere, and rocketing towards a grassy plateau. Lieutenant Brie's face was grim. "Sir...I don't know how we can survive this."
      Harsoth didn't bother to console the Lieutenant. There was a very good chance she was right. "Lieutenant, on my mark, fire all retro thrusters." Brie's hands began to dance across her control board, and she nodded. "Three...two...one...mark!"
      The Berlin's structure shuddered as she plowed into the surface of the ringworld. A horrible screeching noise sounded for several long minutes on the bridge, as the ship slammed into the surface. The Berlin scraped out a trench in the ground, settling to a halt after two minutes.
      "Status!" coughed Harsoth.
      "This bird's wings are clipped, Sir, but all other systems are functional," said Freyyr.
      "Good," said Harsoth. "Let's get to work, people. We have a ringworld to take."

Attack on Installation 06, part 2
Date: 25 July 2007, 12:45 am

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 2
Unidientified ringworld, Tharidanis system, 2553

      UNSC Marine Captain Joseph Kline stood on the bridge of the Berlin, and read through all the data the UNSC had on the Halo constructs.
      It wasn't much, to be sure, but better some intel than none at all, and what the UNSC did have was proving to be very useful. For one thing, Kline had all the data on the Flood that the spooks at ONI had seen fit to make available, so that was an additional stroke of luck. What was proving to be a problem, however, was getting off the ring.
      The Berlin's engines were out of commission, and no act of God or any other deity could repair them without the proper parts. But the very, very, very cruel irony was that all other systems were functional, from the MAC gun to the restrooms. The Berlin had engaged the enemy in such a way that all the damage to her had been dealt to her stern area, and that, too, was being quickly repaired.
      Kline's Marine company was at full strength, and they were ready to serve Admiral Harsoth as best they could. The problem was that Harsoth had hit on the rather odd idea that the ring's creators had given it slipspace engines, which would allow the ring to be used as a transport back to Earth. Kline respected Harsoth, but ever since Reach, the Admiral had become more and more focused on getting his career back off the ground, and had been resorting to increasingly hare-brained plans to regain the respect Admiral Lord Hood had had for him.
      And this most recent plan was perhaps the most hare-brained of all.
      For one thing, the Cole Protocol was explicitly clear that no vessels could jump directly to Earth. Period. For another, data recorded by Master Chief Petty Officer SPARTAN-117 indicated that the Halo rings had no engines. And the Cole Protocol and other Halos aside, there was the matter of the Flood to consider.
      This wasn't the first time something like this had happened on a Halo as well. On the first Halo discovered, ODST Major Antonio Silva had attempted to bring a captured Covenant cruiser back to Earth without purging it of the Flood first. The possible assimilation of the Human race's home planet had only been averted by the timely action of Lieutenant Melissa McKay, who had destroyed the hijacked cruiser.
      But, orders were orders, and as of now, Kline couldn't think of a way to make it off of Halo. He swiveled to face the grim-faced Admiral. "Sir...I really don't know if this idea is a good one."
      "Regardless," replied Harsoth, "we still need to capture the ringworld's control room if we're to control the ringworld."
      "Agreed, Sir" said Kline. "I'll detail First and Second Platoons to keep an eye on the base, and take a squad each from Third and Fourth to raid the Control Room." Kline looked expectantly at Harsoth.
      "Very well," said the Admiral. "Pelicans Bravo 989 and Foxtrot 687 will be dispatched to take you in as close as possible."
      For a second, Kline thought he saw something furtive flit across the Admiral's craggy face. But it was soon gone, so the Captain saluted, and left to brief his troops.
      Harsoth watched as the Captain left. Kline was the closest thing Harsoth had to a friend, and it hurt to hide his plans from the Captain; but if Harsoth got his men off the ring with the specimens of the creatures reputed to inhabit these rings and back to Earth, he would be a viable force within the Admiralty once more.
      So long as his plan didn't get everyone killed, that is.
      ***
      Captain Joseph Kline gazed at the squad of Marines seated in the troop bay of Pelican Bravo 989. The squad leader, Gunnery Sergeant John Fredericks, was shouting out last-minute orders: "All right: once we land, we need to form up with the other squad ASAP! If the Covies catch us before we re-form, we will be well and truly screwed. Am I clear, Marines?"
      The cry of "SIR YES SIR!" rang throughout the troop bay.
      "Then let's roll!" barked the Sergeant.
      The voice of Bravo 989's pilot crackled over the intercom: "We're coming up on the insertion point, gents! Stand to!"
      Kline scrambled to his feet, racking a round into his MA5B assault rifle. The view from the rear of the Pelican's troop bay showed a grassland vista. "Go! Go! Go!" the Captain cried.
      The Marine squad charged out of the dropship, and spread out into a rough delta formation as the dropship rocketed away. "Area secured!" said a young Corporal. "Looks like the Covies forgot to lay out the welcome mat."
      Kline knew that was practically begging for a swift application of karma, and when the Corporal collapsed two seconds later from a beam rifle shot to the neck, he wasn't particularly surprised. "Cover!" shouted Kline. "We can't let them pin us down!
      The Marines snapped off several bursts of MA5B fire, causing a Jackal sniper to fall out of a tree. "Wow," a Marine remarked. "They really do look like fried chicken when they're dead."
      "Cut the chatter," snapped Gunnery Sergeant Fredericks. "Captain, did any of the other teams call in a contact?"
      Kline checked his headset. "Negative, Sergeant."
      Fredericks clicked online his COM. "Gunnery Sergeant Fredericks to any UNSC forces: report status, over.
      There was static for a few seconds, then a voice crackled over. "This is Corporal Jones of Second Squad. We're currently engaged by Covenant forces...we're not going to be able to make the RV in time. We're---no! Get back! Get----" The message dissolved in static.
      Kline clicked online his COM headset. They hadn't been on the ground for ten minutes, and already the mission had gone south. "Kline to Admiral Harsoth: you copy, Sir? Over."
      The voice that responded wasn't Harsoth's, but Lieutenant Freyyr's. "Captain, the Admiral is currently...unavailable."
      Kline gritted his teeth. "Lieutenant, where is he?"
      "I'm under orders from the Admiral not to say, Captain."
      Kline was losing patience at this point. "Where is the Admiral?"
      "Trust me, Captain," Lieuteant Freyyr replied, "you don't want to know."
***
      The view from the troop bay of dropship Alpha 145 was very gloomy, showing tall trees and a large swamp. Harsoth, for the second time since the ship had taken off, reviewed his plan.
      The ring had to have either slipspace drives or parts they could use to repair the Berlin's engines. And in either case, specimens of the species contained on the ring had to be recovered so ONI could find a counter-measure for them. There was the problem of the creatures' method of reproduction, but Harsoth would cross that bridge when they came to it.
      The thickly built Marine Sergeant sitting next to Harsoth looked at the Admiral. "We're coming up on the insertion point now, Sir. And Captain Kline's looking for you, Sir; he contacted the Berlin," said Jeff Strossar.
      Harsoth winced. "What'd he say?"
      "He said that he'd find the control room, but once that's done, he's going to try to find you."
      Harsoth sighed. "I suppose that's inevitable. Is your squad ready?"
      Strossar nodded. "We're ready to roll."
      "Good. Remember: don't let them close, and if you see something that looks like a squid land on top of one of your men, shoot them."
      The Sergeant looked horrified. "Shoot one of my men?"
      "It's better than what those squids will do to them."
      "And that is...?"
      "You don't want to know, Sergeant."
      "The LZ is clear, Sir!" the dropship pilot said over the intercom. "I'm putting us down."
      Harsoth nodded, and swiveled to face the Sergeant. "Move out in formation two-six, Sergeant. And stay sharp for contacts."
      "Formation two-six, Sir?"
      "Sorry, Sergeant, naval term. Move in a delta formation."
      "Will do."
      By now, the dropship had touched down, and the 12 other Marines in the dropship were streaming out. "Move, move, move!" barked Strossar.
      Harsoth paused to hitch up the unfamiliar Marine fatigues he wore, slammed a clip into his M6D pistol, and hopped out. The Marine squad looked expectantly at him for orders. The Admiral pointed at a Marine. "What's your name, soldier?"
      "Morrison, Sir," replied the man, an Austrailian accent tinging his voice. The man had dark skin, and his face was pockmarked with scars.
      "Morrison, you have point."
      "Sir!" said the Marine.
      Strossar stepped forward. "Chapman, you're our rearguard. Let's move, Marines."
      The squad advanced through the swamp, panning their M-90 shotguns and MA5B assault rifles across the area. Harsoth had selected the squad's loadout because of the creatures he expected to encounter; the Marines had grumbled, but the Admiral knew they wouldn't be complaining once they found the creatures.
      Morrison's deep bass drifted back to Harsoth and Strossar. "Structure ahead, Sergeant. Looks like the one we're looking for."
      Harsoth inhaled. "Remember your briefings, men. Don't let them close."
      The Marines all nodded.
      The squad cautiously walked into the structure, warily scanning the area for threats. Sergeant Strossar checked his helmet's motion scanner, then barked, "Area secured!"
      The room was small, hexagonal, with a small shaft in the center, and no entrances or exits apart from the one they had just come in from. "Now what?" asked the skinny Marine named Chapman.
      As if in answer to the Marine's question, a glass lift rose up through the shaft, and stopped. There was no sign of what could have triggered it.
      Morrison looked at Sergeant Strossar questioningly. "Get aboard," ordered the noncom. "Stay sharp, and set helmet motion sensors for maximum sensitivity. No telling what we might meet down there."
      At the bottom of the shaft, all was clear, save for splashes on the walls of what looked like blue paint, but wasn't. The Covenant had beat the humans here...and there was no telling what they might have released.
      "Sarge," said a Marine, "I don't like the looks of this..."
      "Agreed," replied Harsoth. "Guns up, squad. Not telling what we might find."
      The Marines advanced through several halls and corridors, finding several Covenant bodies: Jackals, Grunts, and, incredibly, a pair of Hunters who had fallen one atop the other. But, strangely, no Elites. Not a one.
      Harsoth was thoroughly spooked by the time they arrived at a pair of ramps leading down to a door. Two Grunts lay in front of the door, odd-shaped puncture wounds in their chest. Harsoth knew their goal was nearly at hand. "All right," said the Admiral. "Remember: don't let them close, and try and find some way to take on alive. Good luck."
      The squad's tech specialist, Private Brenner, slapped a spoofer onto the door. The device beeped twice, let out a prolonged tone, and the door opened. Harsoth and the squad crept inside.
      The room was a large hall, with six doors on each side, and one in the back of the room. A water-like swirling sound could be heard. "I have a bad feeling about this..." said Morrison.
      Neither Harsoth nor Strossar bothered to contradict him. "Stay sharp," said Harsoth. "Any minute now..."
      A banging noise was suddenly audible from the end of the room.
      "Stand firm!" barked the Admiral.
      The door burst open, a horde of yellow, squidlike beings charged out, and the Flood was upon Harsoth and his squad.

Attack on Installation 06, part 3
Date: 17 August 2007, 7:52 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 3
Halo installation, Tharidanis system, 2553

      Harsoth gritted his teeth as the horde of squidlike creatures charged for him and his squad. Sergeant Strossar barked out "Open fire!", and the Marines let loose with their MA5B assault rifles.
      Private Chapman let out a horrible cry as one of the squids jumped onto his back. Harsoth dropped the private with a headshot from his M6D pistol, and swiveled to face the squad. Sergeant Strossar's eyes were wild. "Sir, there's no way we can take one of these things alive!"
      "We can, soldier, and we will!" Harsoth barked, and ditched his M6D, and hurriedly scooped up Private Chapman's MA5B and shotgun. One of the Infection Forms made a leap for the Admiral, and Harsoth caught it just before it could shove a penetrator into his skin. The Admiral was about to let out a victorious cry, but the Flood form popped as Harsoth squeezed.
      "Dammit," said Harsoth. "All right, fall back. We'll see if we can take one of the combat forms alive."
      The Marines barked out acknowledgements of the order, and formed into a phalanx, MA5Bs emitting a ceaseless stream of gunfire. Incredibly, they managed to make it to the door. "Good work," said the Admiral. "Those combat forms have to be around here somewhere. Let's see if we can---"
      Private Morrison suddenly let out a cry of horror: one of the infection forms had landed on his back. Sergeant Strossar swore, and slammed his shotgun's stock into his shoulder as he pointed it at the soon-to-be-ex-Marine. But Harsoth waved the man down. "Get some binders on him. We've got our captive."
      The squad, down two members (one, if you didn't count the infected Morrison) trooped back to the elevator. Apparently the Flood containment had been well preserved: the Covenant had managed to herd the Infection Forms back into their containment chambers and lock them down, which explained the lack of carrier or combat forms attacking the Admiral's squad. Harsoth thought it was a little too convenient, but he wasn't inclined to ruin the high spirits of Sergeant Strossar and his squad.
      Once the squad made it topside, the Admiral swiveled to face Strossar. "Who here is our comms specialist? We need to contact Alpha 145 for extraction."
      The Sergeant mutely thumbed back towards the infected Morrison, who could be visibly seen mutating, with his head slowly moving off to the side, and tentacles sprouting from his chest and arms.
      "Damn," said the Admiral, and clicked on his COM headset. "Alpha 145, do you copy? This is Harsoth. We need extraction now, over."
***
      In the murky, mucky mire that was the swamp where Alpha 145 had put down, Lieutenant Brad Gregoro received the transmission, and raced into the troop bay, where his co-pilot, Ensign Jones, was playing solitaire. "Let's get the engines fired up, Jonesy, the team needs extraction!"
      The Ensign dropped the cards, and charged into the cockpit. The Pelican's engines flared to life as Gregoro punched the ignition, and the dropship rose into the air. Suddenly, plasma fire erupted all around them. "What the hell?!" Jones exclaimed.
      Gregoro set his jaw, shoved the throttle, and the Pelican leapt forward, rocketing towards a large structure. Harsoth and his Marines were there, firing their MA5Bs at something in the swamp. Gregoro brought the Pelican about, kicking in her ventral jets, while Jones laid down suppressing fire at whatever was in the swamp with Alpha 145's chainguns.
      Harsoth, Strossar, and the rest of the Marine squad clambered on board. Gregoro looked back to check to see if everyone was okay, and did a double take as he saw the infected Morrison, who was by now a fully infected combat form.
      "Don't ask," said the Admiral. Gregoro didn't, and the Pelican soared off, out of the swamp, harrassed by a few streams of plasma fire, but in the clear.
***
      Captain Joseph Kline's Marine squad surged forward, mowing down the pitiful lance of Grunts that was the only thing that stood between them and the control center.
      The Marines had taken heavy casualties; despite hooking up with what remained of Second Squad, they were down to just a little more than a fireteam's worth of men, plus Kline and Gunnery Sergeant Fredericks.
      The last Grunt remaining, a red-armored Major, fell back, slapped a control panel, and retreated, screaming all the while. Gunnery Sergeant Fredericks cut the alien down without a second thought.
      The Grunt had been hurtling towards a large door. Large, as in it was a wall that split open. Kline in his men skidded to halt in amazement as the door hissed open, then continued to stand still in awe as the door revealed a cavernous chamber so large one couldn't see the bottom. A walkway lead out onto a circular platform with a large holographic control panel. A huge hologram of a Halo installation, presumably the one they were on, looped around the walkway. In the center of the circle was a to-scale hologram of the planet Tharidanis and the Halo ring.
      This could only be the control room.
      Kline was the first to shake off his amazement, and swiveled to face the stolid Gunnery Sergeant Fredericks. "Get your men moving, Sergeant, come on."
      "Will do, Sir!"
      The Marines spread out, all flanking the circular walkway. Fredericks and Kline, flanked by a pair of Corporals, approached the control panel. The Marine foursome studied it for several minutes, until Fredericks asked, "Does anyone here know how to use this dang thing?"
      No one did.
      The Gunnery Sergeant looked at Kline, who shrugged, and tapped a button that looked like a large circle with a line and a smaller circle within it. For several seconds, nothing happened.
      Then, a small column of amber-colored rings appeared. The Marines swivelled to face it, cocking their weapons. Kline cautiously waved them down. "Hold fire, men. I think I know what this is."
      The column of light vanished, leaving a small, hovering, yellow-colored sphere. The thing had a small eye in the center of the sphere, and a light pulsated from it constantly. "Greetings. I am the Monitor of Installation Zero-Six. I am Sixteen-Eight-Oh-Seven Repetant Instigator."
      Kline looked at 16807. "Look, we're not here to---"
      The Monitor suddenly swivelled to face the Marines as if just spotting them. "Reclaimers? Here? We do not need to activate the ring to control this outbreak; it is a minor one. I will take you to the location of the outbreak. We can easily combat it there."
      Kline was the only one present who had read the ONI data on the Halos, and had a very bad feeling about what was about to happen. "Now, hold on a second---"
      Too late. Amber columns of light were surrounding the ten Marines in the control room, and Kline knew he was going to have a very interesting debriefing to give to Admiral Harsoth.
***
      Alpha 145's engines were running close to the redline as she rocketed back towards the Berlin's crash site.
      Harsoth had received a transmission from Lieutenant Freyyr, which had put the Admiral in a rather bad mood: On his own initiative, the Lieutenant had deployed several slipspace drice-equipped Longsword scout fighters back to Earth to get reinforcements. Harsoth was good to hear that they wouldn't be on the ring for much longer, but he knew he wouldn't be able to claim credit for the idea, which rankled him.
      Sergeant Strossar and his squad, meanwhile were still trying to keep the infected Morrison under control. Unlike the incident with Private Wallace Jenkins on the first Halo, Morrison had been completely assimilated, and no longer had any control whatsoever over his body or his actions. Strossar's squad had been forced to keep the combat form completely trussed up. Harsoth's plan was to keep the creature bound up until they left the ring, and bring it to ONI so they could find a countermeasure for the Flood.
      As the dropship set down in the hive of activity that was the Berlin's hanger, Harsoth spotted Lieutenant Freyyr walking towards the Pelican. The middle-aged officer saluted, and, to his credit, did not flinch when he spotted the combat form. "I see you got your...erm...specimen, Admiral."
      "Indeed," said the Admiral. Harsoth swiveled to face Sergeant Strossar and his squad. "Get Morrison down to the brig, keep him under guard."
      "Sir!"
      As the Marines trotted off, the combat form in tow, Harsoth turned to look at Freyyr. "Anything from FLEETCOM?"
      "No Sir. All recon Longswords have been launched back to Earth. No word from Lord Hood or any members of the Admiralty yet."
      "What about the Covenant?"
      Freyyr's expression grew considerably grim. "That's the bad news, Sir. This way."
      The duo walked onto the bridge, accepting a salute from the Ensign wearing the red uniform of a security officer at the door. Freyyr lead Harsoth to the main tactical screen. A large swarm of pulsating red blips was steadily approaching the Berlin's crash site. "Covenant army," said the Lieutenant. "In a few hours, they'll---"
      "Wait, wait," interrupted Harsoth. "An army? I don't think so. That only looks to be a be a battalion's worth of men. They only outnumber us three to one. With a couple of Scorpion squadrons and with Longswords for air support, we could easily even those odds."
      "Very well, Sir, but there's also the matter of the Flood. Your men didn't succeed in reestablishing lockdown."
      Harsoth grimaced. "Once Lord Hood sends a fleet here, we can nuke this ring to oblivion, and the Flood here won't matter a bit."
      "Maybe, Sir, but what about Captain Kline and his squad? One of his Marines sent a transmission indicating the ring's Monitor has enlisted them in restoring the quarantine."
      "They were teleported to the ring's Library?"
      "No Sir, they were apparently teleported to the swamp to simply kill all the Flood."
      "Dammit...can we spare a Pelican?"
      "Victor 698 has requested the mission, Sir."
      "Tell them to deploy when ready."
      "Sir."
      "Lieutenant, I also want Longsword squadrons Alpha through Delta on standby, as well as Scorpion Squads Alpha and Bravo. I want all Marine personnel to the defense trenches we dug---you did have Engineering dig them, didn't you?---, while Security personnel will hold here on the Berlin."
      "Sir."
      "Lieutenant, armor and air support is critical. I want the Marines armed with long range weaponry: sniper rifles and rocket launchers and the like. If we let the Covenant close, we're screwed."
      "Got it, Sir. I'll get to it."
      "Good. Dismissed."
***
      Joseph Kline shook his head to eliminate the disorientation after being teleported, and looked around.
      He was in a large swamp with the rest of his squad, no doubt the one Harsoth had visited with Sergeant Strossar's squad. There was an entrance to a building nearby, probably a Flood Containment Facility, which meant...
      "Contact!" barked Gunnery Sergeant Fredericks, as a horde of Flood infection forms and combat forms came charging out of the entrance.
      "Don't let them close!" shouted Kline, and opened up with his MA5B. The Marines all crouched into firing stances, and let loose with a hail of gunfire. The first swarm of infection forms popped one after the other, but the combat forms continued to surge forward.
      The Marines were on the verge of being overrun; humanoid masses of tattered grey flesh and tentacles were everywhere, with more infection forms following in their wake. Kline was reloading his MA5B, ducking to avoid the tentacles of an infected Elite when the smell of burning flesh assailed his nose. The Captain looked up, and saw a swarm of flying robots, laser beams coming from their 'noses', for lack of a better word, attacking the Flood.
      16807 Repetant Instigator spoke. "These are the Sentinels. They are the ring's security system. You will no doubt find them most helpful in combating the Flood."
      Kline said nothing, he simply kept firing. He was vaguely aware of the fact that the fireteam was down to just him, Gunnery Sergeant Strossar, and three other Marines, but he paid no heed to that. All he could do was load his gun and fire, load and fire, and hope for the best.
      As it turned out, the best had yet to come: Kline suddenly was aware of a loud humming noise, and three seconds later, dropship Victor 698 blasted overheard, and came to a hovering halt in front of the Marines. The pilot's voice crackled over Kline's helmet. "This is Victor Six-Ninety-eight; no time to talk Captain, just get your men onboard!"
      The Marines needed no second bidding; they charged aboard as if the dropship was their one chance to stay alive. Once inside, the Pelican fired off its belly thrusters, raked the Flood horde with gunfire, triggered its main thrusters, and rocketed out of the fetid swamp.
***
      On board the Berlin, Kline had been briefed by the Admiral of the situation and had headed out for the trenches. Marine Lieutenant Delckiss, Kline's second-in-command, had been happy to effect the handover of command to the Captain.
      The Marine company had a fairly good view of the oncoming Covenant, since they were trying to hold a plateau. Kline didn't know what Admiral Harsoth was playing at, but he knew that if the Admiral didn't commence Longsword airstrikes, and maybe a foray here or there with a Warthog squad or a Scorpion squad, the Marines were going to be in trouble.
      Fortunately for Kline, the trenches were incredibly well-defended: all Warthogs on board the Berlin had been set up in a line behind the trenches, so the Marines could use their chainguns as an impromptu artillery battery of sorts; quite a few techs from on board the Berlin knew how to use the chainguns, and had volunteered for combat. They had been given Marine armor, and some tips by Marine heavy-weapons specialists, and were as ready to roll as they would ever be.
      Harsoth, meanwhile, knew that the time had come to commence attacks. Longsword squadron Delta had been given orders to make a scouting/bombing run on the main Covenant unit, and they were ready to deploy.
      In the hanger bay of the Berlin, Naval Lieutenant Cresswell, Delta Leader, was already clambering into his fighter. He had seen combat against the Covenant for several years now, and was hoping they hadn't added some accurate AA weaponry to their bottomless arsenal.
      A naval crewman made the all-clear signal, and the sound of twelve Longsword engines roaring to life filled the hanger bay. The fighters soared out of the bay, and accelerated over the plain. In the cockpit of his fighter, Lieutenant Cresswell assesed the situation: Delta Squadron had formed up into a large 'V' shape, ideal for both recon and bombing missions.
      The edge of the plateau was coming into sight, and the squadron could see the massed Covenant battalion. Lieutenant Cresswell's targeting computer beeped a lock on some Covenant target, a Wraith tank judging by the profile. The Lieutenant clicked his COM headset online. "All right Deltas, fast and hard. One run, and then let's get the hell out of here."
      Thus saying, Cresswell brought his fighter down low for a strafing run, and opened up with his Longsword's cannons, blazing away at the Covenant positions. Grunts and Jackals scattered, but one Elite pompously stood his ground, and was sliced in half by the low-flying fighter.
      About three Wraith tanks, twenty Ghosts, and an obscenely large number of infantry were taken out.
      The Covenant, however, did not intend to be caught napping. The twelve remaining Wraiths opened up with their mortars, shooting down six Longswords, halving the squad.
      Cresswell swore, yanked hard on the stick, and rocketed back towards the Berlin, praying his squad would do the same.
      The rest of the delta-wing craft heeled about, but not before two more of them were downed by the Wraith tanks.
      Cresswell gritted his teeth, and accelerated towards the Berlin. Behind him, another Longsword vanished in a ball of fire, leaving Delta Squadron at only three fighters, counting Cresswell.
      The Lieutenant snapped off a transmission to Lieutenant Freyyr on board the Berlin, shoved his stick to the right, and gunned his engines once more.
      The Lieutenant suddenly saw a flash of purple outside his cockpit. His Longsword shuddered, the ground rushed up to meet him, and a few seconds later, Lieutenant Cresswell ceased to exist.
***
      Joseph Kline, along with the Marines and Navy volunteers manning the Berlin's defenses, stared in horror as Delta Squadron's Longsword's were annihilated. Not a one managed to make it back to the Berlin.
      The Captain moved fast. "Delckiss, get everyone ready! Get the chainguns loaded! And someone contact Admiral Harsoth and tell him we need Scorpions."
      The Admiral's voice was already crackling over Delckiss's helmet. "Don't worry, soldier, I've already got a squad's worth of tanks being deployed as we speak."
      In the trenches, MA5Bs were loaded, M-41 rocket launchers were checked, clips were slammed into SR992-AM sniper rifles, helmet viewfinders and COM systems were clicked online, and men prepared for battle. In the midst of this chaos, Kline clicked online his helmet viewfinder's magnification: a company's worth of Covenant were approaching, plus five Wraith tanks and an equal number of Ghosts.
      The Captain swivelled to face Lieutenant Delckiss. "We've got to conserve our ammo. Don't fire until they do. Understand?"
      The Lieutenant nodded. "Yes Sir."
      "Good," replied Kline, turning his attention once more to the oncoming Covenant troops.
      A sudden humming noise filled the air, the Captain swivelled around to look behind him, and jumped a foot in the air as he found himself staring down the barrel of a Scorpion tank's main cannon. "Captain," said the tanker in charge of the lead vehicle, "Scorpion squadron Alpha reporting for duty, Sir!"
      "Good to see you, tanker," said Kline. "How many in your squad?"
      "Five of us, Sir."
      "There's five Wraith tanks coming up on our position. Take them down when I give the word."
      "Will do, Sir."
      About two seconds after that exchange, a round from a Wraith mortar slammed into the ground behind the Warthog battery, throwing a purple sheen over everything for a few seconds. "Fire!" Kline shouted.
      With a roar, the Scorpions let loose their shells, taking out three of the Wraiths in a flash of red flame. The chaingun battery blazed to life, throwing a veritable wall of lead at the onrushing Covenant, taking down the Grunts ordered to charge ahead of the pack.
      In the trenches, Kline watched the proceedings with a faint sense of satisfaction, a sense that was soon lost as a shot from a Wraith's mortar slammed into the ground in front of the trenches, blinding the Captain for several seconds. As soon as Kline opened his eyes, another mortar blast roared downt to slam into a nearby section of the trench, annihilating an entire squad of Marines.
      Next to Kline, Lieutenant Delckiss shouted, "Snipers, open fire!" The crack of sniper rifles opening fire soon filled the air.
      Kline spotted a flash of burnished red and blue armor. "Aim for the Elites!" the Captain shouted at the snipers.
      The men adjusted their targets, and before long, the Elites were down.
      Two seconds later, a Wraith mortar round slammed into the middle of the chaingun battery, flipping four of the thirty Warthogs in the battery. Navy techs jumped clear, and struggled to right the Hogs. The rest of the battery continued to fire, downing a lance of Jackals and Grunts charging UNSC lines.
      Kline gazed out at the enemy company. Incredibly, the Covenant were holding position, sniping away at the UNSC trenches with beam rifles and plasma pistols. Behind the Captain, another salvo from the Scorpions roared downrange, and blasted the remaining Wraiths to smithereens.
      Kline swivelled behind him to face the tanks. Amazingly, none had been destroyed. The tanker officer opened a COM channel to Kline's headset. "Orders, Sir?"
      "We need to force a rout," said the Captain. "And I need your tanks to do it. Get in gear, and force the Covies off this plateau."
      "Yes Sir!" The tanker squad leader clicked over to his squadron COM frequency, but Kline could still hear the man via the command frequency. "All right, Alpha Squad, let's get in gear! We're gonna force those split-chinned, squid-headed jerks offa this rock!"
      As the tanks rumbled towards the Covenant formation, the aliens' line held, buckled, and began to retreat.
      The tankers took full advantage of the chaos, opening up with their machine guns and main cannons. Bodies of Grunts, Elites, Jackals flew everywhere.
      Kline watched the aliens retreat, and opened a COM channel to Admiral Harsoth. "Sir, first Covenant offensive has been pushed back."
      "Excellent work, Captain," replied the Admiral. "Hang tight. They'll be back."
      "Yes Sir," said Kline.
***
      In the brig of the Berlin, the captured Flood Combat Form had been kept under constant guard by Sergeant Strossar and his Marines. But when all the Marines had been called to the trenches, Naval Security personnel under Ensign Gregory Konstantin had been given custody of the infected Morrison. The Ensign and his men meant well, but the battle outside was taking up the majority of their attention as they clustered around Konstantin's COM gear, listening to action reports from Kline and his company. That was why they didn't notice the Combat Form's gradual mutation to a Carrier Form.
      The Flood had been making their way through Halo's labyrinthine passageways to the plateau where the Berlin had crashed, and the hastily made Brain Form coordinating them had decided that it would be a good idea to have an inside operative on the Berlin, and ordered the infected Morrison to accelerate Infection Form production, thus causing his mutation into a Carrier Form.
      Once the Combat Form had fully mutated into a Carrier Form, it wasted no time releasing its payload of six Infection Forms.
      The loud bang alerted the Navy personnel to their new predicament. The Ensign and his team all drew their M6Ds, opening fire on the six Infection Forms that made their way past the bars of the holding cell and charged towards the four-man security team. The battle was almost over before it had begun, the men were taken down in seconds.
      On the far side of the plateau, opposite from the Berlin's crash site and the Covenant encampment, a Flood horde began a long, slow climb to their next meal...and a means to escape the confines of the ring.

Attack on Installation 06, part 4
Date: 16 June 2008, 5:17 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 4
Halo Installation, Tharidanis System, 2553

      Admiral Brett Harsoth stood on the bridge of the cruiser Berlin, contemplating the tactical board. At his side was the stocky Lieutenant Freyyr, his aide, and the grim Captain Joseph Kline, the leader of the Berlin's Marine contingent.
      Kline shook his head. "The Covies are falling back, but it won't be long before they return."
      Harsoth shrugged. "Let 'em come. When they do, we'll just smoke 'em like we did the last time."
      The Marine looked incredulously at the naval officer. "Sir, are you crazy? I'm down to a little more than three-fourths unit strength, the majority of your security volunteers were killed, and we still don't know whether the recon Longswords got our message back to Earth."
      The Admiral looked at Kline as if the Captain were a child spewing gibberish. "Relax, Captain. Admiral Hood will be on his way before long. In the meantime, I want the trenches reinforced. Divert personnel from ship's security if you have to. We're holding this position, come Hell or high water."
      Appropriately enough, that was when the Flood Combat Forms of what had once been Ensign Konstantin's security troops dropped out of an air vent and onto the bridge.
      Kline was a veteran of war. Not a veteran of anti-Flood ops, but a veteran of war. That was why he only paused for the tiniest fraction of a second, then yanked his M6D from his holster and opened fire.
      Admiral Harsoth, on the other hand, had been having nightmares regarding the Flood ever since the failed mission to capture an Infection Form for research. That was why he froze stiff, and was knocked unconcious by a blow from an ex-security guard.
      Kline shot the Combat Form in the chest. The Infection Form nestled within exploded, and the thing dropped to the ground. The Marine Captain knelt down to look at Harsoth.
      "He'll be okay," concluded the Captain. "Doesn't look he has a concussion or anything." Kline turned to face Lieutenant Freyyr, who wore a shocked expression. "Get him down to medical, Lieutenant."
      Freyyr hesitated, realized now wasn't the time for inter-serivce rivalries, saluted, and did as Kline ordered.
      The Captain once again diverted his attention to the tactical table. He immediately emitted a loud swear. At the bridge crew's questioning glance he barked, "They're coming! I want all available security personnel to the trenches. Lieutenant Freyyr has command of naval ops when he gets back. Let's move!"
      As the bridge crew scrambled to their tasks, Kline jammed on his helmet and raced for the trenches, eager to be back where he belonged.

***

      In the trenches, the Marines once again braced for an attack, jamming clips into weapons, and calibrating helmet displays.
      This time, however, the atmosphere wasn't nearly as grim as it had been before. Kline knew that was no doubt attributable to the Scorpion tank platoon holding position just behind the trenches. If the Covies got into a standoff, the tanks would act as artillery. If the aliens charged, the tanks would push them back.
      Providing anti-infantry support once again was a line of Warthogs, with their chainguns facing the area the Covenant would be coming from. Each gun was manned by a Marine or a Navy volunteer.
      Kline, gazing through a pair of binoculars, spotted a flash of purple, and knew the fight was on. "Alright, people, here they come. Don't fire until we know what they're up to."
      A series of comm clicks provided the Captain with acknowledgements. No one was talking now.
      Gunnery Sergeant Fredericks, the NCO who had assisted Kline during the raid on the ringworld's control room, leaned over. "Sir, up the mag on your binocs. I don't think they're shooting at us."
      Kline did so, and spotted a mass of grey and yellow things attacking the Covenant. "Shit," said the Captain. "The Flood. Just what we needed."

***

      Major Domo Jara 'Soromee was in trouble, and when a Sangheili admitted that, you knew the situation was bad.
      The Major's file of six Kig-Yar, twelve Unggoy, and three Minor Sangheili had been ordered to serve as the vanguard for the attack. The Unggoy had, as per military doctrine, taken point. They had advanced ten meters when the attack had come.
      The only warning 'Soromee had gotten was a shriek of "Parasite!" from the Unggoy's leader, and then the Flood were upon them. Energy sword ignited, 'Soromee had slashed left and right, hoping to save his men, but it was a lost cause.
      First the Kig-Yar had been taken, vanishing under a horde of Combat Forms. Then the Unggoy had been jumped by a phalanx of Infection Forms, mutating into horrific, pulsating monstrosities.
      So now it was just down to 'Soromee and his three Sangheili.
      "Major!" came the cry of one. "We must pull back, or the Parasite will kill us all!"
      'Soromee slashed the chest of a Combat Form, denying the request as he did so. "No. Our orders were to clear the way, and we shall do so."
      The same Sangheili spoke again. "Sir, we've lost all our support troops, we are running low on ammo, and---" The babble was cut off as the warrior's shield's failed. A single Infection Form grasped the opportunity, and jumped onto the soldier.
      'Soromee reached for his plasma rifle, but it was too late. Flood flesh was already sprouting across the warrior's body. The Major ran his plasma sword through the Sangheili, hoping to stop the complete mutation. Belatedly, 'Soromee knew the warrior had been right. "Warriors!" he shouted. "We must fall back, and alert the Field Master of this danger!"
      When 'Soromee received no reply, he had to make a decision: stand and fight, and likely be infected, or run, and lose his honor.
      'Soromee stood and fought. His blade was like a whirlwhind, bisecting an ex-Sangheili here, popping an Infection Form there. And when he finally went down, the area surrounding his corpse was literally piled high with Combat Forms.

***

      "Wow," said Kline.
      "Yeah," said Fredericks. "Wow."
      Kline clicked on his headset. "Looks like that was just a scouting party. Stay sharp. The main thrust could be coming at any minute."
      And as the Captain sent that transmission, he had a feeling that that minute would be very, very soon.

Attack on Installation 06, interlude
Date: 21 June 2008, 1:54 am

Attack on Installation 06
Interlude
Cairo Station, Earth, Sol System, 2553

      Fleet Admiral Terrence Hood stood on the bridge of the Cairo, staring out at the endless stars, and shook his head. When the Human-Covenant War had ended, he had assumed things would settle down, and humanity could finally live in peace.
      Of course, that hadn't been what had happened.
      Some members of the Sangheili had apparently decided to continue their campaign against the humans, along with their intendant species. The Arbiter had informed Hood that Fleet Master Rtas 'Vadum had already dispatched a task force, personally led by the Fleet Master, to hunt down and eliminate these rebels. Hood had a good deal of respect for the Sangheili leader, and his warrior second-in-command, but the Admiral simply did not know how much he could trust either one.
      On top of this situation, a Recon Longsword pilot had shown up on the Cairo, requesting a meeting with Hood, claiming that he was from Admiral Harsoth's fleet, and that Harsoth had found another Halo.
      Hood sighed. Best to get this over with. The sooner this new Halo was destroyed, the better...only this time, the Master Chief wasn't going to be able to help out.
      Hood swivelled to face Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, his Marine adjutant, and a veteran of all three Halo campaigns. "Gunnery Sergeant?"
       "Yes Sir?"
      "That recon pilot who's shown up, where is he?"
      "Pilot country, Sir; ONI gave him temporary quarters there when they found out what he was here for."
      "Get him up here, Pete. We might as well find out how bad the situation is."
      "Yes Sir."

***

      An hour after the pilot's debriefing, Hood called for a convocation of the UNSC High Command.
      "The report is conclusive," Hood began without preamble, "there is another Halo ring, and it appears the rebel Sangheili are trying to gain control of it."
      All eyes turned to face the Arbiter, who was the Sangheili representative on the HighCom staff; the warrior-leader had stated he could not entrust this position to anyone else. "I know what you are thinking," he began. "You no doubt blame me for this."
      The battered Colonel James Ackerson, still recovering from his time as a Brute captive, stood up. "You damn well bet we do! These are your people, you should be able to control them!"
      Hood sighed. It was wholly predictable that Ackerson would be the one to talk. With his archenemies Dr. Catherine Halsey and the SPARTAN-IIs missing in action, he had decided to focus his vitriol on the Sangheili.
      Major General Nicolaus Strauss interrupted. "Stow the bullshit, James. You want to yell at someone, do it to the holo of Halsey we all know you have in your room."
      The HighCom staff chuckled at that; even the Arbiter let out a noise that could be considered a laugh.
      "Gentlemen," said Hood, "please. We need to discuss what to do. It is obvious Harsoth requires more ships; the question is how many."
      Admiral Tim "MAC gun" McDonald, representative of the Navy, leaned forward. "A Halo installation has to be top priority. I recommend a full battlegroup. At least."
      The Arbiter nodded his assent. "Fleet Master 'Vadum will no doubt like to assist as well."
      Hood looked at Strauss. "We will definitely need ground troops. How many men can you spare?"
      Strauss waved at the Arbiter. "His ships are no doubt packed with warriors. One Sangheili is worth at least five Marines."
      Ackerson glared daggers. "I take offense to that. My soldiers outwitted the Sangheili numerous times---"
      "After being drugged up and indoctrinated from a young age, Colonel." Strauss looked at Hood. "At least a battalion. Maybe a regiment. Plus an ODST unit or two."
      All eyes turned to faced General Hugo Silva, representative of the ODSTs. The General's son, a battalion commander, had been KIA on the first Halo; scuttlebutt had it that Major Silva had been trying to smuggle Flood specimens back to Earth, and his second-in-command had had to kill him in order to prevent that.
      General Silva said nothing for a few seconds, he simply gazed around the room. "I can supply at least a regimental combat team. My son's memory will demand nothing less."
      Everyone fidgeted, especially the Arbiter, who had commanded the Covenant forces on the first Halo.
      Hood coughed. "Very well, then. It is the conclusion of the High Command that a joint human-Sangheili task force be sent to relieve Admiral Harsoth?"
      Everyone affirmed, except for Ackerson. A sly look was playing over the Colonel's face, and Hood did not like it. "Just one question," asked the ONI officer. "Who leads the task force? 'Vadum, or one of us?"
      The tension in the room could be cut with a knife and served on crackers. All eyes were on the Arbiter and Hood.
      Hood hesitated for the tiniest fraction of a second, then answered. "Ship Master 'Vadum shall command. He has more experience attacking Halo rings than we do, not to mention the knowledge of our foe's tactics."
      The HighCom looked satisfied with the answer, save for Ackerson.
      "Is that all?" asked Hood. "Are you sure, James?" There were some chuckles at that. "Very well, dismissed."

***

      Two hours after that, the joint task force under Fleet Master 'Vadum and Admiral Hood (who had elected to personally oversee the fight) departed for Tharidanis. The fight for Installation 06 had begun in earnest.

Attack on Installation 06, part 5
Date: 25 June 2008, 12:45 am

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 5
Halo Installation, Tharidanis system, 2553

      Marine Captain Joseph Kline, veteran of Sigma Octanus, Reach, and far more campaigns that he would rather not have experienced, surveyed the Covenant lines.
      The aliens had set up defensive positions mirroring the Marines' own: a series of slit trenches, with a battery of tanks behind to provide artillery support. The Covies had even brought up a line of Brute Prowlers to counter the Warthogs positioned behind the Marine trenches. Elites, burnished red and blue armor glittering in the sunlight, were prowling the alien defenses, growling at skittering Grunts, giving orders to bird-like Jackals, and keeping a respectful distance from the brooding Hunter pairs that had just joined the fight.
      Kline shook his head. His face, and general attitude, for that matter, had more than once been described as "grim." That wasn't inaccurate. The Captain had entered the war at the beginning, serving as a Second Lieutenant on Vice Admiral Preston Cole's campaign to retake Harvest. Kline had been no stranger to war, his commission had been earned during OPERATION: Trebuchet, but fighting the Covenant was different. There was the tech, of course; the aliens had the humans outclassed in everthing from small arms to artillery to capital ship systems. But more disturbing was the lack of quarter the Covenant gave the humans.
      During the Harvest campaign, Kline had been the jokester of his platoon, always ready with a smile or a joke. He had done all he could to keep his mens' spirits high. Then, one day, he saw his platoon sergeant attempt to surrender to a gold-armored Elite.
      The alien warrior hadn't even glanced at the man before running him through with an energy sword. The hopeful expression hadn't even vanished from the NCO's face.
      After that, Kline had stopped smiling.
      So here he was, on a damn Halo ring, attempting to defend a grounded ship against the Covenant and the Flood. The plateau that the Marathon-class cruiser Berlin had crashed had seemed a rather nice place to be marooned on; it was a nice place, with grasslands, neither too hot nor too cold, with the occasional rainfall.
      Now it was a hell.
      For five days now, the men of Kline's Marine company had fought back assault after assault by the Covenant, and yesterday the Flood had seen fit to attack the Covenant lines. Though the Covies had beat the alien parasite off, Kline had no illusions that the creatures would return.
      The Captain clicked on his helmet COM. "Platoon leaders, form up at my position. Come on guys, let's shift it."
      A few seconds later, four Marines, each one displaying the double-bar insignia of a lieutenant on Kline's HUD, came racing to his position. The four platoon leaders snapped to attention, then, realizing that garrison formality was rather pointless in the field, relaxed.
      Kline mentally chuckled. He would expect no less of the four men he had trained up to his exacting standards.
      Lieutenant Matthew Delckiss, leader of 1st Platoon, was an old hand, he had rotated in at Sigma Octanus IV, and had acquitted himself quite well at Reach. Delckiss was a rather short man, thin, with black hair. He was rather quiet, but the men seemed to flock to him as a natural leader.
      Lieutenant Jonathan Smith, whose name had been the subject of much mockery from his men, commanded 2nd Platoon. He hadn't shown any exceptional skills so far; in fact, the stocky Lieutenant had been content so far to be the embodiment of an REMF: he currently was acting as company supply officer, letting his platoon sergeant, the stolid Gunnery Sergeant Fredericks, handle the frontline leadership.
      The silent Lieutenant Tim Crowe, 3rd Platoon's CO, had shown himself to be an above-average leader. He wore his blonde hair cut short, and was famous throughout the company for having rescued a squad pinned down by a Wraith tank with nothing but an MA5C assault rifle and several captured plasma grenades.
      4th Platoon was under the command of Lieutenant William Wilde, the newest officer in the company. The young, round-faced (and somewhat acne-afflicted) Wilde had yet to be accepted by his men, and the real leader of the platoon was Master Sergeant Al Anselm, a veteran NCO whose command style emulated that of the sadly deceased Avery Johnson.
      "Alright, Marines," said Kline. "Report."
      "1st Platoon is still operational. We've taken fourteen casualties...twelve killed, two wounded, so far. Captain...this might be another Reach, sir." Delckiss' expression was, as usual, tired; the Lieutenant was fast adopting the persona of the war-weary veteran.
      Kline fought off the memories of that campaign. "The Admiral wants us to take that risk," he replied, but both men knew Kline thought that Harsoth could go to Hell.
      Smith hesitated. "Erm...Gunnery Sergeant Fredericks has informed me we've taken six casualties, all wounded. So we're good to go."
      "Copy. Lieutenant Crowe?"
      Crowe merely nodded, which was completely in character for the Lieutenant.
      "Lieutenant Wilde?"
      The nervous platoon commander of that name blinked twice, rapidly. "Sergeant Anselm has informed me that we have taken one-third unit casualties; four KIA and eight wounded."
      "Got it," said Kline. "All right...it's fairly evident at this point that the Covies have dug in, and are going to wait for us to come to them. We're not going to oblige."
      "Somehow, I didn't think we were," interjected Delckiss, deadpan.
      "What we're going to do is hold. We don't move until they do. And when they do...we blow them to hell."
      "Oorah!" cried Crowe.
      Everyone stared. "So you can talk," remarked Kline.
      "What else can you do, Crowe?" asked Wilde. "You holding out on us?"
      But Crowe, back to his normal reticence, simply shrugged, and returned to his platoon.
      Kline looked at the other Lieutenants. "Come on, people, let's head 'em out. You never know when the enemy's gonna move."
      It was, Kline would later reflect, a brutal irony that it was that moment the Covenant chose to commence an artillery barrage, along with an all-out charge on the UNSC lines.
      The Scorpion and Warthog defensive lines opened fire, annihilating the Grunts sent ahead as suicide scouts. The next rank of the advancing aliens, a squad of Jackals, cawed and took shelter behind their shields, the devices sparking as they deflected rounds from the Warthogs; the Jackal personal arm shields were excellent devices for coping with rounds from most human armaments. However, the round from a Scorpion tank's main gun was not most armaments. The avians fell just as fast as their Grunt bretheren did.
      Kline, gazing through his binoculars, frowned. The cannon fodder had been called up and annihilated, as per what the humans had by now realized was standard Covenant doctrine. But where were the Elites?
      Two seconds later, a blue flash and a humming noise manifested next to Kline. The Marine next to him howled and fell, two holes pierced through his chest. The blurry outline of a Covenant Elite using active camouflage was visible over the corpse. Cries were now sounding throughout the trenches, and over the command comm, the voice of Lieutenant Wilde could be heard exhorting his men to "use your shotguns! For God's sake, use your shotguns!"
      The Elite near Kline suddenly swiveled to face him. The point of the sword blade came up, and the Captain knew he was in trouble.

Attack on Installation 06, part 6
Date: 30 June 2008, 10:31 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 6
Halo Installation, Tharidanis system, 2553

      Kline didn't even have time to swear before the Elite was on him.
      The alien warrior roared, all four mandibles outstretched, and thrusted with the sword. Kline hastily sidestepped, knowing he was just buying time, and snapped off a quick shot from his MA5B assault rifle.
      All the shot did was splash off the Elite's shields, and anger the warrior even more. The Elite hefted its sword, and lunged for Kline. The Captain squeezed his assault rifle's trigger, bracing himself for oblivion.
      At the last second, the Captain closed his eyes. A sharp, stabbing pain pierced his stomach, and Kline blacked out.

***

      Further down the trench system, the round-faced Lieutenant Wilde saw the company commander fall, and froze. Fortunately, Master Sergeant Anselm spotted him, and shoved him to the ground shortly before a plasma round could kill the junior officer.
      "Top!" shouted Corporal Wilks of Fourth Squad, who was pouring round after round into a surviving Grunt file. "They've got reinforcements moving up! What do we do?"
      Anselm didn't hesitate. "Hold the line, goddammit! Don't let a single one of those bastards into the trench!"
      Wilks nodded. "Roger that!" he acknowledged, and continued to pour on the fire.
      Anselm pointed at one of the Marines. "Drake, bring up the HMG! Move it!"
      "Yes Sir!" said the Private of that name, mounting the weapon's tripod on the trench edge.
      "Alright, then, let 'em have it!" barked the Master Sergeant.
      The Marine opened fire, raking the tri-barreled gun across the Covenant forces, spewing out a constant stream of profanity as he did so. Anselm, still surveying his platoon's situation, spared the soldier a nod of approval.
      That was when an Elite decloaked behind the machine gunner, chuckling malevolently. Anselm had barely enough time to yell, "Drake, look out!" before the warrior was on the Marine.
      Drake's M6D sidearm was already out and cracking away. The Elite waited for the Private to expend the magazine on his shields, then lunged. Drake sidestepped, unslinging his M90 shotgun, and unloaded two shells into the creature's head. The Elite dropped like a stone.
      Anselm hefted his MA5B, and emptied the magazine into a charging Grunt file. "Lieutenant? What're your orders?"
      Wilde was huddled against the back of the trench, pistol in hand. He made no reply.
      Anselm shook his head. "Alright, people, hold the line! Use short, controlled bursts, don't waste your ammo!"
      "Sarge!" yelled Sergeant Henderson of Second Squad, "we've got some Jackhammers!"
      Anselm noticed several ominous blue shapes moving in the distance. He swore. "Bring 'em up, let's go!"
      Too late. The approaching Hunters vanished behind the green glows of fuel rod gun rounds. Anselm swivelled to face his platoon. "Cover! Get to cover! Move!"
      The Marines threw themselves flat, but the Hunters were good, arcing their shots so they exploded inside the trenches. A support gunner lugging his ammo back from the firing line vanished when the box took a direct hit and exploded; in the process, the shockwave took out the majority of First Squad. Anselm clutched his helmet against his head, praying that he and his men would make it through alive.
      Incredibly, Second Squad was still standing, launching one Jackhammer rocket after another at the Hunters. Two of the creatures exploded in orange sprays, the worms that made them up flying from their armor.
      Anselm hefted his assault rifle, stumbling over to the firing line. "Report!" he shouted over the platoon frequency, "who's left?"
      Scattered cries came over the comm; Anselm could barely identify the speakers. "First Squad is down, they're all gone!" "Second's holding on---" "Third squad's down by half---" "This is Wilks, I'm all that's left of Fourth---"
      "Alright," said Anselm, speaking loudly to cut over the chatter. "Hold position; they'll be back."
      Lieutenant Delckiss was yelling something over the headset; Anselm forced himself to concentrate. "----back! We cannot hold, everyone fall back to the cruiser now!"
      Anselm surveyed the rest of the trenches, and swore. Fourth Platoon had managed to hold on, but the rest of the defensive line was engaged in close-quarters battle with the Covenant forces. The Warthogs and Scorpions couldn't fire for fear of hitting the defenders; the gunners on the former looked particularly helpless. Everywhere, Marine and Navy personnel were scrambling out of the trenches and running like hell for the Berlin.
      The Master Sergeant clicked on his headset. "Sir, this is Anselm. Fourth is holding on; rally on us, we can hold the line!"
      The voice that answered belonged to Admiral Harsoth. "Negative, Sergeant, fall back to the Berlin. That's an order!"
      The NCO sighed. "Yes Sir. Fourth Platoon, fall back, move!"
      The Marines scrambled from the trench, and made a break for it. All Anselm was concious of was putting one foot in front of the other as fast as he could, and weaving left and right to avoid plasma fire. He barely noticed Lieutenant Wilde's skull being pierced by a beam rifle shot; barely took note of Private Drake, the Marine who had gone toe-to-toe with an Elite and won, being stuck by a plasma grenade. All that he took note of was the distance to the Berlin
      And then he made it. The hangar bay, which was the fallback point for the troops, was packed. Marines, wounded, shell-shocked, and exhausted, milled around the bay, talking, laughing, weeping; Anselm thought they made for an odd contrast with the sterile cleanliness of the hangar.
      Making his way through the bay, he spotted Lieutenant Delckiss, who was tending to an unconcious Captain Kline. The company commander had a pair of stab wounds to his stomach, but they were cauterized, and it looked like he was going to make it. "Lieutenant," Anselm began without regard for pleasantries, "what the hell are you thinking? We could have held on!"
      Delckiss motioned to a mousy-haired medic to keep an eye on the Captain, then turned to look at Anselm. "Sergeant," he replied, "would you follow me?"
      Anselm blinked. "Sir?"
      "Just come with me, Sergeant." Thus saying, the Lieutenant led Anselm to a computer terminal. "Bridge," said the Lieutenant, "please route the view from the orbital sensors to terminal 6774."
      "Wait," said Anselm. "You mean something in orbit caused this retreat?"
      "Yep," nodded Delckiss, gesturing at the image that had popped up on the monitor. "And that's that something."

***

      That "something" was the Sangheili Fleet of Righteous Retribution, jointly commanded by human Admiral Sir Terrence Hood and Sangheili Fleet Master Rtas 'Vadum from the assault carrier Shadow of Intent. Upon entering the system, the fleet had received a transmission from Admiral Harsoth on the Halo ring. Harsoth informed Hood that his grounded cruiser was under attack, and that his ground troops were vastly outnumbered. Hood offered to land reinforcements, but Harsoth had a plan. At best it was audacious, at worst, suicidal. But it was the only hope for the human forces.
      Fleet Master 'Vadum stood on the blue-lit bridge of the Shadow of Intent, gazing at the ring.The Arbiter's trusted second-in-command, 'Vadum was tall for a Sangheili, a veteran of both ground and fleet operations, as attested by his lack of two mandibles. This feature had given him a nickname amongst the human troops assigned to his command: "Half-Jaw." However, this was meant with the utmost respect, as 'Vadum had shown time and again he had nothing but respect for the scrappy humans, who had been able to withstand the might of the Covenant.
      The Weapons Master of the carrier approached 'Vadum, and saluted. "Fleet Master, the batteries confirm the coordinates are locked in."
      "You have double-checked?"
      "Triple, Fleet Master. The human Admiral insisted upon it."
      'Vadum nodded, still staring out at the Halo. I remember the first time I saw one of the sacred rings, Weapons Master."
      "At Threshold?"
      "Indeed. I was exultant that our religion, the glue that held the Covenant together, was not a farce; that we might truly become Gods."
      The Weapons Master shook his head. "What fools we were."
      "Indeed." 'Vadum shook his head, trying to dispel the memories of old failings. "Begin orbital bombardment, then."
      "Yes, Fleet Master," said the other, and walked to his station.
      As the Weapons Master walked away, 'Vadum silently added to himself, And pray. Pray that we don't kill our brothers.

Attack on Installation 06, part 7
Date: 9 July 2008, 3:17 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 7
0900 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06



      The flagship Shadow of Intent, along with the rest of the Fleet of Righteous Retribution, hung above Halo Installation 06 like malevolent ornaments, blue engine drives lighting up the blackness of space.
      The bridge of the flagship, too, was blue. Sangheili warriors, wearing blue and red armor, were at their appointed stations, working away. Sitting in the command chair dominating the bridge was Fleet Master Rtas 'Vadum. The Sangheili was talking to an elderly human, wearing the pristine white uniform of the UNSC Navy's Admiralty: Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood.
      Hood, at the moment, was not happy. Not surprising, given that he was on the ship of a warrior species that had until recently been mortal enemies with humanity, but that wasn't the reason for his unease. "Fleet Master, are you sure---"
      "---That my gunners will shoot straight? Of course. But should something go wrong, I'd like to remind you, Admiral, that it was you who approved this plan. Your compatriot on the planet's surface suggested it, and you approved." 'Vadum cocked his shark-like head curiously, a surprisingly human expression. "In any event, I always thought you humans never had second thoughts about these things."
      Hood shook his head. "And we used to think you Sangheili were ruthless religious fanatics without a single shred of humanity. So I think both our impressions were wrong."
      'Vadum actually chuckled. "Indeed. But, in any event, the bombardment has started. It's too late for second thoughts, now."

***

      On the bridge of the Berlin Admiral Brett Harsoth gazed out the bridge viewport as it rained outside. He shook his head. "I knew these rings were weird, but I never expected weather like this."
      His bald aide, Lieutenant Freyyr, didn't look up from the after-action reports at that remark. "Most amusing, Sir," he replied, and then set to work composing a reply to Lieutenant Delckiss, who was filling in for the incapacitated Captain Kline.
      Harsoth shrugged. He knew he didn't have the best sense of humor, but he did know that when the skies (rather, the fleet above them) rained down plasma fire, it was an event to be noted.
      Outside the grounded cruiser, bolt after bolt from the orbiting Sangheili ships poured down, turning the plateau, the Covenant troops and vehicles on it, and any Flood still left into glass. Harsoth had heard of this technique being used against human-held planets during the Human-Covenant War, but he had had no idea how incredibly terrifying being on the receiving end of the bombardment could be. If any of the Sangheili gunners had the slightest amount of lingering resentment for humanity, a minor correction could be made to the coordinates the guns were firing at, and Harsoth and the rest of the stranded humans would cease to exist.
      The door to the bridge hissed open, and Captain Kline, supported by Lieutenant Delckiss and the newly-promoted First Sergeant Anselm, staggered onto the bridge, looking very much the worse for the wear. "Alright, Admiral," said Kline. "Just because I've been comatose for the past hour doesn't mean I shouldn't know what's going on out there. Care to explain, Sir?"
      Harsoth shrugged. "Not much to say, Kline. Our FTL Longsword made it back to Earth, told Lord Hood what was going on, and it looks like the Admiral managed to whistle up some Elite pals to help us out."
      Kline looked at Harsoth as if been infected by the Flood. "The Elites? You're trusting the Elites? Sir, with all due respect, do you remember Reach?"
      Harsoth's face become rock-hard in an instant. His most prestigious command, the supercarrier Trafalgar, had been one of the casualties of that battle. "Yes, Captain. I do. And, had I had things my way, we'd be off of this ring, and this ring itself would be the victim of a Shiva warhead bombardment. But Lord Hood is higher up on the chain of command, and he's given us his orders, and we are going to follow them to the goddamned letter! Is that clear, Captain Kline?"
      The tension between the two men could have been cut with a knife and served on crackers. Kline stiffened in old parade-ground reflex, aggravated his wound, and grimaced. "Sir! Absolutely clear, Sir!"
      Harsoth looked at Kline's wound. "And Captain, if you're not fit for duty, you shouldn't be on duty."
      Kline actually sneered at the Admiral. "Yes Sir. I don't feel too good, at any rate." The Captain swivelled to face his second. "Delckiss, you have command."
      The Lieutenant looked like someone being sent to his death. Which, for all intents and purposes, he was. "Yes Sir. First Sergeant, get the Captain to the medbay." Anselm nodded, saluted, and supported Kline as the latter staggered off the bridge. Delckiss looked at Harsoth. "Awaiting your orders, Sir."
      "Good," said Harsoth. "Once the bombardment stops, we'll be getting reinforcements."
      "Elites, Sir?"
      "And Marines. And ODSTs."
      "Aye, Sir. When's the bombardment done?"
      A final explosion sounded from outside, and Harsoth cocked a half smile. "Now."

***

      On the bridge of the Shadow of Intent, Fleet Master 'Vadum and Admiral Hood briefed the commanding officers of the ground troops. There were three of them, and none of them ranked higher than the equivalent of a human NCO.
      Commanding the UNSC Marine platoon was Gunnery Sergeant William Reynolds, a soft-spoken veteran of the Voi and Installation 00 campaigns. Reynolds had been in the Corps since Jerico VII, but hadn't truly risen to a position of prominence until events had thrust him into the path of the Master Chief, whom he had assisted in several battles.
      The ODST platoon was under the command of Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, a hard-living, hard-hitting Helljumper who hailed from the Southern USA. Stacker was one of two still-living survivors of the Installation 04 campaign, and commanded the respect and loyalty of his troops.
      The final soldier, looking somewhat incongruous and even more ill at ease next to the two human NCOs, was Major Domo Usze 'Taham, leader of the 9th Sangheili Special Operations platoon, and a veteran of several anti-Flood camapaigns. He had yet to fully adapt to the new human-Sangheili alliance, and was still somewhat wary of his new allies.
      "Alright," said Hood. "You've read the mission briefings. You've read the intel we have on the Halos, and you know your objectives. Secure the plateau, then report to the Berlin; Harsoth will take over from there."
      'Vadum stepped forward. "Shadow of Intent will be standing by to dispatch close air support should you need it. 'Taham knows how to call in the Banshees, as do his warriors."
      "Any questions?" asked Hood. Stacker raised his hand. "Go ahead, Pete."
      The Master Gunnery Sergeant's face betrayed a small degree of apprehension. "Sir...how likely is it that we'll run into the Flood?"
      Stacker's fireteam had all been killed on Installation 04, and the majority of the casualties had been incurred by Flood infection; the Gunny was no doubt worried about a repeat of that.
      "Very likely," replied Hood. "Captain Kline has already reported casualties due to infection."
      Stacker's face set. "Yes Sir. Understood, Sir."
      Hood looked at the other platoon leaders. "Gunnery Sergeant? Major Domo? Questions?"
      Reynolds shook his head. "Sir, no Sir."
      'Taham said nothing.
      Hood shrugged. "Very well, then. Stacker, get your men to the drop pods. Clear an LZ for the dropships. Reynolds, 'Taham, follow him in. Dismissed."
      The two humans saluted, and 'Taham clapped his fists to his shoulders in a Sangheili salute. The three NCOs executed a crisp about-face, and left the bridge.
      Hood looked at 'Vadum. The half-jawed Sangheili's face was shrouded in shadow from the blue lights on the bridge. "If there's any friendly fire from plasma rifles on this mission, Fleet Master..."
      'Vadum looked uncharacteristically grim. "I understand your fears. But you need not worry. Major Domo 'Taham is disciplined; he might not like his orders, but he will follow them to the letter."
      "I hope so, Fleet Master," said Hood. "I earnestly hope so."

***

      The drop pod bays of Shadow of Intent were abuzz with activity, as the men of Stacker's ODST platoon readied themselves for a hard drop. Normally, this wouldn't be a challenge, but the ODSTs were normally not using Sangheili Orbital Insertion Pods. Stacker's men had gotten a manual translated into English from the ONI spooks attached to this operation, but the Master Gunnery Sergeant had his doubts over the species compatibility. For one thing, ODSTs were used to sitting down during their drops; the design of the Elite OIP dictated that the occupant had to be standing the whole time. Furthermore, the occupants of the crafts were kept in stasis fields for the duration of the drop, so the marginal AI assigned to operate each craft had total control of the pods. Neither Stacker, nor his troops, relished being helpless in a coffin-shaped box falling from orbit. But that wasn't too out of the ordinary for the ODSTs; for all its familiarity, an HEV really didn't offer that much more control over one's fate.
      Gunnery Sergeant Reynolds walked up to Stacker. He didn't salute, which was a rather severe breach of protocol, but Stacker let hos fellow Gunny's indiscretion slide. "What is it, Reynolds?"
      Reynolds' expression, as it had been since the Voi campaign, was grim and resigned. "Just wanted to let you know the Pelicans and Phantoms are good to go, Sir. Hocus isn't too keen about another campaign on a Forerunner installation, but she'll do her job."
      Stacker nodded. "Good to hear, Will." He lowered his voice. "How's your squid-head pal doing?"
      Reynolds' face, if that was even possible, grew grimmer. "He's told me he doesn't care much for working with us, but he'll do his job. And his second doesn't seem to mind as much."
      Stacker nodded. "All right, then. Get your people ready. Dismissed."
      The other Gunnery Sergeant walked off, leaving Stacker alone with his thoughts and memories. Three times the Gunnery Sergeant had fought on a Forerunner installation. Three times Stacker had lost a close friend. On the first Halo, the whole of Fireteam Zulu had been killed. On Delta Halo, Staff Sergeant Marcus Banks had been infected by the Flood. And on the Ark, the unthinkable had happened: Avery had died.
      Stacker shook his head. Like most of the other Marines assigned to the ORION detachment, Stacker had considered Staff Sergeant Avery Johnson to be larger than life; invincible. And he was. Or rather, had been. Avery had survived Harvest, Sigma Octanus, Reach, two Halos. He'd been the consummate survivor, a bold and daring leader. He'd been Stacker's friend.
      So when what was left of the Forward Unto Dawn had shown up at Earth with only the Arbiter on board, Stacker had actually gone up to the Elite warrior-leader, and asked him what had happened to Avery. Stacker had been surprised when the Arbiter answered him, but he had been even more surprised by what had happened to Avery.
      He'd been killed by the Forerunner robot that had tagged along with the Elite fleet that had headed to the Ark.
      Stacker had left without waiting for the Arbiter's explanation why the robot had killed him.
      So here he was, about to go to another Halo ring, and Stacker couldn't help but wonder whether or not this would be the battle in which he would finally get to see Avery again.

Attack on Installation 06, part 8
Date: 15 July 2008, 4:29 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 8
0900 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      Shortly before the reinforcements arrived, Harsoth received word that Captain Kline was dead.
      Lieutenant Freyyr delivered the news in a cold, emotionless tone, perfectly in keeping with the spartan appointments of the Admiral's quarters. Harsoth wasn't surprised; the Marine Captain and Freyyr had clashed more than a few times, but Harsoth would have thought that his bald aide would've had a little more respect for the deceased Marine officer.
      The Admiral shook his head. He and Kline hadn't always gotten along, but the Marine Captain had stuck by his side from Reach onwards, and there was something to be said for loyalty like that. The Admiral hefted his thin frame from his desk, and looked at Freyyr. "How'd it happen?"
      The Lieutenant's laser-sharp gaze was directed at a spot above and to the left of Harsoth's head. Ironically, that was where Harsoth had hung a citation for valor regarding his actions at Reach, for saving what he could of the Trafalgar's crew...including Kline. "Complications from the gut wound, Sir. It appears he was...well, disembowled."
      Harsoth's head whipped around. "What? His intestines certainly weren't falling apart on the bridge."
      Freyyr's unconcerned facade cracked a little. Not noticeably, but to Harsoth, who'd worked with the Lieutenant for years, it showed just how horrified the junior officer was. "It appears..." Freyyr gulped, then spoke the next words in a rush. "The sword tore him up, Sir, his armor was all that was keeping him together. When the medics took it off..."
      Harsoth could guess the rest. "How long did it take?"
      "When the medics realized what had happened, they told First Sergeant Anselm they couldn't save him. The First Sergeant decided to give the Captain a 'clean' death."
      Harsoth nodded. "Alright, Lieutenant. Dismissed."
      "Yes Sir." Freyyr saluted, executed a crisp about-face, and left the room.
      Harsoth closed the door and locked it. He then sat down at his desk, and proceeded to hit it until his hand was bruised. The Admiral then opened his mouth, sucked in as much air as he could, and screamed, a long hard exhalation of pain and frustration and loss. Harsoth then drew his M6D sidearm, and proceeded to unload the magazine into the citation for valor. The Admiral was losing it, and worse, he knew he was losing it, and he knew that he couldn't afford to. Knew that he had to keep it together, and win this fight. Win it for Kline's sake.
      Harsoth wasted a few seconds calming down, trying to get his breathing under control. He reloaded his sidearm, clipped it to his trouser leg, and smoothed out his uniform; he slipped his peaked cap onto his head, and it worked a change. The loss, the pain, the frustration slipped away; he was once again the consummate Admiral. Ready to win, ready to fight....ready to die. Because that was all, absolutely all, he could do to honor the memory of a loyal Marine officer who'd lost his life, trying to win this fight.
      The Admiral opened the door, and stalked off to the bridge. He had a battle to win.

***

      Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker slipped himself into the Covenant Orbital Insertion pod, feeling the purple stasis field of the coffin-shaped drop pod take a hold of him. Stacker looked around the pod to see what it was adorned with. One solitary viewscreen. That was it. No controls, no comm beyond his headset, not even a weapons locker---the Elites jumped holding their weapons. Stacker didn't know how it felt to an Elite, but if he was jumping with an Assault Rifle, he'd rather have it in a locker rather than strapped to his back, robbing him of what little semblance of comfort the OIP might have offered.
      Stacker clicked online his COM headset. "Alright, people, sound off." Once the forty-eight men of the Helljumper platoon had barked out acknowledgements, he clicked the headset over to the frequency used by the Pelican squadron. "Hocus, this is Stacker. Helljumpers are good to go."
      The southern-accented voice of Hocus, pilot of Pelican Kilo 023, responded. "Roger. Clear the deck for us, and we'll be right behind you."
      Stacker's next message was directed to the Elite officer controlling the drop bay. "Control, OIPs are good to go."
      "Very well," came the reply. Stacker jolted as he recognized the voice of Rtas 'Vadum. "May your aim be true, and your bullets fly straight."
      The Gunnery Sergeant chuckled. "Save the pep talk for your warriors, Fleet Master. We're the ODSTs, we don't need that."
      "I hope so," retorted 'Vadum, "because you'll be dropping now."
      There wasn't even a countdown. One minute, Pete felt as though he were standing on solid ground; the next, a sensation of weightlessness, of falling through an empty void. The viewscreen of the pod showed him hurtling past the orbiting Elite ships, the other OIPs forming up with him. The AI controlling Stacker's pod gave an extra burst from the manuevering rockets so he'd be the first one onto the ground; ODST doctrine dictated that the highest-ranking officer would be the first one to land.
      As the OIP entered the ring's atmosphere, fire began to creep across the OIP's heat shield, obscuring the viewscreen. The ODSTs' motto crept unbidden into Stacker's mind: Feet First into Hell.
      A voice crackled over the radio channels; Corporal Jessica Horgen's, singing something. Stacker furrowed his brow, and upped the volume on his headset to try and hear what she was singing: "From the balls of Lord Hood's juniors to the shores of Eridani, we will curse the UNSC leaders 'cross the stars and land and sea; first to fight the Covie scum, dropping out of the sky in HEVs..."
      Stacker recognized it; the unofficial hymn of the UNSC Marine Corps, with some changes made for the ODSTs. The Gunny had never been one for this sort of thing, but he still found himself joining in; "We do or die! We ask not why! 'Cause we're ODSTs!"

***

      In the troop bay of dropship Kilo 023, Gunnery Sergeant William Reynolds surveyed his squad. He hadn't bothered to learn their names; if he needed to talk to them, his neural implant would register their names from their IFF and show them on his HUD. Reynolds hadn't bothered to learn the names of any of the men and women under his command in quite some time. Not after what had happened to Bravo Team.
      Stacker's Helljumpers should have taken the LZ by now; the squad was shifting around impatiently. One Marine with a rather spectacular pair of muttonchops was flicking the safety catch on his MA5C back and forth, fingering the trigger when the safety was on; if he wasn't careful, he'd trigger the rifle by accident. Curious, Reynolds scanned the man's IFF transponder: Corporal---and Reynolds had to surpress a laugh at the man's name---John Silver. "Hey!" said Reynolds. "Long John!" The man's head jerked up; his eyes were murderous. Reynolds suppressed a gulp, and persevered. "Quit playing with the AR; you trigger that thing by accident, and I'm booting you off the Pelican."
      Silver's voice bore a thick Cockney accent; Reynolds once again had to restrain laughter. "Aye, Sir. But lemme ask you something: have you ever been nervous before a combat drop before?"
      Reynolds suddenly remembered the Pelican ride to the Chief's LZ on Earth. Bravo Team had been walking on air, knowing that they were finally going to be able to win the war, because the Chief was back. On the Pelican ride to the Crow's Nest, Reynolds had surveyed the survivors of the rescue mission: the Chief had obviously made it, as had Johnson and Stacker. Several soldiers from Alpha Team had managed to make it out alive. Bravo Team's bodies had been left strewn about the narrow valley that had been the site of their last stand. He spoke. "Not since Reach, Corporal. Not since Reach."
      Corporal Silver stroked his muttonchops introspectively. "Aye, Sir."
      Reynolds nodded, but said nothing more. Hocus's pleasant Southern twang crackled over the Pelican's COM. "Just got a message from Stacker; they're landing in five."
      "Copy," replied Reynolds. "Stand by."

***

      Stacker's drop pod rattled as the drag chute detached; fire still obscured the viewscreen, and the COM was blaring with cries from the Helljumpers.
      "Quiet!" barked Stacker. "Cut the chatter, I need to be able to hear what's going on in order to fight!"
      Silence now reigned over the command frequency, although Stacker had no doubt the regular channels were still packed with chatter. A countdown timer to touchdown suddenly appeared on the OIP's viewscreen; in keeping with the rest of the craft, the numbers were purple: 5:00:00.
      "Alright!" said the Gunnery Sergeant. "We have five to dirt, repeat five to dirt! This LZ is gonna be hotter than my last date, so get set to come out swinging!"
      The OIP's viewscreen now showed a dirty, dusty plateau, a UNSC Marathon-class crusier crashed on one side, a series of defensive trenches zig-zagging from it. On the other side of the plateau was a Covenant encampment, four Wraith tanks standing sentry, and an obscenely large assortment of Jackals, Elites, and Grunts; at least sixty of them. Bad odds, but they could definetely have been worse. Stacker took note of the gold-armored Elite directing the aliens, marking the warrior's position on his HUD.
      Stacker broadcast a second set of orders over the COM. "Anyone with a rocket launcher, I want those Wraiths out of commission ASAP! Everyone else, target the infantry!"
      The countdown timer was displaying 00:59:59. "One minute!" yelled Stacker.
      The OIP's breaking thrusters flared; Stacker felt as if a Brute was sitting on his lap. The Gunnery Sergeant unslung his BR-55, and prepared himself, staring at the timer.
      The timer now showed 00:10:00. "Ten seconds, people!" shouted Stacker, more for his own benefit than the other Helljumpers'. "Look sharp!"
      At five seconds, Stacker yanked the charging lever on his battle rifle, and braced himself against the OIP's stasis field. There was a massive bang, an equally large lurch, and the pod embedded itself within the surface of the ringworld.
      Stacker had barely enough time to jam the Battle Rifle's stock against his shoulder before the pod blew in half.
      At first the Gunny thought he'd been nailed by a plasma mortar round, but he realized it was the release system for the OIP's passenger: the stasis field had dissolved. Stacker shook his head; his Helljumpers had probably been scared out of there minds when that had happened. Surveying the LZ, however, he was pleased to see almost no one had panicked, although his HUD was showing two soldiers had already been KIA. Squad leaders had managed to rally up their troops, and two of the Wraiths were smoking purple scrapheaps.
      The other two were firing on the Helljumpers.
      Stacker dove for cover as a round from a plasma mortar hurtled overhead. Some of the Helljumpers were pushing forward in an attempt to break through the Covie sentries into the encampment proper; the Helljumpers were being aided by the rocket launchers, which had by now dispatched a third wraith, but they were taking casualties.
      The Gunnery Sergeant triggered his COM. "All ODSTs, fall back, take up defensive positions! There's no way in Hell we'll take this camp without Reynolds' team!"
      Platoon Sergeant Jon Salko's voice crackled over Stacker's headset. "Falling back now, Sir! Orders?"
      Stacker nodded. "Contact Reynolds and the Elites. Tell 'em to get here soon...or not bother getting here at all."

Attack on Installation 06, part 09
Date: 31 July 2008, 12:41 am

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 8
0950 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      Gunnery Sergeant William Reynolds' COM headset crackled to life, blasting static into the dozing Gunny's ear.
      Reynolds, along with the rest of the Marine contingent inside Pelican Kilo 023, had finally succumbed to the need for some shuteye before the hard drop onto the ringworld's surface; Admiral Hood, mindful of the soldier's need to get sleep whenever possible, had assured Reynolds that he would wake them when the time had come.
      "Will?" came the twang of Pete Stacker's voice. "Will, get your ass down here, we need reinforcements, now!"
      Reynolds' eyes snapped open. "Roger. Hocus! Let's roll!"
      "Roger that," came the voice of the female Pelican pilot. "Stand by. Hard drop commencing."
      The floor underneath the Pelican retracted into the surface of the cruiser, the docking clamps released with a jarring thud, and the Pelican-Phantom squadron was en route to the Halo ring.
      Reynolds yanked the charging lever his assault rifle. "Alright, people," he began, addressing the Marine squad, all of whom were now fully awake. "Gunny Stacker's Helljumpers have run into trouble at the LZ; we're going to help them out. Alright?"
      The rest of the Marines seated in Kilo 023's troop bay let out a chorus of "Oorah!", the age-old rallying cry of the UNSC Marine Corps.
      Hocus' voice came over the Pelican's intercom. "We're in the ring's atmosphere, popping the hatch now." She suited action to words, the two-part hatch at the rear of the troop bay hissed open, revealing a dusty, brown-colored plateau, bracketed by a crashed Marathon-class cruiser at one end, and a Covenant encampment on the other. Gold, blue, and green streaks, no doubt plasma and gunfire, streaked across the Covenant base, intersecting with blue, red, orange, and black figures: Elites, Grunts, Jackals, and ODSTs.
      The Marines hefted their assault rifles, making sure they were charged and loaded. "Two minutes!" called Hocus. Reynolds surveyed his troops: his neural implant superimposed their names onto his vision, but he didn't particularly care about that. He instead looked for any untoward symptoms of worry, anxiety, and the like. The Gunnery Sergeant was happy to see that none of the Marines were displaying those, although he curiously noted a slim blonde Marine reciting "Hail Mary" over and over again; it wasn't that Reynolds was particularly atheistic, but there were quite a few atheists in the foxholes these days.
      Plasma fire suddenly streaked into the troop bay, probably from the gun turret mounted on a Wraith. Corporal John Silver, the sideburn-bearing Marine whom Reynolds had talked to earlier, took the brunt of it, and collapsed. The medic didn't even bother pronouncing him.
      "One minute!" came the alert. Reynolds checked that his BR-55 was in working order, and addressed the platoon. "Alright, people. Gunny Stacker's ODSTs are pinned down at the Covie encampment, they need us to blast a path to the Berlin. I won't bore you with a pep talk, or a last minute tactical briefing, but I will give you this: find a buddy, and stick with him. If he goes down, find a new one. Never, ever try and fight alone. If you do, you won't be fighting long." Memories of Lieutenant Vough, the first member of Bravo Team to fall, slunk unbidden into Reynolds' mind. He tensely shook his head; now was defnitely not the time to relieve the ambush. "Am I clear, Marines?"
      "Sir! Yes Sir!"
      Reynolds gritted his teeth, yanked the charging lever of his BR, and prepared himself to once again go to war.

***

      Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, in the meantime, was vaguely surprised that this was how it felt to die.
      Stacker, realizing he and his men couldn't afford to wait for Reynolds, had ordered a charge in an attempt to break through the surrounding Covenant soldiers, and push through to the Berlin.
      The attempt had played out like a futuristic version of the Charge of the Light Brigade.
      Helljumpers rose up across the battlefield like black-armored grasshoppers, cranked their helmet speakers up to maximum volume, and charged, letting out a horrendous war cry as they did so. For the first few seconds, the technique seemed to have worked, the Covies had been stunned by the audacity of the humans; the Helljumpers had taken the opportunity to dispatch several Elites and one of the two surviving Wraith tanks. Then the shit hit the fan.
      The gold-armored Elite commanding the Covies had ended the group reverie in typically unsubtle Elite fashion: he'd impaled the Major Domo standing next to him with his energy sword.
      The Covies came out of it at once, and had poured plasma onto the still-charging Helljumpers, who by this time were at the edge of the Covie camp.
      Stacker had almost made it, but "almost" didn't do anyone any good in the middle of a war. He'd taken non-lethal hits several times, including a flesh wound to his forehead courtesy of shrapnel, but the needler round that had incapacitated him had struck him in the leg, causing blood to start gushing from the wound. Stacker's armor had sealed the wound with biofoam as soon as he collapsed, but the Gunny knew he didn't have very long
      So here Stacker found himself, lying in the dirt on a goddamn Halo ring, waiting to bleed out, or for some Covie to realise that this motionless human was still alive, and to kill him. Or eat him. Or both. Stacker honestly wasn't sure whether the non-Brute species of the Covenant did the latter.
      A sudden humming noise filled Stacker's head. The Gunny, who had shut his eyes, was suddenly cogizant of Battle and Assault Rifle fire, intermixed with plasma rounds all over the place. He wondered if he were hallucinating. At this point, where death was all but assured, Stacker didn't much care.
      Stacker managed to pry his eyes open a tad. No mean feat for a man who had blood crusting his eyelids from a flesh wound. What he saw made him even more sure that he was hallucinating.
      What he saw were Reynolds' Marines and 'Taham's Elites spreading out and securing the Covenant encampment, backed by the weapons on the Pelicans and Phantoms.
      Reynolds suddenly swivelled to face Stacker, and his eyes widened. Stacker was unrecognizable in his ODST gear, but Reynolds' neural lace would no doubt identify Stacker to his fellow Gunny.
      A loud shout of "corpsman!" echoed in Stacker's ears. He noticed several Marines, including Reynolds and a grunt with the red plus sign of a corpsman, running over to him.
      A sudden rush of air onto his face informed the Gunnery Sergeant that his helmet had been removed. William Reynolds' grim face peered into Stacker's, looking more morose than ever.
      "Well?" Reynolds asked of the corpsman, sounding to Stacker like he was talking into a tin can. The corpsman showed Reynolds his med-scanner.
      A smile, for the what was the first time in a long, long time, broke across Gunnery Sergeant William Reynolds' face. And that was when Pete Stacker knew he was going to live.

***

      Lieutenant Freyyr gave his report, saluted, executed a crisp about-face, and departed the bland Admiral's quarters, leaving behind a very. very satisfied Brett Harsoth.
      Of the 48 ODSTs, 48 Marines, and 100 Elites (Sangheili platoons being quite a bit larger than human ones), 24 Helljumpers, 40 Marines, and 98 Elites had made it, with the Helljumpers having taken most of the casualties. Needless to say, Harsoth now had a considerable boost to his forces, enough of one to retake the offensive. The Admiral's Marine adjutant, Captain Joseph Kline, would have no doubt disagreed with that, saying that Harsoth should have remained on the defensive. Thing was, Kline was dead, and had died whilst attempting to carry out that operational policy. So the Admiral would take the offensive.
      Stacker's beleagured Helljumpers would be held back to defend the Berlin, along with the battered remnants of Kline's company. Lieutenant Delckiss and Master Sergeant Anselm would no doubt be irritated at being held back, but Harsoth had no doubt the regular grunts of the company would be fine with the decision.
      Gunny Reynolds' Marines and Major Domo 'Taham's Elites, on the other hand, would be dispatched to the ring's three phase-pulse generators to disable the firing mechanism, a technique pioneered by MCPO SPARTAN-117 on the first Halo ring. The problem with that strategy was that it was only a stopgap solution; something more permanent was necessitated.
      The more permanent solution consisted of a Nova nuclear bomb, the second model made using the plans pioneered by Vice-Admiral Danforth Whitcomb. If the Nova could be placed in the ringworld's control center, then the threat of another Halo ring would be removed from the galaxy.

Attack on Installation 06, part 10
Date: 21 August 2008, 11:42 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 9
1045 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      Were an observer to fly over the largest desert canyon on Installation 06, it would appear a barren place. A long, tan-colored, massively deep slit trench in the ground, there was little plant life, and no animal life to be seen.
      Were one to swoop in a little closer, and if one's eyesight were good enough, it would be possible for one to discern a series of steel-colored shapes moving across the bottom of the canyon.
      Were one able to receive the UNSC's E-band COM channel, the steel-colored shapes would seem positively cacaphonous: "Bravo Six---" "---Copy that, Corporal---" "Carizal, point the M41 on your nine, see if you see anything---" "Nothin', Sarge---" "Copy. Break. Charlie Six, we got nothing, over." "All victors, all victors, maintain speed, mantain dispersion---"
      And if you could fly into the depths of the canyon, those steel shapes would resolve themselves into a convoy of Warthog LRV's, the Jeep-like recon vehicles that were a staple of the UNSC Marine Corps. Five of them were of the troop transport variant, carrying six battle-armored Marines in their roll cages; the other five were the standard recon Hogs, carrying two Marines each, and mounting a tri-barrelled M41 Light Anti-Air Gun on their rear.
      Manning the gun of the lead vehicle was Gunnery Sergeant Will Reynolds, who was rather regretting his decision to continually monitor the comm chatter of all the vehicles in his platoon. The Gunny's face, as usual, was a grim mask, betraying none of the apprehension he felt about his current mission, the sabotage of the pulse generators for the ringworld's firing mechanism.
      The corporal driving the vehicle stiffened. "Movement ahead, Gunny!"
      Reynolds peered down the barrel of the M41. He couldn't see anything, the LAAG's targeting system wasn't picking anything up, nor was his neural lace. "I got nothing, Corporal."
      "Well, the Hog's motion sensors are getting something..."
      Reynolds clicked his com over to the general platoon frequency. "Victors, all victors, Alpha Actual has something on motion sensors, but no visuals. Anybody getting anything, over?"
      The driver of one of the troop Hogs came over the frequency. "Bravo Five has movement, as well, Gunny. Make it five signals, less than a quarter of a click out, how copy, over?"
      "Solid copy, Bravo Six. I'm gonna light it up, see if anything gets flushed. Alpha Actual out." Thus saying, Reynolds snugged the stock of the M41 against his shoulder, spun up the barrel, and let fly a burst of tracer fire.
      A cry came from up ahead as four Grunts dove away from the tracer fire. Reynolds swore, used his neural lace to magnify the view...
      "All victors, all victors!" came the panicked cry from one of the troop Hogs. "We've got Grunts with Fuel Rod Guns up ahead!"
      Reynolds moved to squelch the panic that threatened to develop. "Cut the chatter, Bravo Four! All Alpha victors, light those Grunts up!"
      Five LAAGs rattled to life, hailing lead down on the Grunts. The LAAG's targeting system gave a beep as the last Grunt collapsed, followed shortly by the arms still clutching the alien's fuel rod gun.
      Reynolds did a quick visual scan of the area, gave a satisfied nod, and clicked on his headset. "All victors, all victors, Covenant FRG team has been suppressed, keep heading for the objective, over."
      "Sir," said Reynolds' driver. "Shouldn't we contact Admiral Harsoth?"
      The grim Gunny shook his head. "Negative; this isn't worth noting."
      "Gunny, there wasn't even supposed to be any Covie presence in this part of the ring."
      "Well, now we know there is. And we're going to carry out the mission regardless. Copy?"
      "Copy, Gunny."

***

      "Movement right! Movement right!"
      Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker swivelled in the indicated direction, peering through the scope of his battle rifle. "I have no targets, no targets!"
      "It's up high, Gunny!" came the reply.
      Stacker adjusted his aim, and did indeed see something bobbing along through the air towards the series of defensive trenches crosshatching the dusty plateau in front of the Berlin. "What the hell is that?"
      The Marine Corporal sharing sentry duty shook his head. "No idea, Gunny. Doesn't look like Covie, though."
      Stacker gritted his teeth. "Fire warning shots."
      The Corporal squeezed off two bursts from his battle rifle, aiming high above the contact. The contact stopped. Stacker took the opportunity to survey it with his BR scope.
      The Gunny's gasp, and sudden tensing, alerted the Corporal something was wrong. "Gunnery Sergeant? What is it?"
      Stacker forced himself to exhale. "Let it through, Corporal. It ain't a hostile."
      "Yes Sir, but what is it?"
      "It's a robot, Corporal. A Forerunner robot."

***

      Approximately ten minutes after that, 16807 Repetant Instigator was in Admiral Harsoth's quarters.
      Harsoth didn't mince words. "We're here to disable your installation, Monitor. One of your fellows did not exactly take kindly to when that happened to his installation."
      The robot wobbled in the air a couple of times, what Harsoth presumed was a shrug. "343 Guilty Spark was rampant," the Monitor of Installation 06 declared. "I am not. And since you are Reclaimers, I am duty-bound to do what I can to assist you."
      Harsoth furrowed his brow. "What do you think, Admiral?"
      Fleet Admiral Terrence Hood, participating in the conversation via viewscreen, frowned. "Your compatriot seemed rather sane at the time, Monitor."
      Repetant Instigator gave another wobble/shrug. "Telemetry from 343's central access core indicated that his mental state was quite deteriorated. But if you will not accept my assistance, at least permit me to return one of your own."
      A sudden tension was present in the bland room. Harsoth's emaciated body was suddenly tense, like a soldier who knows an attack is imminent. "What do you mean?"
      The Monitor gave one of the shrug equivalents that was starting to irritate Harsoth. "Yes. One of you crash-landed on our shield-worlds. He was catatonic, and the construct with him seemed beyond repair, though we could not figure out how to remove it. He was transported to my Installation for safekeeping."
      Admiral Hood's grim face suddenly seemed even more so. And something unusual was also in evidence: hope. "This human...do you know who it was?"
      The Forerunner construct gave yet another shrug. "We found no identification on him, save for his rank insignia, and an ID."
      Hood's face had paled. "And that was?"
      The robot looked from one Admiral to another.
      "Master Chief Petty Officer SPARTAN-117."

Attack on Installation 06, part 11
Date: 25 August 2008, 12:56 am

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 9
1130 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      The facility housing the third pulse-mass firing generator for Installation 06 was situated on a flat expanse of desert, at the top of a massive stone spire. There were no handholds, ladders, or crags that could otherwise be used to ascend it, but to the Forerunners, who with their advanced tech had had no need of such archaic devices, that wouldn't have been an issue.
      To Gunnery Sergeant Will Reynolds and his 40-man strong Marine platoon, on the other hand, that was a severe problem. A flight of Pelicans would have easily solved the problem, but Covenant defenses on the top of the spire made that impossible.
      Reynolds' platoon sergeant, 28 year old Staff Sergeant Greg Schref, peered up at the defenses, then swivelled to face Reynolds. "I can't make out the numbers, Gunny. Looks like thirty, at least."
      The Gunny had already confirmed that, courtesy of the enhanced vision his neural lace afforded him. "Agreed. Looks like a ten-ten-ten makeup."
      "10 Elites, Jackals, and Grunts?"
      "Correct, Staff Sergeant. Though I can't tell whether or not those Jackals are standard infantry or snipers."
      "Aye, Sir. So what's our plan of attack?"
      Reynolds massaged his temples; these days he seemed to have a perpetual low-grade migraine, no doubt from all the stress. "We don't have too many choices, Staff Sergeant, either we---"
      The conversation was interrupted as the radio in Reynolds' Warthog crackled to life. "Alpha Actual, this Alpha Two. Recon of the area around the spire is complete, how copy, over."
      Schref got to the radio first. "Solid copy, Alpha Two. Stand by for tasking, over." Thus saying, he handed the handset to Reynolds.
      "Alpha Two, this is Alpha Actual. Report, over."
      "Pretty much the same all the way around, Gunny," came the reply, somewhat distorted by static. "No Covies on the ground, but we count thirty on the top, over."
      Reynolds bit his lip. "Roger, Alpha Two. RTB."
      "Return to base? What base, Gunny?"
      "Force of habit," amended Reynolds. "Form up with the rest of the Hogs, over."
      "Roger. Alpha Two out."
      The Gunny slammed the handset down, and swivelled to face Schref, his face livid. "This is ridiculous, Greg. There's just forty of us, and we're being asked to assault a Covie encampment with no air support, no arty support, and the heavy weapons we have can't get up the bloody cliff. Not to mention the fact that Hood's spooks were wrong about the number of Covies in this area."
      The Staff Sergeant shrugged. "Gunny, you haven't even told us how we're going up."
      Reynolds gritted his teeth. "We fire grappling lines up to the top. Then we walk it."
      The platoon sergeant stared. "Sir, with all due respect...that sounds like something not even Hollywood would try."
      Reynolds glared daggers. "You have a better idea, Staff Sergeant? The Elites have no doubt already attacked their targets by now, and I'm in no mood to hear 'Taham's mocking about how we can't even handle one pulse generator."
      Schref steadily gazed back. "Well, that's the thing, Gunny. I don't."

***

      After Repetant Instigator's bombshell, the Monitor was shown out from the Admiral's Quarters by a Marine guard, leaving Admirals Hood and Harsoth alone.
      The bone-thin, bone-weary Harsoth was shaking. "Sir...can this be it? Can we really have found him?"
      Hood's face seemed even more lined than usual. "I want to hope, Brett. I really do. But think of all the disappointments we've had over the past few years...this could be a trap. A ploy to lure in our best soldiers."
      "Sir...Terrence...without hope, how would we have won the war?"
      The Fleet Admiral's eyes flashed. "You think I don't realize that, Brett? I had the hopes and dreams, tears and fears of the UNSCDF and the goddamn Security Council riding on my shoulders. And believe me, I want to hope, I want to have the Chief back. But I don't see how we can afford to take the risk."
      Harsoth leaned forward to face the viewscreen. "Sir...I don't see how we can afford not to."
      Hood's face cracked into an all-too-rare smile. "Alright, Brett. Let's do it. Fleet Master 'Vadum and I will be on the Berlin shortly. Matters of this magnitude should be discussed in person."
      Returning the smile, Harsoth saluted. "Admiral, it will be an honor."

***

      The two dropships, one an organic-looking Phantom, the other an angular Pelican, hovered, executed an aerial about-face, and set down in the Berlin's hangar bay.
      Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, commanding the forty-man-strong Marine/ODST honor guard flanking the two dropships gave a bark of, "Admiral on the deck!"
      The sound of forty battle-armored humans snapping to attention echoed through the hangar.
      Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood, along with Sangheili Fleet Master Rtas "Half-Jaw" 'Vadum, looked quite impressed. "As you were."
      The Marines snapped into an at-ease position. Hood chuckled. "No, I meant back to your stations. Dismissed."
      Stacker prepared to bark out that order as well, when Half-Jaw placed his hand on his shoulder. Stacker automatically stiffened, and reached for his M6D, when he remembered the treaty. "My apologies, Fleet Master."
      'Vadum gave Stacker an enigmatic look. "None necessary. Old memories die hard. To say nothing of old survival reflexes."
      Hood broke in. "Pete, the Fleet Master and I need you to come with us."
      "Yes Sir, Admiral. Is something wrong?"
      "Nothing's wrong, Pete. Just some news. Big news."

***

      It took less than ten minutes for Hood, Harsoth and Half-Jaw to tell the news to Stacker.
      It took five more minutes for Stacker to lift up his jaw and vocalize his reaction.
      "Is this true, Sir?" he said, looking at Hood. "Is the Chief really back?"
      The Admiral fixed Stacker with a grim look. "We don't know, Pete. But we hope it's true."
      "So, what's the catch, Sir? Why do you need me?"
      "We don't know this isn't a trap, Pete. Whether by Repetant whatever-the-hell-his-name-is, or by the Covenant. You know what happened the last time we trusted a Monitor."
      Stacker's eyes tensed noticably at the mention of Avery Johnson's death. "I know what happened to Avery. Some of us who knew from ORION still aren't over it."
      Hood shrugged. "I've never had much contact with ORION veterans, so I wouldn't know. What I do know, Pete, is that we need to verify this report. How many men do you need."
      The Master Gunnery Sergeant stiffened. "I'll take the survivors of my ODSTs, plus 24 Marines."
      "Anyone in particular?"
      "No, Sir."
      "Then good luck, Pete."
      "Thank you, Sir."

***

      "You know, he never really acknowledged me like he did Avery. Maybe it was because I wasn't there for Ascendant Justice, I dunno."
      Hocus shrugged. "I was just another Pelican pilot to him. I think he closed himself down to us pilots after he lost Carol."
      Stacker, assisting in the loading of Kilo 023 with food, water, and ammo, looked askance at the other. He'd never paid much attention to Hocus like he and the other Helljumpers in Silva's battalion had to Foehammer, but she wasn't half-bad looking: slim, with short-cut blonde hair, and sharp, intelligent eyes. Courtesy of the hangar door, she even had a little outline of light around her from the noonday light.
      The pilot caught the other's glance, and dropped a sly wink. Stacker chuckled to himself. Hocus was well-aware of her attractiveness; her past inter-service flings had included such noteworthies as Longsword squadron leader Major Tom Easley, Staff Sergeant Marcus Banks, and, according to rumor, even Avery Johnson. No doubt she was enjoying the way she was rattling the Gunny.
      Stacker's platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Jon Salko, walked up and saluted. "We're all set, Sir. Lieutenant Delckiss has given us two of his best squads, and they're all loaded up."
      "Copy that, Staff Sergeant. Let's find ourselves a Spartan."

Attack on Installation 06, part 12
Date: 1 September 2008, 10:07 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 10
1245 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      The rock spire that Halo Installation 06's third pulse generator was situated on was made of harsh brown stone, with no crags or footholds of any sort. It wasn't exactly the sort of rock formation the UNSC Marine Corps likes to train its soldiers to climb.
      Nevertheless, that was Gunnery Sergeant Will Reynolds's plan to get to the top.
      Staff Sergeant Greg Schref, Reynolds' platoon sergeant, walked up and saluted. "Hog gunners have lines of sight on the Covie defenses, Gunny. Everyone else is standing by with grapples."
      Reynolds nodded, massaging his temples as he did so. "Copy. Tell everyone to stand ready."
      Schref shot Reynolds a concerned look. "You okay, Gunny?"
      "I dunno," replied Reynolds. "I've had a migraine ever since we landed on this ring."
      "Stress?"
      Reynolds shrugged. "No idea, Staff Sergeant. I'll check with the medics when we get back."
      "Yes Sir."
      The rest of the Marine platoon was keeping a cautious eye on the Covenant defenders; there were thirty of the aliens: ten Elites, ten Grunts, and ten Jackals. The first two groups didn't have any long-range weaponry that Reynolds could see, but the Marines hadn't been able to determine whether or not there were any snipers amongst the Jackals. Each squad had loaded grappling hooks and wire into their M406 grenade launchers mounted under the barrels of their Battle Rifles, and the four squad leaders, Sergeants all, were lined up in front of their units. One of them, a thin-faced man who Reynolds' neural lace identified as a Sergeant Stafford, approached the Gunny. "We're all set, Gunnery Sergeant."
      Reynolds frowned. "You don't sound too enthusiastic, Sergeant."
      "Sir, this plan of yours..."
      The Gunnery Sergeant sighed. "We don't have a choice, Sergeant."
      "I know, Gunny, it's just that I wish it wasn't so crazy."
      Reynolds unslung his battle rifle, and clapped the grappling hook into the launcher. "Well, let's get it over with. Staff Sergeant?"
      "Yes, Gunny," replied Schref. Thus saying, he stepped forward in front of the platoon. "Platoon! Ah-tennnnn-shun!"
      The Marines snapped to order. Reynolds shook his head. Even here on the battlefield, the Staff Sergeant still defaulted to drill. He stepped forward next to Schref. "All right, gents. You've been briefed, you've geared up...now you're going to carry out your mission. There's nothing I can say that hasn't already been said...so, good luck. And let's roll."
      Thus saying, Reynolds stepped in front of the spire, pumped his grenade launcher, and fired the hook up to the top. A quick tug to confirm it would hold his weight, and he began ascending the cliff, retracting the cable as he went.
      The rest of the Marine platoon was already following suit, charging at the cliff, and firing their grappling hooks. Some were shouting "Get some!" or other, less articulate battlecries, but most were making the ascent in silence, praying the Covenant wouldn't notice them.
      As a matter of fact, Reynolds, along with Staff Sergeant Schref and the Marines of First Squad, were halfway up the cliff before the Covenant forces mustered a response.
      The only warning Reynolds got was a shout of "Contact!" over the headset from one of the Warthog gunners. Then the plasma began to rain down.
      The Marines kept climbing, not even trying to evade the plasma fire pouring down on them. First one, then another, then several Marines let out cries and dropped down the cliff, their grappling lines cut by plasma fire, or holes through their chest or head.
      Reynolds, still ascending the cliff, managed to bark over the headset, "All Warthog gunners, defilade fire on that hill, now!"
      The Marines manning the M41s obliged, their turrets rattling to life. The ten Jackals atop the hill revealed their specialty as they advanced forward and activated their circular shields, causing the LAAG rounds to spark off of them. The Elites, all equipped with direct-line-of-sight weapons, were unable to return fire, relying on the Jackals and their plasma pistols to slow the Marine advance.
      The ten Grunts, on the other hand, discarded their plasma pistols, hefted fuel rod guns, and opened fire. Green rounds began raining down, exploding on the cliffside, the ground, and the Marines.
      Reynolds, now no more than four yards from the top, grimly continued his ascent. Pausing a second, he grabbed an M9 grenade, and hurled it amongst the Jackals.
      A quick count of three later, five of the avians were falling amongst the Marines. Reynolds gave a quick smile, and took a quick second to activate his neural lace in order to check the number of Marines left: twenty-five.
      Staff Sergeant Schref, in the meantime had made it to the top, and was spraying battle rifle fire at the five Elites and seven Grunts still at the top (the Jackals had long since been massacred by the Warthog gunners). The red-armored Elite commanding the defenders spared the platoon sergeant a contemptuous laugh before spraying him with plasma fire.
      The Gunnery Sergeant and First Squad made it up to the top just in time to see Schref collapse.
      The Elites let out a collective roar and charged the Marines.
      Reynolds and the squad sidestepped.
      The shark-faced warriors ran straight into the hail of fire from the Warthogs' LAAGs and collapsed.
      The Grunts took a few seconds to stare at the perforated corpses of what had once been their leaders before running like hell, screaming their heads off.
      Sergeant Stafford and First Squad didn't even hesitate to mow them down.
      Reynolds raced up to the body of Staff Sergeant Schref. "Corpsman!" He swivelled to face the downed Platoon Sergeant. "Greg! You okay?"
      Schref looked at Reynolds, his face pale. "Relax, Gunny. I just got nailed in the leg. That squid-face wasn't too good of a shot."
      Reynolds looked at the corpsman. The man held up his medscanner. "He's in no shape to keep moving with us, Gunny, he's lost a lot of blood. I'll call for a medevac."
      "Copy," replied Reynolds. "Let's keep moving."


***


      Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, seated in the bay of Pelican dropship Kilo 23, surveyed at his retrieval team. They were the survivors of his ODST platoon, plus some Marines from Lieutenant Delckiss's Company, plus one other Marine that Stacker had specifically requested: the only other Installation 04 survivor still on active duty, Corporal Chips Dubbo.
      Dubbo hadn't originally been part of Hood's Marine complement; he'd been serving as an REMF on board the Shadow of Intent. Stacker, when looking up personnel files in order to determine which Marines to attach to the retrieval op, had come across Dubbo's name. A quick confirmation with Admiral Hood, a COM call to Shadow of Intent, and Dubbo was once again on the front lines.
      Upon arriving on the Berlin, Chips had been quick to identify his benefactor. The Australian-born Marine had never been big on words; all he'd said to Stacker was, "Crikey, Gunny, it's good to be back." After that, he'd departed to grab his gear.
      So here they were, 28 Helljumpers and 12 Marines, heading out to find the best soldier humanity had ever had. Stacker snorted to himself. If someone had told him, way back when he was a recruit at Parris Island, that he'd become one of the few soldiers to serve with the Chief on the three most critical campaigns of an inter-species war...well, Stacker would probably have laughed in the guy's face.
      Funny, how things worked out.
      Hocus's voice crackled over the troop bay's intercom. "We're coming up on the coordinates the Monitor gave us. Popping the hatch now." Behind Stacker, the troop bay hatch was splitting open, revealing a lush green forest, with several unfamiliar types of animal wandering through it.
      The platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Jon Salko, seated next to the hatch, furrowed his brow as he peered out the window. "Are those redwoods?"
      "Dunno," replied Chips Dubbo. "I'm more concerned about those animals."
      Salko chuckled. "You're an Aussie, Corporal. I thought close proximity to dangerous animals was an everyday thing for you."
      Dubbo quirked what passed for a smile with him these days. "Good point, Staff Sergeant. I still don't like the looks of those dog-things, though."
      Stacker frowned. "Alright, Dubbo, pitch an MRE out there. That oughta determine whether or not they're carnivorous."
      "Hell no, Gunny. I ain't wasting an MRE."
      Stacker gave a thin smile. "Hocus'll be staying on station to support us, Dubbo. That includes resupply."
      Dubbo shrugged. "Fire in the hole."
      Thus saying, the Corporal hurled the MRE packet out of the troop bay into the middle of the dog/wolf/whatever pack.
      Two seconds and a flurry of claws later, the MRE disappeared.
      "Hell," said Salko.
      "Crikey," said Dubbo.
      Stacker bit his lip. "Let's hope we don't piss them off."
      The intercom popped to life. "There are the coordinates the Monitor gave us, touching down now."
      "Roger," replied Stacker. "Alright. Platoon: stand to!"
      The ODSTs and Marines snapped to attention, clapping their BR-55s against their chestplates.
      The Gunny, wearing standard Marine gear for the retrieval mission (the better for the Chief to recognize him), snugged his Sergeant's cap against his head, and spoke: "People, you have been selected for what may very well be one of the most critical missions of this post-war period. You all know who the Master Chief is: his deeds, his victories, his disappearance. Marines...today, we find out whether or not the Chief is really gone. The Monitor of this ringworld claims to have him, and he wants to to return him to us. Odds are this could be a trap, but we cannot afford to take the risk. If anyone wants to bow out, you can stay here on Kilo 23. Anyone not want to go?"
      The assembled soldiers gave a bark of, "No, Gunnery Sergeant!"
      Stacker gave a tight smile; the Pelican was by now on the ground. "Then let's roll!"
      Thus saying, the Gunny charged out of the troop bay, sweeping the area with his BR-55. The four Marine squad leaders, plus Staff Sergeant Salko and Corporal Dubbo, were the next ones off, heading up their squads. Stacker clicked on his COM headset. "Report!"
      "First Squad, clear!"
      "Second Squad, clear!"
      "Third Squad, clear!"
      "Fourth Squad has movement!"
      All the soldiers swivelled to face the anomaly. Stacker pressed the scope of his battle rifle to his face, and made a quick adjustment to the zoom as he sighted in on the target: a spherical shape, with small blue energy pulses coming off of its body...
      "All teams, stand down. It's a friendly."
      16807 Repetant Instigator emerged from the treeline. "Greetings. I am the Monitor of Installation Zero-Six. I am---"
      Stacker gestured with his rifle. "Just take us to the Chief."
      The Monitor gave a sort of wobble, which Stacker interpreted as a sort of shrug. "As you wish. This way."
      Thus saying, the Monitor floated into the forest.
      Stacker and the retrieval platoon hesitated for two seconds, then followed suit.

***

      Harsoth, Hood, and Half-Jaw were reminscing about the Human-Covenant War when the news broke.
      Lieutenant Freyyr, a grim look on his bald countenance, opened the door to Harsoth's bland quarters, hesitated as he saw the Sangheili Fleet Master sitting next to Harsoth on the Admiral's bed and Lord Hood with his feet up on Harsoth's desk, and saluted. "Sir. There's news."
      The members of the Admiralty within all stiffened. "Is it the Chief?" asked Hood.
      Freyyr shook his head. "It's a Rebel El---er, Sangheili battlegroup. Six CCS-class cruisers, five CAR-class...and one Assault Carrier."
      'Vadum shot to his feet. "Has the Shadow of Intent been informed?"
      "Yes, Fleet Master."
      'Vadum turned to face Hood. "We are lucky your compatriots on Earth did not force you to bring your ships. They would not last long in a fight of this magnitude."
      Hood nodded, then swivelled to face Harsoth. "Admiral, whilst I enjoy your company here..."
      "You need to return to the Shadow of Intent."
      "Yes."
      "Admiral, let me come with you. You've seen me in action; you know what I'm capable of."
      The heavily lined Fleet Admiral gazed at the emaciated Harsoth. "Alright, Brett. Let's go."
      Harsoth looked at his loyal aide. "You have command here, Lieutenant."
      "Yes Sir."
      Thus saying, the two Admirals and one Fleet Master departed Harsoth's quarters, finally able to take the fight to the enemy.

Attack on Installation 06, part 13
Date: 28 September 2008, 12:08 am

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 11
1330 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      The forest through which the Marine/ODST retrieval platoon trekked was both lush and forbidding. Strange half-wolf, half-dog creatures had attacked the platoon during the first part of their march, but the hail of bullets from one of the two ODST squads had dissuaded them from making any more attacks. They now simply shadowed the platoon, their eyes forming twin malevolent lanterns in the dark, dank brush.
      On point for the platoon was Corporal Chips Dubbo, one of two still-living survivors of the Battle of Installation 04, and an experienced scout. In front of him was Installation 06's Monitor, 16807 Repetant Instigator; the Monitor had volunteered to guide the Marines to where the Master Chief was allegedly being kept in stasis, but no one trusted the hovering AI. Avery Johnson's death was still fresh in their minds.
      Leading the rest of the platoon was Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, veteran of all three Forerunner installation campaigns, and a seasoned warrior. Stacker had never been one for jungle warfare; it reminded him too much of the escape from the Flood Containment Facility on the first Halo. "Dubbo, how much further?"
      "Gunny, I'm following the Monitor. When he stops, I'll let you know."
      "Sorry, Corporal. This just reminds me of...you know."
      "Gunny, I'm the only member of Fireteam Charlie still amongst the living. Believe me, I know."
      Staff Sergeant Jon Salko, the platoon sergeant, sidled up next to Stacker. "Gunny, those wolf-things are getting closer."
      "What?"
      "I think they're getting their nerve back, Gunny. Permission to open fire?"
      Stacker set his jaw. "Take out one or two, conserve your ammo."
      "Copy, Gunny. Corporal Reed! Light those wolves up!"
      The Marine Corporal nodded, hefted his battle rifle, and sprayed several bursts at the pack, eliciting yelps from the hapless predators. "They won't bother us for a while, Staff Sergeant."
      Dubbo's voice suddenly crackled over Stacker's headset. "Gunny, the Monitor's stopped. We're in front of a facility of some sort."
      "Hold position, Dubbo," replied Stacker. "We're on our way."
      The platoon charged ahead, and came to an abrupt halt forty meters later. The building that Repetant Instigator had halted in front of was squad and angular. An upside-down-V-shaped entranceway yawned open like the maw of some mythical beast.
      Stacker had seen more than enough of this kind of building during his tenure on Installation 04. He'd lost more than half his men at one.
      It was a Flood Containment Facility.
      Repetant Instigator, unaware of Stacker's consternation, came bobbing up. "This is where the Reclaimer is being kept."
      Stacker gaped. "With the Flood? Are you insane?"
      "No, I am not rampant. Study of the Flood at this facility was discontinued after the Installation 05 outbreak; all specimens were purged. Study was instead conducted on other biologicals, like the canine predators of this forest."
      Staff Sergeant Salko, standing next to Stacker, shook his head. "And you're positive there's no Flood inside?"
      Repetant Instigator made a movement that, had he had a neck and a body, could have been considered a nod. "All security systems confirm that there are no Flood specimens of anykind within."
      Stacker nodded. "Let's go, then."

***


      The interior of the biological containment facility was grim, and oppressively cold, ostensibly to preserve biological material. The well-lit hallways couldn't disguise the telltale signs of Flood occupation: green ichor stuck to the walls, tendrils festooned the floor, and here and there, a partially decomposed combat form body of unknown origin. Surveying the latter, Stacker noticed it looked remarkably humanoid. "Hey, Robot!"
      With a distinct air of exasperation, Repetant Instigator swivelled to face the Gunny. "Yes, Reclaimer?"
      "What the hell did that Flood take over?"
      The Monitor directed its eye at the body. "That would appear to have once been one of my makers. Unfortunate. That is a rather unpleasant way to cease existence."
      Stacker blinked. A Forerunner body, even one in this sort of condition, was an incredible find. "Jon," he said, addressing his platoon sergeant. "Grab some pics with your helmet cam. ONI's spooks will want to see this."
      "Aye aye, Gunny."
      The retrieval platoon continued to push into the facility, making their way over bodies, both Flood and the burned-out hulks of Sentinels. "Gunny, this place is giving me the creeps," said Salko.
      Dubbo shook his head. "I'm more curious as to why there's so many unlocked doors in a place that no one's supposed to have been in for a hundred thousand years."
      Stacker gritted his teeth. "Cut the chatter, gents. Lightbulb, how far are we from the Chief?"
      "He's down one sublevel from here, Reclaimer," replied the Monitor, either missing or ignoring the derogatory nickname for his kind.
      Stacker nodded. "Take point, Dubbo. Everyone, grab your shotguns."
      Repetant Instigator approached a door, and swivelled to face the Marines. "The facility where the Reclaimer is being kept is secured. I will open it for you." Thus saying, the Monitor faced the door and fired some kind of blue beam at the lock. The two halves opened with a mechanical hiss.
      "Enter, Reclaimers," said the Monitor.
      Stacker looked at the platoon. "Salko, Dubbo, on me. Everyone else, hold down this entrance."
      The three Marines followed the Monitor into the room...and promptly stopped in amazement.
      The room was dim, with only several blue lights providing illumination. On the wall were several devices shaped like the cryopods seen on almost every single UNSC ship, and inside the pods...
      The olive-drab MJOLNIR armor had been etched into Stacker's memory ever since Installation 04, but not even memory could have prepared him for seeing the Chief like this. Humanity's best warrior could have been sleeping; he was laying in the pod in what approximated a position of attention, green-armored hands at his sides, an MA5C rifle across his back.
      16807 Repetant Instigator drifted forward to approach the stasis unit's control panel. "Shall I begin, Reclaimer?" asked the Monitor.
      Stacker's mouth felt dry. "Yeah. Do it."
      The blue beam once again shot out from the Monitor's eye, and lights flickered across the panel. The stasis unit suddenly hissed, and it split open. Stacker motioned for Dubbo and Salko to cover him, and approached the pod.
      "Chief? Master Chief, Sir? Can you hear me?"
      A faint click sounded from the Chief's helmet. Stacker stepped back, unsure of what it meant.
      A loud, horrific wail issued forth from the Master Chief, a loud, raw expulsion of pain and sheer, mind-numbing loss.
      "Sir?" said Stacker, "Sir, it's OK, we're friendlies."
      The Chief made no reply, a loud gasping noise came from his armor, and he gave another shout, a name this time: "Cortana? Cortana? CORTANA!"
      "Sir, for fuck's sake, calm down, we're friendlies! It's me, Gunny Stacker!"
      It seemed to have worked. The Chief's breathing grew slow and regular, and with a grunt, he hefted himself to his feet. The visor of the MJOLNIR's helmet swivelled, taking in Stacker, Dubbo, Salko, and Repetent Instigator.
      The Chief inhaled sharply, unslung his MA5C assault rifle, let out a yell, and opened fire.

Attack on Installation 06, part 14
Date: 12 October 2008, 12:19 am

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 11
1430 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      The Sangheili Fleet of Righteous Retribution, headed up by the Assault Carrier Shadow of Intent, manuevered into battle formation above Halo Installation 06, spreading out like a predatory flower opening its petals. A not-insignificant distance away, the rebel Sangheili battlegroup was doing the same.
      On the Shadow of Intent's bridge, UNSC Admirals Brett Harsoth and Sir Terrence Hood stood in front of the tactical holoboard and viewscreen. "We're in trouble," remarked Harsoth, waving an emaciated hand at the tactical board. "Look at this. Six CCS cruisers, five CARs, and a goddam assault carrier. We've got the exact same fleet makeup, plus a CCS and CAR."
      Hood, brow even more furrowed than it normally was, nodded. "Personnel matters as well, Brett. Half-Jaw's got a good fleet, a good crew. That counts for something."
      Fleet Master Rtas 'Vadum, clad in the burnished silver armor that he so loved, looked away from the sensor master's station at the mention of his nickname. "We have numbers on them, Admiral Harsoth, and we have minds. We will triumph."
      Harsoth saluted. "Aye aye, Fleet Master."
      'Vadum turned back to the sensor master. "Talk to me, 'Jadlo. What are our foes doing?"
      The sensor master's chest inflated, something that Harsoth had learned to recognize as a sign of anxiety amongst the Sangheili. "Enemy vessels are approaching in formation Heilios, Fleet Master. It looks like they're going to focus on us. The Shadow of Intent, I mean."
      The Fleet Master nodded. "More glory to us, then. Are they charging their weapons?"
      "We're reading energy spikes from the lead vessels' plasma turrets."
      "Are they launching boarding craft?"
      "No, Fleet Master."
      "Carry on, then." 'Vadum swivelled to face another station. "Communications!"
      "Yes, Fleet Master!"
      "Contact the CCS cruisers, have them advance past us. Hold the CARs in reserve, we don't know whether or not we'll need their firepower."
      "It will be done, Fleet Master!"
      Harsoth studied the tactical board as the orders were carried out, understanding the logic. The CCS-class cruisers were middle-of-the-road craft: fast, maneuverable, decent firepower and shields. En masse, they made for a formidable flotilla. The CAR cruisers, on the other hand, were the Sangheili's heavy hitters: heavily armed, heavily shielded, and with speed and maneuverability that were unfavorably compared to a rock stuck in molasses. Holding them back gave 'Vadum a formidable reserve.
      Admiral Hood surveyed the opposing fleet's formation. "Looks like they're doing the opposite. CARs and CCSs are taking point. They're throwing everything they have at us."
      'Vadum settled into his command chair, and looked at the two human Admirals. "Fear not, my brothers. We will live to see another day."
      Harsoth nodded. "Can you switch this viewscreen over to forward view? I'd like to see what's going on."
      'Vadum spread his mandibles in what Harsoth took to be a smile. "Yes, a holdover from your somewhat suicidal tendencies to keep your bridges in easily-destroyed locations. Engineering, do as he commands."
      A few seconds later, the view of the enemy fleet resolved itself. Harsoth surveyed it, and flinched when the ships dissappeared behind a flash of blue light.
      "Enemy ships have fired, Fleet Master!" cried the sensor officer.
      Half-Jaw bared his fangs. "The hunt is on, brothers!" Pressing a button on his command chair, he declared, "All ships, fire at will! Burn their traitorious hides!"
      Harsoth and Hood stared at the tactical board as the two Sangheili fleets maneuvered towards and around each other, blasting away with their plasma turrets. The two Admirals, not equipped with Sangheili comm headsets, didn't have a complete picture of what was going on, but the chatter emanating from the Communication Master's console was more than enough: "All shields forward, fire all forward plasma lines---" "---Two and Three are down! Repeat, Hunter Two and Hunter Three are down!" "---additional Seraphs launching---" "By the Forerunners, they just destroyed the Devotion!" "---glory to whomever destroyed that CAR---" "All CARs, advance! Let your cannons roar!" "Forerunners be praised, their CCSs are retreating---"
      At the last one, the two Admirals swivelled to face the tactical board. Indeed, the symbols representing the three remaining hostile CCS cruisers were winking away, leaving only four CARs and one assault carrier. "Fleet Master, what happened?"
      'Vadum gave what Harsoth presumed was a sneer. "They are cowards. We are winning, so they flee."
      Hood gritted his teeth. "We still have a major fight ahead of us, Fleet Master."
      Half-Jaw gave one of his unnerving grins. "Yes. We do."

***

      Gunnery Sergeant Will Reynolds surveyed the entrance to the pulse generator, and shook his head. "No heat, no movement, no Covies anywhere. Something's not right."
      Staff Sergeant Casey Griego, filling in for incapacitated platoon sergeant Greg Schref, shrugged. "It could be a trap, Gunny. Or we could be counting the teeth of the biggest goddam gift horse ever."
      Reynolds winced as another wave of pain wracked his skull. "Maybe. Either we, we have a job to do."
      Griego, a squat man with a rodentlike face and narrow, intelligent eyes, sized up Reynolds. "Sir, you really need to have the medics check you out."
      "After the mission, Staff Sergeant. After the mission. Now let's move."
      The twenty-five man strong Marine platoon advanced into the facility, panning their rifles around the area. Reynolds, on point, clicked online his neural implant, and checked their location. "Alright," said Reynolds, addressing the platoon. "There's a lift around the next corner. We take it up, move through a few more corners, and there we are."
      Staff Sergeant Griego, his armor festooned with thermal imagers, scopes, binoculars, and night vision goggles, swivelled to face the platoon. "C'mon, people, you heard the Gunny, let's move!"
      The Marines, mumbling and grumbling as enlisted man are so wont to do, advanced up the corridor.
      Reynolds, still on point, raised a hand just as he was about to turn the corner that lead to the elevator. Snuffling sounds could be heard from the other side of the corridor.
      Staff Sergeant Griego moved up next to Reynolds. "Paint 'em with the thermal," said the Gunnery Sergeant.
      The platoon sergeant hefted the PAS-26 thermal imager, a device which resembled an overly large video camera, and gazed at the corner. He flinched, and lowered the unit. "Elites, Gunny, three of them."
      Reynolds muttered a curse. "Platoon, grenades on my mark," said the Gunny, suiting action to words by hefting a frag grenade. "Three...two...one...MARK!"
      Twenty five M9 High-Explosive Dual-Purpose frag grenades bounced around the corner. Three cries of "Wort wort wort!" sounded, and then twenty-five explosions. Reynolds barked out, "Go!" and charged around the corner.
      The three rebel Elites were dead, each one bearing multiple shrapnel wounds. Reynolds disinterestedly stepped over the corpses, chuckling to himself as he heard Staff Sergeant Griego spit on them. "C'mon, Staff Sergeant. There'll be plenty more downstairs."
      Griego's flinty eyes gazed back at Reynolds. "Roger that, Gunny. Roger that."

***

      With a yell of pain and loss, the Master Chief swept his assault rifle across the cryo chamber, sending a scything stream of bullets flying. Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, Staff Sergeant Jon Salko, and Corporal Chips Dubbo, and 16807 Repetant Instigator all dipped, ducked, dived or dodged away from the bullets, the three Marines reaching for their shotguns.
      "Hold fire!" shouted Stacker, knowing it wouldn't have done much good for them to have opened fire in any event. "Chief! Sir, it's me! Gunny Stacker! Please hold, Sir!"
      The Chief made no reply, still emptying the clip from the MA5C...but into the Monitor of Installation 06. Repetant Instigator gave what appeared to be a petulant look at the Master Chief. "Please cease fire, Reclaimer!"
      The Chief did so, but only because he had expended all the rounds in the clip. The implacable armor-clad giant spoke, a harsh grating. "You took her away from me."
      Something changed on Repetant Instigator's metal countenance. Whether it was dimming of his optical light, or whatever, something changed, and Stacker wasn't sure it was for the better. "Reclaimer, I have no idea what you're talking about."
      The Master Chief made a derisive noise, and swivelled to face the Marines, who were still cowering on the ground. "Stacker...Dubbo...it's been a while..."
      Stacker wasn't sure the Chief was all together; the Spartan was still breathing heavily, and there was a certain intensity about him that Stacker had never felt before. But all the same, he could hardly ignore humanity's best soldier. "It has, Sir."
      "Cortana's gone. That metal bastard back there took her from me."
      Cortana. The Chief's armor-integrated AI, and, if scuttlebutt was to be belived, something more. "I'm sorry to hear that, Sir."
      "We're finding her."
      "Sir, there's only twenty-five of us on this op, and we've got to report back to Admiral Hood."
      The Chief paused slammed a fresh clip home in his rifle's receiver. "We. Are. Finding. Cortana."
      Platoon Staff Sergeant Salko hefted his thin frame off of the floor. "Sir...with all due respect..."
      The Chief didn't even hesitate as he swivelled the barrel of his rifle to point at Salko's, and pulled the trigger. The rattling of the assault rifle was unusually loud in the cryochamber, and the clank of Salko's unconscious armored body hitting the ground echoed ominously. "Do I need to repeat myself, Gunnery Sergeant?"
      Stacker winced. "Let me rally up the men, Sir. And we'll go get Cortana."

Attack on Installation 06, part 15
Date: 13 November 2008, 11:09 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 12
1545 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      Gunnery Sergeant Will Reynolds gazed at the third pulse generator for Installation 06, and remarked to no one in particular, "we're going to need a bigger platoon."
      Platoon Staff Sergeant Casey Griego, mindlessly fiddling with the assortment of thermal imagers, scopes, binoculars, and night vision goggles festooning his armor, appraised the Marine platoon's objective with flinty, watery eyes. "Or bigger guns."
      The pulse generator was housed in an octagonal room, with three obelisks bracketing the energy beam that was the generator itself. Reynolds, who had only four EMP charges with which to destroy it, shook his head.
      "Well, we might as well get to work," said Reynolds, massaging his temples with a weary look on his face. "Staff Sergeant?"
      Griego nodded. "You heard the Gunny, Marines! Get those charges set!"
      Five Marines hustled forward, each one bearing a boxy explosive charge. One of them, hatchet-faced squad leader Sergeant Stafford, shot Reynolds a quizzical look. "Gunny...where the hell do we put these?"
      Reynolds looked at the pulse generator, the squad leader, and back again. "I frankly have no idea, Sergeant. Just place them where you think is best."
      "Aye-aye, Gunny. It will take us a while to get them primed and ready, and then a couple of minutes more to link them up with the detonators."
      Reynolds sighed. "We'll hold out. Get those charges set, Sergeant."
      "Aye-aye," repeated Stafford. The Sergeant hefted the EMP charge, and followed his squad over to the generator, where they started priming the charges.
      Staff Sergeant Griego, directing the setup of the generator's defenses, shot a look at Reynolds. "We're all set up, Gunny."
      Reynolds nodded. His platoon had twenty-five Marines left; five teams of five grunts each. With one team setting the charges, that meant he had twenty Marines to hold out against any potential Covenant attacks. "Good," said the Gunnery Sergeant. "Keep an eye on the door. I'll let the Elites know we made it."
      Griego nodded, and resumed peering down the eyepiece of his PAS-26 thermal imager.
      Reynolds pressed a hand to his com headset's earpiece. "Alpha Team, this is Bravo. We're at the objective, setting charges now. How copy, over?"
      The voice of Major Domo Usze 'Taham crackled over the headset. "I believe the response you humans look for is, 'solid copy.' Consider it said. Our objectives have been completed for an hour now. How long until yours?"
      Reynolds gritted his teeth. The Elite had made it clear on board Shadow of Intent that he did not like working with humans, and Reynolds had endeavored to complete his mission whilst contacting his alien counterpart as little as possible. So far, he'd been succeeding. "We're setting charges now," said Reynolds. "Estimate about five to ten minutes before they're ready to go."
      "Acknowledged," replied 'Taham. "We'll be standing by in case you need reinforcements. Which you probably will." There was a click, and the channel went dead.
      Muttering something about overly arrogant split-chinned freaks, Reynolds swivelled to face the Marines covering the entrance to the generator. Staff Sergeant Griego, eye still glued to the thermal imager, suddenly stiffened.
      "Staff Sergeant?" asked Reynolds. "Something wrong?"
      "Got something on the thermal," murmured the platoon sergeant. "I dunno if---shit!"
      A hail of blue and green plasma bolts streaked into the room, dropping three Marines.
      The rebel Elites, and their intendent aliens, weren't done with Reynolds and his men yet.
      "Suppress those hostiles, now!" barked Reynolds. "Griego, get your eye out of that thermal and try gluing it to some sights for a change, huh?"
      A grimace crossed Griego's ratlike face as he stowed the thermal imager, and drew his BR-55.
      Reynolds, spraying suppression fire with the M7 submachine gun that he kept as a sidearm, shouted back to the demolitions team. "Are you guys done yet?"
      "Almost ready!" shouted Sergeant Stafford.
      The attacking aliens, driven around the corner by the hail of suppression fire, poked the glowing tips of their plasma weapons around the corner and began to fire blindly at the Marine defenders.
      Staff Sergeant Griego took the brunt of one of those volleys in the chest, and collapsed. Reynolds raced over to the platoon sergeant to see if he was still alive, but wasn't surprised when he found no pulse. He was about to grab the thermal imager from Griego's web-belt, but stopped when he saw the ammo counter in the Staff Sergeant's BR-55: 36 rounds left in the clip. The Staff Sergeant hadn't fired off a single round.
      The rebel Covenant were growing bolder. Four Grunts charged around the corner and, in almost perfect unison, reached onto their equipment harnesses, grabbed two plasma grenades, ignited them, and continued charging for the Marine lines.
      "Drop those kamikazes, now!" cried Reynolds.
      Battle rifle fire cracked out and tracked across the hallway into the Grunts. The dimunitive aliens dropped...but one of them, in his death throes, hurled his explosive payload at the Marines.
      "Hit the deck!" barked Reynolds.
      The four fireteams covering the door threw themselves to the ground, but one Marine, a baby-faced man that Reynolds's neural lace tagged as one Corporal Frye, was too slow to drop, and had the grenade adhere to his leg. In a fit of adrenaline, the Corporal yanked his combat knife off of his belt, and began trying to cut off the doomed appendage.
      He was still sawing madly when he disappeared in a flare of blue light.
      Reynolds shook his head, then clicked his com online. "Major 'Taham, this is Gunny Reynolds! Covenant forces are attempting to retake the pulse generator, and we are heavily outnumbered! Requesting immediate reinforcements, how copy over?"
      A sharp bark of laugher cracked over the com. "Understood. On our way."
      Reynolds looked at Sergeant Stafford, who was fearlessly working to prime his charge. "How much longer, Stafford?"
      "Give it about ten, twelve minutes, Gunny."
      Reynolds nodded, and prayed they had that long.

***

      The two rebel CAR cruisers cut across the bow of the human-allied CCS, and unloaded the firepower of their plasma turrets into the smaller, less heavily armored craft. The CCS executed evasive maneuvers as her shields took the brunt of the fire. For a second, it seemed as if she would succeed. Then, a blue light shone from within her hole, and without further ado, the cruiser exploded.
      On the bridge of the Assault Carrier Shadow of Intent, Fleet Master Rtas 'Vadum was no longer smiling.
      Admiral Brett Harsoth, studying the tactical board shook his head. Two of the rebel CARs were intact, plus the hostile Assault Carrier. 'Vadum's fleet on the other hand, was down to the carrier Shadow of Intent, two CARs, and a CCS. An advantage, but a very very small one.
      Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood, standing in front of the viewscreen, cocked a silver eyebrow as the hostile ships disappeared behind a haze of blue light. "Incoming," he remarked.
      There was a rumble, and a faint vibration ran through the hull. The two human Admirals cast worried glances at each other.
      "Forward shields down to 50 percent, Shipmaster!" bawled the Sangheili shield officer.
      'Vadum growled. "All shields forward. Communications: signal to all ships. Tell them to execute 'Fulsamee's Sword. Helm, gunnery, comply with that battle plan."
      Hood and Harsoth exchanged a glance. "'Fulsamee's Sword?" asked Harsoth.
      'Vadum bared his teeth, the unnerving Sangheili equivalent of a grin. "We're forming up what you humans call an 'arrowhead formation', and moving to take out their command ship."
      "We can't afford to do that!" exclaimed Hood. "Shadow if Intent will be torn to pieces!"
      'Vadum's grin widened. "Our last CCS cruiser has set its reactor to overload; the crew has slaved command of her drives to this ship and evacuated. We have, in effect, a giant plasma torpedo pointed at them."
      Harsoth got it first. "We're just escorting her in."
      'Vadum nodded. "Indeed we are."
      "Fleet Master," interrupted the comms officer. "All ships report ready to perform 'Fulsamee's sword."
      "Very good. Transfer control of the CCS to my station."
      "Yes, Fleet Master."
      The Fleet of Retribution crisply fell into formation, still spewing blue plasma torpedos at the rebel fleet like so much vomit. 'Vadum had delegated control of his flagship to the helmsman, and was concentrating more on remote-steering the CCS cruiser that had been converted into a bomb. His mandibles were clasped tightly together, and his four-fingered hands displayed surprising dexterity as they danced across his command console.
      Harsoth gazed at the viewscreen, noting with some worry the rebel Elite ships growing larger by the second. "Admiral Hood, I don't know about this."
      Hood's craggy face remained impassive, but Harsoth thought he detected a faint nod.

***

      The ten Warthogs hurtled across the barren desert, charging forth in their quest to save the Master Chief's AI.
      Standing behind the M41 LAAG of the lead craft, Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker wearily shook his head. He hadn't endorsed this mission, but none of the Marines in the 30-man retrieval unit had wanted to argue with the Chief.
      Actually, thought Stacker, make that 29. Staff Sergeant Jon Salko had attempted to present a case against carrying out this harebrained mission, and he was now onboard Kilo 023, unconcious.
      Stacker sighed. Avery wouldn't have had misgivings; he'd have simply given a shout of oorah and laid waste to any hostiles between him, the Chief and Cortana. But Stacker, as he'd learned time and again, wasn't Avery.
      So here he was, speeding through this barren wasteland on the gun of a Warthog, seriously regretting his decision to do so. His throat was dry as could be from the sand and dry wind, and his eyes were stinging like they'd taken a round from a plasma pistol.
      Fellow Installation 04 veteran Corporal Chips Dubbo looked back from his shotgun position on the Hog. "You alright up there, Gunny?"
      Stacker somehow managed to wet his tongue enough to be able to speak. "Never better, Corporal."
      The Master Chief sat in the driver's seat, managing to project an air of intensity despite his featureless faceplate. "Gunnery Sergeant, contact Hocus. Ask her if she sees the building."
      Stacker clicked his headset online, shouting into it to be heard over the howl of the wind. "Hocus, you copy? This is Savior Actual, over." Stacker gave a small wince at the designation of the Hog unit, so given by the Chief.
      The cool voice of the blonde pilot crackled into Stacker's ear. "Solid copy, Gunny. What do you need, over?"
      "Hocus, the Chief wants to know if you see the facility, over."
      There was silence as Hocus consulted with her Pelican's new passenger. 16807 Repetant Instigator, Monitor of Installation 06, had tagged along to provide guidance and security expertise. "We should be only two klicks away by now, over."
      "Roger," replied Stacker. "Savior Actual out."
      "You think we'll find her, Gunny?" asked Dubbo.
      Stacker, knowing which "her" Dubbo was referring to, glanced at the Chief. The gloves of the Spartan's MJOLNIR armor had tightened around the steering wheel, crimping the metal. Stacker, for what was one of far too many times for his liking, wondered if the Chief had emerged from his cryopod with all his mental faculties intact.
      "Hope that we do, Dubbo," replied Stacker. "Hope and pray that we do."

Attack on Installation 06, part 16
Date: 2 January 2009, 1:32 am

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 13
1630 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      The Sangheili-made CCS-class cruiser, like a purple knife, plunged into the hull of the rebel Assault Carrier. The enemy ship's armor plating simply cracked and buckled to accommodate the foreign object, and for a few seconds it seemed as if she would go on fighting.
      Then a malevolent purple light shone from the inside of the CCS. It pulsed for several seconds, and then the cruiser vanished in a blaze of flourescent blue fire.
      On the bridge of the Shadow of Intent, Fleet Master Rtas 'Vadum swivelled to face the Sangheili sensor officer. "Sensors, report! Has our foe been vanquished?"
      The other scanned his console for several seconds, then looked up. "Enemy Assault Carrier is still intact, Fleet Master! She's had all shields and weapons on the port side knocked out, but she just sent another salvo our way!"
      Admiral Brett Harsoth, his emaciated body hunched over the tactical board, swivelled to flace 'Vadum. "Fleet Master, that gambit was our last hope."
      'Vadum's mandibles compressed. "No. No it was not." The silver-armored Sangheili swivelled to face the alien manning the communications station. "Comms, signal the fleet. Prepare for the 'Zamamee Pincer."
      Fleet Admiral Terrence Hood, immaculately groomed brows furrowed, stepped forward. "Fleet Master, care to tell us what that means?"
      'Vadum shook his head. "Not this time. Just watch the tactical board."
      The two Admirals exchanged worried glances, but did as the Fleet Master bade.
      The Fleet of Retribution had split up into an enveloping formation, pouring plasma fire at the enemy cruisers. The sensor officer let out a cry. "Fleet Master! One of their CARs has been destroyed!"
      "Good! Continue with the attack!"
      The Sangheili ships continued to charge towards each other, plasma fire erupting from their hulls like blue lances. The Shadow of Intent hove up and about, maneuvering so she was above the vulnerable port side of the hostile Assault Carrier. Beneath the rebel flagship, one of 'Vadum's two surviving CARs were doing the same. The final CAR was still engaged in a standoff with her counterpart on the rebel side.
      Shadow of Intent's bridge was a hive of activity. "Fleet Master!" shouted the comms officer. "Fleet signals ready to begin the Pincer!"
      "Fleet Master!" cried the shields officer. "Shields are down to fifty percent!"
      'Vadum wasted no time. "Begin the pincer! All batteries fire at will! Helm, roll us so damage is spread out across our hull!"
      The Shadow of Intent and her companion ship poured blue flame into the hostile Assault Carrier, punching huge holes in the rebel craft's hull.
      "Her shields are down, Fleet Master!" cried the Sensor officer.
      'Vadum let out a predatory laugh. "She's ours now. Maximum power to the batteries! Finish her off!"
      But 'Vadum's triumphant air proved premature: the sensor officer suddenly let out a bark. "New contacts, Fleet Master! Five CAR cruisers!"
      Harsoth and Hood looked at each other, mirroring each other with expressions of shock. There was no way that Shadow of Intent and her companion ships would make it out of that alive.
      At his command console, 'Vadum had actually frozen.
      "Fleet Master," began Harsoth, "we should---"
      "Signal to all ships," spat the Fleet Master, disgusted with what he knew he had to do.
      "What shall it say?" asked the communications officer.
      "Execute a slipspace jump. Get us out of here."

***

      Gunnery Sergeant Will Reynolds hefted his BR-55 battle rifle, dumped two bursts into the Grunt trying to get a bead on him, and swivelled back to face the Marines placing the explosives. "How we doing, Stafford?"
      The hatchet-faced Sergeant Jim Stafford, holed up with the rest of his squad in the rear of the octagonal room setting the charges that would hopefully destroy the pulse generator, shook his head. "Four minutes, Gunny!"
      Reynolds fired off another burst to ensure that any particularly bold Covie would keep their heads down. His forty-man platoon was down to thirty, with about five men wounded. Major Domo Usze 'Taham's Elites were on their way, but Reynolds hadn't heard from them in ages.
      The Gunny suddenly realized that the outgoing plasma fire had slackened to a halt. Something was up. Reynolds motioned for the the platoon to get against the wall bracketing the entrance way so the Covies couldn't see them. Reaching onto his tactical vest, Reynolds hefted the thermal imager he had taken from the dead Sergeant Casey Griego. Clicking it online, he prayed the Covies had had sense enough to retreat.
      No luck. On the thermal, two Elites rounded the corner of the corridor leading into the control room, clutching purple Covenant Carbines. Reynolds motioned to the two two-man teams bracketing the entrance to the generator room to stand ready.
      Each two-man team had one marine with a plasma pistol, the other with an M7 submachine gun. One soldier would disable the Elite's shields, the other would pump the alien full of hot caseless lead.
      The two rebel aliens approached the door, cautiously sniffing the air.
      Reynolds raised his hand, and the two teams flanking the door readied their weapons, charging the plasma pistols and loading the SMGs. Contrary to popular belief, Marines liked to make as little noise as possible when readying their weapons; the metallic click could alert unaware enemies, and besides, it was unprofessional.
      The two Elites entered the room, panning their weapons across the room.
      Reynolds chopped his hand down.
      Two green blobs leaped from the plasma pistols, slamming into the Elites. Blue light flared from the aliens' armor as their shields dropped. Then the SMGs blazed to life, and the Elites dropped.
      The Marines moved swiftly. The two Elite bodies were policed for their carbines and plasma grenades, and the door was once again blocked by a line of soldiers. Reynolds, massaging his temples in a futile attempt to ward off his perpetual low-grade migraine, shot a questioning glance at Sergeant Stafford. The hatchet-faced squad leader gave Reynolds a thumbs-up.
      Reynolds executed a beautiful double-take. "Seriously, Sergeant?"
      "Affirmative, Gunny," replied Stafford. "Charges are all set."
      Reynolds frantically thought of what could go wrong. "The EMP shielding?"
      "In place."
      "The detonators?"
      "Online and functioning."
      "Sure?"
      "Sure, Gunny."
      Reynolds swivelled to face his squad. "Charges are set, Marines! We are leaving!"
      The men warily diverted their attention from the entrance to the pulse generator. Reynolds continued: "Charges are in place, it's time for us to pull out. Sergeant Stafford, your squad takes point. Move it out, people."
      Moving in single file, the Marines departed the room. Reynolds, second from the front, was behind Sergeant Stafford. Grunt and Elite bodies were everywhere; there was no sign of the surviving Covenant that had attacked the Marines in the generator room.
      Stafford called a halt at a corner, and took out the thermal. When he stiffened, Reynolds knew that something was up. "Contact?"
      "Elites," replied Stafford. "Four of them. They look they're trying to avoid detection."
      Reynolds took the thermal from Stafford and peered down the scope. Four Elites, plasma rifles clutched in their hands, were advancing in a diamond formation down the corridor.
      "Doesn't look they know we're here," said Reyolds. "We'll just hit 'em hard. No need for subtlety. On my mark...go!"
      The Marines lunged around the corner, three-round bursts cracking from their BR-55s. The Elites took the rounds, but didn't return fire. One dropped as a burst pierced and armor.
      Reynolds was suddenly aware of a shouting blaring over the headset "Cease fire, dammit! Cease fire! We're friendlies, dammit!"
      By now, a second Elite had dropped. "Cease fire!" barked Reynolds. "Cease fire, goddammit! Medics, see to those Elites."
      "Gunny," said Stafford, "did we just..."
      "Yes," replied Reynolds. "We just shot the fuck out of 'Taham's men.

***

      Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, standing behind the M41 LAAG of a Warthog, surveyed the Forerunner building.
      It was a grand structure, shaped like an upside-down U, blue lights glinting around the entrance.
      The color was fitting, considering the fact that Cortana might be inside.
      The towering Master Chief, battered green MJOLNIR armor glinting in the sunlight, stood in front of the door. "It's unlocked."
      "Roger that, Sir," said Stacker. The Gunny reached for his headset. "Hocus, you copy that?"
      "Copy," came the reply. "I'll stay on station. Call me if you need anything."
      "Will do," replied Stacker. For a second, as he had so many times since the Ark, Stacker fervently wished that Avery was here. He'd been one of the best Marines Stacker had worked with...and Stacker knew he'd do everything to get Cortana back. For despite Stacker's assistance to the Chief on most of the Spartan's campaigns, it'd been Avery he'd bonded with, Avery he'd let into a select circle of those that he considered to be comrades-in-arms, and not simply another green-armored piece of cannon fodder. Stacker simply didn't have Avery's attachment to the blue-colored AI.
      The Chief's iron-hard rasp interrupted his thoughts. "Gunny. Get the Marines ready."
      "Will do," repeated Stacker. "Dubbo! Get the platoon ready!"
      Corporal Chips Dubbo, one of the three surviving veterans of Installation 04 nodded. "Platoon! Stand to!"
      Twenty of the thirty Marines, minus the ones manning the Warthog guns guarding the entrance, lined up in front of the entrance.
      Stacker hopped off the chaingun and jogged up to the Chief. "Twenty Marines, ready to roll, Sir."
      The Chief's only response was to open the facility's door.
      There was a simaltaneous click as the Marines all flicked the safeties off of their weapons.
      Four Sentinels floated out of the door. Stacker cast a glance at the Chief. The Spartan was gripping his rifle hard enough to crimp the metal.
      The Sentinels didn't fire.
      "Let's go," said the Chief.
      Stacker turned to face the platoon. "Let's roll."
      The Marines advanced into the facility. As soon as the last one was in, Hocus's voice crackled over Stacker's headset. "Gunny, I'm reading a major power sur---"
      The Pelican pilot's voice cut off as the massive door into the facility slammed shut.
      Stacker swivelled to face the retrieval platoon. "Third squad, guard that door! Second Squad, First Squad, stand ready."
      The third squad moved to defensive positions in front of the door, hefting their BR-55s in anticipation of a Covenant assault.
      "Gunny," said Dubbo, nodding at the Sentinels, "what about them?"
      "Fear not," replied one of the Sentinels, "we will not harm you, Reclaimers."
      Stacker blinked. He'd served on three Forerunner constructs, and not once had the Sentinels uttered a word.
      The Chief evidently had the same thoughts. "You can talk?"
      "We are a special model," replied the same Sentinel.
      "Can you tell me where Cortana is?"
      The machine paused. "We can take you there."
      "Do it," said the Cheif.
      "Follow us, Reclaimer," replied the spokes-Sentinel.
      The flying robots moved off, the Chief following in their wake.
      Stacker looked at the Marines. "Once more into the breach, gents. Let's move."

Attack on Installation 06, part 17
Date: 10 April 2009, 7:14 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 14
1745 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      Two Elites lay on the ground of the corridor leading to the pulse-fire generator, purple blood caking their armor where bullet holes had been drilled through. Gunnery Sergeant Will Reynolds, standing next to red-armored Major Domo Usze 'Taham, shook his head. "I'm sorry, Major Domo."
      'Taham looked at Reynolds, shook his head sharply, and spit onto the body of one the dead Sangheili. The red fluid made for a disturbing contrast with the alien blood...it reminded Reynolds far too much of human vital fluid.
      "Two of my best commandos are dead, Gunnery Sergeant," growled the Major Domo. "Your men are responsible."
      Reynolds' remorse vanished fast; the Major Domo was only aggravating the intense migraine he'd been having ever since starting this damned mission. "Would it have hurt for your men to identify themselves? My neural implant picked up jack shit from them!"
      The Sangheili would have none of it. "We told you were were on our way, we didn't return fire---"
      Reynolds massaged his temples; he could have sworn the migraine was getting worse. "Major Domo, my men were hyped on adrenaline, we'd been fighting your renegade bretheren for quite some time before you showed up---"
      "And you reward us for saving your sorry backsides by killing two of us? I'm so filled with gratitude, I can barely express it."
      "Oh yeah?" retorted Reynolds. "Well, maybe we should---"
      The Gunny never finished his sentence. The pain in his temples suddenly flared like he'd been nailed by a plasma shot---Reynolds staggered---and then he pitched onto the floor face-first.
      His neural implant superimposed a message over his vision, making the pain even worse: WARNING. OVERLY PROLONGED USE OF NEURAL LACE HAS OCCURRED. ANEURYSIM CAN RESULT. OBTAIN MEDICAL HELP IMMEDIATELY.
      Reynolds was dimly aware of his platoon sergeant, the hatchet-faced Sergeant Stafford, flipping him over, yelling for a medic. Everything seemed like it was taking place underwater.
      Reynolds tried to move his lips, to tell the others what had happened.
      He couldn't. His muscles were encased in lead.
      Then he blacked out.

***

      With the departure of Admirals Harsoth and Hood, it fell to UNSC Navy Lieutenant Joseph Freyyr to command the Berlin, the cruiser-cum-base for the UNSC forces on Installation 06.
      This was not a duty the Lieutenant particularly relished. Short, balding, and stocky, he didn't easily inspire confidence. He wasn't charismatic in the slightest; he had not accepted the numerous promotions he had been recommended for. He had risen to the rank of Lieutenant and no further.
      Striding down the corridors of the Berlin, however, he made for an intimidating figure. The two Marines outside the cruiser's medbay had no doubt realized this, judging by the speed with which they saluted.
      Inside the medbay, medics were clustered around a single gurney, monitoring devices and IV hooked up to the figure reposed on it like some kind of mechanical parasite. The figure on the gurney was gaunt and pale looking, but despite the lack of vigor present in his complexion, Freyyr easily recognized him: Gunnery Sergeant Will Reynolds.
      The skeletal platoon sergeant, Sergeant Stafford, was waiting for Freyyr. Rendering a prefunctory salute, he quickly began his report:
      "There was a friendly fire incident, Sir. We killed two of Major Domo 'Taham's Elites."
      Freyyr sighed. "That'll be fun to sort out. What happened to him?"
      "He was arguing with 'Taham, Sir, and all of a sudden he just...he just seized up and dropped. We managed to medevac him here before his condition got any worse." Stafford's face was grimmer than the Lieutenant had ever seen it, and that was saying something.
      The Lieutenant looked at the medics clustered around Reynolds. "Report."
      One of them, a trim-looking man in his sixties, looked up. "Aneurysm, Sir. Probably caused by overuse of the neural lace."
      Freyyr massaged his temples against the rapidly oncoming headache. "Will he be all right?"
      "Too early to tell, Sir."
      Freyyr exchanged a glance with Sergeant Stafford. The man did not look happy. "Make sure we don't lose him," said the Lieutenant. "We can't afford to."
      "Yes Sir," replied the spokes-medic.

***

      The Sangheili Assault Carrier Shadow of Intent and the surviving vessels of her fleet hung in orbit over Earth, blue-lit engines
      Admiral Brett Harsoth stalked onto the bridge of the Assault Carrier and saluted.
      Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood and Fleet Master Rtas 'Vadum, in deep conversation with each other, took no notice.
      The blue-lit bridge was abuzz with activity, Sangheili crewmen conversing with each other in their guttural, barking language. A red-armored Major Domo manning one of the tactical consoles barked, "Fleet Master, the other human Admiral is here!"
      Hood and 'Vadum both looked over at Harsoth. "As you were," said the human Fleet Admiral. "We've got a problem on our hands."
      Harsoth approached the tactical table, and noticed a small sheet of paper lying on it. "What's this, Admiral?"
      "A message," said Hood, his craggy brow even more furrowed than usual, "from one Fleet Admiral Parangosky."
      Harsoth blanched. "Hell..."
      "We have been ordered," broke in 'Vadum, "to abort the mission to the new Halo ring. Our request for reinforcements has been denied." The Fleet Master ran a hand over the stumps of his left mandibles, faster and faster, almost as if he were trying to keep himself under control. If he was, it didn't work.
      The silver-armored Sangheili let out a bellow more frightening than anything Harsoth had heard during the war. Lord Hood, judging by his terrified expression, agreed. The sound was that of a cry of loss, pain, and profound frustration with a culture that ran so contrary to his warrior ideals.
      His anger spent, 'Vadum turned to a crewman manning the communications console. "Communications Master, get me the human Intelligence commander!"
      Hood jerked as if the Fleet Master had rammed an energy sword through him. "Fleet Master, what are you doing?"
      Half-Jaw turned to stare at Hood, and there was a look in his eye Harsoth didn't like one bit. "Admiral, a Sangheili warrior never leaves his comrades in the heands of the enemy. Never."
      "Think about what you're doing, Fleet Master...even I can't give orders to Parangosky."
      "You are the head of the UNSC Security Council, Admiral Hood. I think you can."
      Hood shook his head. "You don't know Mar---Admiral Parangosky like I do. No one can reason with her. No one."
      "Fleet Master!" cried the Elite at the comm station. "Admiral Parangosky is on the comm for you."
      'Vadum swivelled to face the screen for the vid-comm. "Put her on."
      The vid-screen remained blank.
      'Vadum growled. "I said, put her on."
      The comm Elite tapped a few buttons on his console. "Systems show all clear, Fleet Master..."
      "I suppose this is the point where I say something clichéd about not being able to show my face," interrupted a new voice. "But the simple fact of the matter is that I trust you alien bastards about as far as I can throw you."
      The voice was that of a woman, middle-aged sounding, and very used to power.
      "Admiral Parangosky," said 'Vadum.
      The voice did not respond.
      "You have ordered my fleet to abort its mission to the sixth Halo."
      "I will not deny that."
      Half-Jaw growled. "A Sangheili warrior never leaves his comrades in enemy hands."
      "A sentiment shared by most human warriors as well. However, one must be pragmatic."
      'Vadum spread his mandibles, a clear warning gesture amongst the Sangheili. If Parangosky was watching as well as listening, she'd be on the alert now. "Admiral, I cannot comply with those orders."
      The voice cooled to what seemed absolute zero. "Bear in mind, Fleet Master, you are now under human jurisdiction. If you disobey my orders, I will take appropriate measures."
      'Vadum turned to face the navigation station. "Lay in a jump for the ring. We will not leave our comrades to die."
      "Fleet Master, you are making such a mistake."
      The silver-armored warrior looked at the screen...and spat on it. "Let me know when the calculations are complete," he instructed the Sangheili nav officer.
      "Admirals Hood and Harsoth," said the voice, "you are hereby ordered to relieve Fleet Master 'Vadum of duty, and take him into custody as per---"
      Harsoth drew his pistol, smoother than he had in a long, long time, and triggered three rounds into the comm unit. The screen shattered and sparked, and Harsoth was fairly sure he heard the voice give a little cry as the signal cut out.
      "Fleet Master, jump coordinates are set!" sang out the nav officer.
      "Jump us," said Half-Jaw.
      Lord Hood, standing next to 'Vadum, gaped at Harsoth. "Brett, I can't protect you from Parangosky."
      "Worry about yourself, Terrence," replied Harsoth, feeling wearier than he had in a long, long time. "Worry about yourself. She'll have blacklisted all of us."
      "And even more importantly," growled 'Vadum, "let's pray we're not too late."

Attack on Installation 06, part 18
Date: 24 April 2009, 12:45 am

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 18
1835 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      Night had fallen on Installation 06, and Hocus had to admit it made for one hell of a sight. It certainly made for a nice distraction from the Marine corpse lying on a gurney in the troop bay; Sergeant Jon Salko had succumbed to his Master-Chief inflicted wounds half an hour ago.
      "Beautiful sight, ain't it Lieutenant?" asked her co-pilot, the trim Warrant Officer Daniel Shilds.
      "That it is," was the perfunctory reply.
      "Just you and me, LT, and the night's still young..."
      Hocus shot a look at the young co-pilot from behind her helmet's mirrored visor, and suppressed the urge to shake her head in disbelief. Shilds had been unbashedly coming on to her ever since he'd been assigned to Kilo 023. It wasn't so much that he wasn't a nice guy, but Hocus had been having a relationship for some time now with a Longsword squadron commander back on Earth, and she was pretty certain Major Tom Easley wouldn't take too kindly to this kid muscling in on his turf. Granted, the kid wasn't bad-looking in the slightest, but still...
      "Stow the testosterone, Warrant Officer. We have jobs to do, and right now your job is to figure out what happened to Gunny Stacker and his team."
      Shilds' fingers danced over the co-pilot's console. "Nothing, LT, not a squawk on the E-band or any other channel."
      Hocus quirked a smile behind her visor. "Warrant Officer Shilds, if you want to be worthy of my affections, you're going to have to put more effort into your job than that."
      The co-pilot threw up his hands in dismay. "LT, all systems are functional, but I can't get jack. Lightbulb, anything you can do to help out?"
      This last was adressed to 16807 Repetant Instigator, floating in the back of the Pelican's cockpit like a one-eyed balloon. "I can attempt to contact the Sentinels within, Reclaimer. If they are with your comrades, they will tell me."
      "Do it," ordered Hocus.

***

      Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker walked point for the two-squad formation, following the Chief into the bowels of the Forerunner facility where Cortana was supposedly held.
      The walls were spotless, the floor smelled of the Forerunner equivalent of disinfectant, and the place was so spotlessly clean that Stacker couldn't walk two steps without covering his eyes from the gleaming surfaces or wincing from the antiseptic smell.
      "Christ, Gunny," remarked Corporal Chips Dubbo from Stackers' right. "They've kept this place in great shape. Ol' Zero-Four wasn't nearly as clean as this."
      "Agreed," replied Stacker, "and that's scaring me."
      Several meters ahead of the Marine formation, the Master Chief looked back from the speech-capable Sentinel guiding him through the bowels of the facility. "Cut the chatter, Gunnery Sergeant. Stay sharp---no telling what kinds of traps the Forerunners might have placed in here."
      "Roger, Master Chief."
      Dubbo shook his head. "What the hell's the difference between us and Johnson, Gunny?"
      Stacker stiffened at the mention of his old comrade. "What do you mean, Dubbo?"
      "Gunny, we were with the Chief for all three Halo campaigns. So was Johnson. So what's---"
      Stacker turned to look at Dubbo, and his expression was not one the Corporal found pleasant to look at. "Corporal, we are the only two men left from Installation 04. Chang died at New Mombasa, Avery died on....whatever the hell it was he was on, it doesn't matter. Now let me ask you something, Dubbo. I've put my life on the line for the Chief more times than I can count. The Chief has saved my ass more times than I can count. That being said, do you really think I haven't asked myself this question before?"
      "Sorry, Gunny," was all Dubbo could think to say.
      Stacker said nothing to that.
      Up ahead, the Chief suddenly dropped into a combat-ready stance, hefting his assault rifle. Stacker raised his clenched fist, signalling the retrieval team to halt and take up defensive positions.
      "What's up, Gunnery Sarnt?" asked one of the ODSTs.
      "I dunno," came the response. "Hold here." Thus saying, Stacker advanced to where the Chief had halted. The SPARTAN had trained his rifle on the Sentinels, which had come to a halt. "Chief?"
      The SPARTAN took no notice.
      "Chief, what's wrong?"
      The super-soldier ponderously turned his helmet until the visor was fixed squarely on Stacker. The Gunny felt, irrationally, he hoped, as if someone was sweeping a crosshair over his body. "They stopped," was all the Chief offered, keeping his rifle trained on the Sentinels.
      Stacker hesitated. The last time he'd seen Sentinels, on the Ark, they'd been allies. That being said, he also had no idea what subroutines that the Forerunners had programmed into the robotic sentries.
      The Gunny turned to face the retrieval team. "Safeties off, gents, no telling what---"
      "That will not be necessary," interrupted one of the Sentinels.
      Stacker turned to face the Forerunner robot, hefting his battle rifle as he did so. The clicks of safety catches being released filled the hallway.
      "What happened," grated the Chief.
      "We received a communiqué from the Monitor of this Installation," answered the spokes-Sentinel. "He would like you to know that your dropship and vehicles are still standing by outside, and that he will act as your communication link."
      "Great," muttered Dubbo. "We get to rely on the lightbulb for information."
      "You're still taking me to Cortana," growled the Chief.
      "Of course, Reclaimer," replied the machine. "Your construct is within this room."
      As if triggered by the Sentinel's words, the door in front of the retrieval team slid open with a sibilant hiss.
      Stacker didn't like it one bit. His comm headset might not have been able to reach Hocus, but the retrieval team's third squad was holding position at the door to the facility, and wasn't affected by the interference...or so Stacker hoped. "Third Squad, this is the Gunny. Report."
      For a few seconds, there was nothing but static, then---"Gunny, Third Squad actual. Negative on any contacts, over."
      "Right, hold position. I don't like this one bit."
      "Join the club, Gunny. Third Squad out."
      The Chief, for some reason, was looking expectantly at Stacker. "Gunnery Sergeant, you and Corporal Dubbo come with me. The rest of you, guard this hallway."
      Chips started at the mention of his name, but obediently moved up next to Stacker, casting a worried look at the latter.
      The SPARTAN advanced through the doorway, moving in the Sentinels' wake.
      Stacker and Dubbo followed suit.
      The room was dim, light only by the wan glow of a few blue lights. A small pedestal-like console was set in the center of the room.
      The Chief wasted no time. He strode over to the console, punched a few commands into the Forerunner instrumentation, and asked, "Cortana? Cortana, can you hear me?"

***

      Outside the Forerunner facility, the crew of Kilo 023 was taking a nap.
      It wasn't good practice, both Hocus and Shilds knew, but both had been awake for more than a day straight now, and the Monitor had promised to wake them if something came up.
      Of course, that didn't make it any more surprising when the Monitor started his eerie humming. Both members of the Marine aircrew jolted awake at the same time, Shilds groping for his pistol.
      Hocus, naturally, came to her senses first. "Easy!" she said. "It's just the robot."
      Shilds relaxed. "Goddammit," he muttered, scanning the Pelican's instrumentation. "Goddammit!" he yelped, upon checking the sensor systems.
      "What?"
      The Warrant Officer wordlessly motioned to his console.
      Hocus clambered into the rear of the Pelican's cockpit, roughly shoving the Monitor aside. Repetant Instigator remarked "Oh my", but otherwise made no comment.
      The IFF display was showing a sea of red, a company's worth of hostile aliens at least, converging on the facility.
      Hocus turned to 16807 Repetant Instigator. "Get the Gunny, lightbulb. Tell him he's got company."

Attack on Installation 06, part 19
Date: 5 May 2009, 10:30 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 19
1940 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      Warrant Officer Shilds, swearing under his breath, danced his fingers across his co-pilot's console. The IFF sensors were still blazing red, and the comm channels for Stacker's recovery team were still hissing with static.
      Fortunately, the channel used by the Warthog gunners standing overwatch for the facility was still active. Hocus was on the horn with them now: "I say again, Savior One, you have incoming. Unknown number of hostiles, but definitely a large one, over."
      The voice of Staff Sergeant Fred Henricks crackled back. "Copy, Hocus. We have eyes on approaching hostile forces. We're showing at least one Wraith and two Ghosts for armored support, plus lots of infantry. Can you offer us anything, over?"
      Hocus considered it. Her Pelican was of the newer variant, the D77H, and packed a chin-mounted rotary cannon and two missile pods, plus an HMG that could be mounted in the troop bay. "I won't be able to hold them off single-handedly, Staff Sergeant. But I think we can make their eyes water, over."
      "Copy, Hocus," repeated Henricks. "Has your robot buddy been able to get the team just inside on the horn, over?"
      Hocus fixed her visor on 16807 Repetant Instigator. "Well?"
      The Forerunner machine shook his head. "The protections my makers installed around that facility render me unable to contact your comrades via their com systems. However, I could send a Sentinel as a messenger."
      Shilds swivelled his chair away from his console to face the Monitor. "Do it. Now. Now now now."
      Repetant Instigator either ignored or took no notice of the Marine pilot's urgency. "Of course, reclaimer."
      The Warrant Officer looked at Hocus. "Those squid-heads sure know how to ruin a beautiful night, LT."
      Hocus shook her head. "Warrant Officer, make yourself useful and tell Sergeant Nomuri to set up the HMG in the troop bay."
      "Yes ma'am," came the diffident reply.
      "Hocus," came the voice of Staff Sergeant Henricks, "we've got a better visual on the incoming forces. That Wraith we spotted is a triple-A model, over."
      The Pelican jock restrained a curse. The red-plated anti-air variant of the Wraith tank had become the bane of UNSC pilots as the Covenant had pushed into the Inner Colonies, its six fuel rod cannons wreaking havoc against the Hornets and Pelicans that had gone up against them.
      "We copy," responded Hocus. "Just hold out as long as you can."
      "Will do," replied the Staff Sergeant, "Henricks out."

***

      Down below, the Staff Sergeant clicked off his helmet comm, and turned to look at the other nine Marines manning the chainguns. "Alright, ladies---"
      Lance Corporal Shelley Treif gave a small cough.
      Henricks actually blushed, no mean feat. "Sorry, Lance Corporal. Alright people, the Covies have decided to throw a party, and we are the lucky few chosen to come. Hocus'll be giving us air support, and she's working on getting us through to our pals on the other side of the door, but don't bank on it. If they start to overrun us, get off the chaingun, grab what gear you can, and run for the hills. Am I understood?"
      Nine voices chorused, "Yes Staff Sergeant!"
      Henricks snugged the stock of the LAAG mount against his shoulders. "Alright, then. Get ready."

***

      The blue-lit room was still and grim, occupied only by Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, Corporal Chips Dubbo, and several Sentinels. And, of course, the Master Chief.
      The Spartan stood over the room's central blue-lit console, his posture hunched and nervous. Stacker hadn't realized that worry was a part of the Chief's emotional pantheon until now, but the Chief's haunting question of, "Cortana, can you hear me?" had convinced him otherwise.
      Blue and humming, the console made no reply.
      "Cortana?" the Chief repeated.
      The console's humming suddenly increased in pitch, and a hologram fizzled into existence, that of a woman. Had she been flesh and blood, she'd have been the target of any man within Stacker's unit---but none of the Gunny's men had a thing for AIs.
      It didn't take a genius to realize that this was Cortana.
      When the Chief next spoke, his voice sounded less tense, more relaxed somehow. "Cortana...thank God."
      The AI gave a wan smile. "It's good to see you again, Chief."
      It was all very heartwarming, Stacker supposed. Even the Gunny, hardened by his years of service against the Covenant, couldn't help but feel for the Chief. Even Corporal Dubbo, normally not one for crying, actually wiped what looked like a tear from his eye.
      Of course, that was when the first salvo from the triple-A Wraith slammed into the building.

***

      Hocus executed a slick sideslip to avoid running into the rounds from the triple-A Wraith streaking up at her from the ground. "Shilds! How're we doing?"
      From his seat at the Pelican's weapons station, the Warrant Officer shook his head. "Missile pods are empty, chaingun's at three-fourths ammo, and Nomuri's still almost full for the HMG."
      "Roger", replied Hocus, maneuvering the Pelican like it was a Longsword fighter rather than a dropship. "I'll set her up, you knock 'em down."
      Shilds twitched.
      Hocus rolled her eyes. Next time, she'd request a less hormonal co-pilot, although Shilds was competent enough. "Do your job, Warrant Officer."
      "Yes, LT."
      Hocus centered the anti-air Wraith in the Pelican's canopy, feeling the nose-mounted chaingun rattle as Shilds opened up. "Henricks? How you doing?"
      The Staff Sergeant's voice was barely coherent. "I've got two KIA and we're runnin' low on ammo! Has your robot got the door open yet?"
      The Pelican pilot looked at Repetant Instigator.
      The Monitor's blue eye gazed back. "I have my Sentinels moving to assist your troops, Reclaimer."
      "He's working on it!" Hocus shouted into her headset.
      "Copy," came the response. "Hocus, tell him to hurry, we can't---"
      The signal dissolved into static. "Shilds!" Hocus shouted. "Get Henricks back on the horn!"
      The Warrant Officer gave the chaingun a couple of seconds to cool down as he worked the comm system. "No signal, Hocus, he's gone!"
      Hocus swore. "Is anyone alive down there?"
      Shilds stared out the canopy. One Hog gunner stood her ground, gamely firing away at the oncoming Covenant forces. Another had jumped off his chaingun and was running for the hills, Covenant plasma fire streaking after him. As Shilds watched, a plasma volley pierced his back.
      "One left, LT!"
      "All right, I'm bringing us down to pick her up. Lightbulb, you'd better tell our pals in there to get ready."
      "Of course, Reclaimer."

***

      The Sentinel drifted up next to Pete Stacker and opened its mandibles. Once upon a time, that would've been a signal for the Gunny to hose the flying machine with 7.62 ammo, but now he held his fire.
      "My Monitor wishes to inform you that a Covenant attack is impending," said the Sentinel. "Your defenders outside the building have been killed. I suggest you alert those inside to prepare to repel attackers."
      The Master Chief, Cortana now slotted back into the MJOLNIR armor that served as her home, looked at Stacker. "Get Third Squad on the horn, Gunny. Let 'em know they've got company."
      "Aye aye Chief," replied Stacker, slapping a hand to his headset. "Sergeant? You got incoming."
      The voice of ODST Sergeant Adrian Shephard, a veteran of New Mombasa and Installation 05, came back, distorted by static. "Copy Gunny. We'll set the table."
      Stacker looked at the Chief. "Ready to move out, Sir."
      The Spartan looked back. Something about his posture seemed almost...happy. "Sure. Let's move, Stacker."

***

      Third Squad had been handpicked by Stacker for the retrieval, ODSTs and veterans of at least one Halo ring all. And none of them had been through more than their squad leader, Sergeant Adrian Shephard.
      Shephard wasn't a big man. In fact, he was decidedly average in stature, but he'd been leading from the front long enough to command the respect and loyalty of his men. During the action in New Mombasa, he'd been dropped late, and had spent most of his time searching for his squad. During that odyssey, something had happened to him that he refused to talk about. All anyone knew about it was that ONI had spirited him away, and it had been a long time before he had returned to duty.
      He didn't talk much; when it was, it was mostly to bark out orders, which he was doing now.
      "All right, Helljumpers, stack up! They'll be coming in force, so I want riflemen to protect our M-489 gunners; those SAWs will make or break this defense. Jackson?"
      Lance Corporal Harold Jackson, a man who spoke with an even thicker Southern US accent than Stacker and had a goatee to match, looked up from the charges he was setting. "Satchel charges in place, Sergeant," he said around the ever-present cigarette clutched in his mouth. "Soon as we need to fall back, we'll be able to delay the Covies. Ought to be able to give their first team a bit of a surprise as well."
      Shephard nodded. "Tower?"
      Corporal John Tower wiped his brow with the bandanna he kept tied around his head. "Machine-gun section is good to go, Sir."
      A scraping sound came from the direction of the door.
      "Get ready," said Shephard. "Here we go."
      The scraping sound intensified, increasing in pitch. A sudden burst of plasma fire sounded from outside.
      The door began to hiss open.
      "They've cut the lock!" said one of Shephard's helljumpers.
      The ODSTs racked the charging levers on their rifles. Dim alien outlines could be seen in the doorway.
      The same Helljumper let out another cry: "Here they come!"

Attack on Installation 06, part 20
Date: 15 May 2009, 12:10 am

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 20
2050 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      Four alien silhouettes appeared in the doorway leading into the Forerunner facility. Short and stocky, it didn't take long for Sergeant Adrian Shephard to recognize them.
      Grunts, the Sergeant thought to himself. Probably just scouting ahead, not much of a threat.
      The rest of Third Squad, stacked up around the entrance ready to repel attackers, looked at their commanding NCO. Corporal John Tower, leader of the machine gun section, cocked his head questioningly.
      Shephard shook his head, Tower nodded, and swivelled his hefty frame to signal his gunners to stand by. Assured that his heavy weapons were ready, Shephard returned his attention to the attackers.
      The Grunts hadn't advanced. In fact, it seemed as if they had drawn and primed some kind of personal heavy weapon.
      Four green blobs emerged from the Grunts' weapons and rocketed into the entrance chamber, sending Helljumpers diving for cover.
      Grunts with Fuel Rod Guns, Shephard amended silently. Considerably more of a threat.
      That being established, Shephard burst into action, issuing orders whilst hosing the Grunts with battle rifle rounds: "Squad, return fire! Machine guns, keep 'em pinned down! Jackson, stand by with the charges!"
      The entrance chamber erupted with gunfire, mowing down the Grunts in a matter of seconds; purple blood splattered the wall, and one of the stocky aliens' methane tanks exploded in a blaze of blue flame.
      "Cease fire!" barked Shephard. "Conserve your ammo; they'll be back for more."
      The words had scarcely emerged from his mouth when four red-clad Elites, energy swords glowing, charged in through the door.
      Madness erupted. Two Helljumpers were skewered by the same Elite's sword, screaming their hearts out. One had a plasma grenade affix itself to his helmet; the ODST managed to get the bucket off and throw it away...right into the midst of a group of his buddies.
      Adding to the cacophony were the panicked cries of the men:
      "Hold the line!"
      "Second wave, second wave!"
      "Watch your left!"
      Shephard sprayed several bursts at the incoming aliens from his battle rifle, his voice cutting above the chaos. "Jackson, set off those charges! Everyone else, fall back!"
      "Yes Sir!" came the response from the southern-fried Lance Corporal, grinning through his goatee as he raised the detonator
      Shephard, running for his life, only heard the click. Then his helmet's buffers kicked in and muted the blast as a giant fist hit him in the back and hurled him forward.
      He didn't know how long he lay there on the ground hearing nothing but his labored breathing, but next thing Shephard knew, Corporal Tower was standing over him, his bandanna smeared with blood from a wound on his forehead.
      "Sergeant, we gotta go!"
      Shephard hauled himself to his feet. "Status?"
      "Six KIA, two wounded."
      Shephard winced. Half his squad was dead, with two more besides wounded. "All right," said the Sergeant. "Fall back and set up another defensive position...they'll be back for more."
      "Will do."
      "And tell Jackson to get more charges set; looks like that strategy worked pretty well."
      Tower's brown grime-smeared face grew grim. He silently motioned at an arm, a leg, and a head sticking out from under the debris. A cigarette, still smoking, was clutched in the corpse's mouth.
      Shephard winced. "All right, have anyone with demo experience set charges. Move fast; we don't have much time."

***

      Kilo 023, the sole remaining survivor of the Savior team of Warthogs onboard, executed an airborne pirouette and rocketed towards the Berlin.
      In the cockpit, Hocus glanced aft to look at Warrant Officer Dan Shilds. The Pelican co-pilot hadn't seen any combat prior to this, and she wanted to be sure he was holding up. "You OK, Warrant Officer?"
      Shilds's helmet was off and Hocus suddenly realized she'd never seen him without it. He had an average face, nothing remarkable, with dirty blonde hair and grim brown eyes. "They're all dead, LT."
      "Lance Corporal Treif made it."
      Shilds's face grew even more despondent. "But not the others...we failed them, LT."
      Hocus looked at the kid, and immediately reproached herself for thinking of her dependable co-pilot that way...but that's what he was. Shilds was barely out of his teens, had enlisted in the Marine Air Wing after high school, and had gone to Warrant Officer school after one year, so stellar was his track record. But that had been after the Covenant War, when humanity had needed all the officer it could get...Shilds hadn't had the baptism of fire she had.
      "Warrant Officer...Daniel...people die in war. One of my best friends made it through the entire war, then lost her life trying to save the Chief's ass on Halo. I remember Foehammer every day."
      Shilds gave Hocus a scornful look. "You expect me to listen to platitudes like that, LT? I know who Foehammer was; she's a legend in the Pelican community. But she didn't have anyone to save her; those Marines did. And that was us."
      Hocus blinked. "Shilds, I---"
      The Warrant Officer jammed his helmet on and swivelled to face his console. "Berlin's hailing us, LT. Putting her onscreen now."
      The bald head of UNSC Navy Lieutenant Freyyr burst into existence on the dropship's vid-comm screen. "Hocus, report. Is the Chief with you?"
      "Negative, negative. I'm here for reinforcements; the Chief and the retrieval team need help, they're trapped in some Forerunner facility. Is Gunny Reynolds there?"
      Freyyr shook his head. "No, he's in critical condition. He had an aneurysm from over use of his neural implant. There's no way in hell he'll be able to help you."
      Hocus swore. "Dammit, Lieutenant, the Chief and Gunny Stacker could be dying out there, and you---"
      "I didn't say I wouldn't be giving you any reinforcements," interrupted Freyyr. "Master Sergeant Anselm has been complaining for some time now about not being 'in the shit', as he so colorfully put it. I think he'll be happy to assist you."

***

      I'm getting too old for this, Stacker thought as he raced through the hallways of the Forerunner structure.
      The Chief was on point, MA5C at the ready, with Stacker next in line, Dubbo and the rest of Second Squad following close behind. Stacker hadn't been able to raise Shephard or Third Squad, but judging by the explosions and gunfire, there was a major fight going on up there."Cortana, are you sure you can't get Adrian on the horn?"
      "Negative," came the static-laced voice of the AI. "I'm sorry, Sergeant, but I haven't been able to contact any member of Third Squad."
      Stacker didn't bother correcting Cortana on his rank; she'd paid even less attention to him than the Chief had.
      "Gunny," said Dubbo, "the gunfire just stopped."
      "Let's move," said Stacker. "And pray we're not too late."

Attack on Installation 06, part 21
Date: 21 May 2009, 11:35 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 21
2120 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      The Shadow of Intent and her CAR-class cruiser escorts tunneled out of slipspace into the Tharidanis System.
      Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood and Vice Admiral Brett Harsoth exchanged looks of dismay upon seeing what was on the cruiser's viewscreen: nothing. No rebel Elite cruisers. No Installation 06. Nothing but the grim orange star that was Tharidanis.
      "Jump complete, Fleet Master," sang out the navigation officer.
      Fleet Master Rtas 'Vadum nodded. "Good. Dispatch the recon patrol."
      "Done, Fleet Master," replied the communications Elite, rubbing his hand over the scar that curled over his face. "Recon One reports his flight is outbound."
      Hood and Harsoth looked at 'Vadum. "Care to explain," growled Harsoth, falling into the confrontational role he'd noticed that he'd picked up in the triumvirate of Admirals and Admiral-equivalents.
      'Vadum blinked. "Admiral Harsoth, I would have thought it obvious. The rebel Sangheili have five undamaged CAR heavy cruisers, plus one damaged Assault Carrier that they may or may not have managed to repair. Sending in a recon force is elementary tactics."
      Harsoth flinched at the not-quite censure in 'Vadum's voice. "My apologies, Fleet Master...I just know my men are dying down there..."
      "It is all right, Admiral," replied the veteran Sangheili soldier. "You would not be a warrior if you did not have those feelings."
      "In the meantime," said Hood in his familiar role as the voice of reason, "there's not much we can do except sit here and wait for the recon team to report back."
      So they did for five minutes, 'Vadum drumming on the side of his command chair, Hood whistling a half-remembered tune, and Harsoth growing more bored than he had at the worst of staff meetings.
      "Anyone up for a game of cards?" asked the Vice Admiral.

***

      The Sangheili recon leader was named Refu 'Toram. He was twenty Earth years old, an artist with the Seraph fighter and Fleet Master 'Vadum's most favored fighter pilot. Whilst this was mostly due to his prodigious skill with the Covenant's mainline fighter, his nickname and condition no doubt also attracted 'Vadum's attention.
      Two years ago, 'Toram's fighter had been wracked by a barrage from a human Longsword, and the Sangheili flight leader had been hit in the process. His mandibles, all of them, had been severed.
      Needless to say, Half-Jaw soon took No-Jaw under his wing.
      Right now, 'Toram was where he felt he was best suited to be: in the cockpit of a Seraph, heading out to hunt down the enemy...if not to destroy them immediately.
      "No-Jaw, Barrage. Are we there yet?"
      'Toram sighed to himself; after the war, the Sangheili pilots had assimilated a few human characteristics. One of the more useful ones was giving themselves unique callsigns. One of the more infuriating ones was pre-mission chatter.
      "Barrage, No-Jaw. Keep the chatter down. Racetrack, report."
      The reconnaissance-modified Phantom pilot, who'd chosen her callsign after watching a human television program, responded immediately, her smooth tones easily identifiable: "Racetrack here. All systems are go. Are we going to be slipping in or flying in?"
      "Slipping in," replied 'Toram. "But maintain a weapons-hold. That means you too, Barrage, or by the Forerunners, No-Jaw's new wingman will be No-Genitals. Understood?"
      The other Seraph pilot, suitably quelled, responded with a meek, "Copy, No-Jaw."
      'Toram craned his neck around to look at the Seraph containing the final member of the recon patrol. "Blade, No-Jaw. Are you alive in there?"
      "Affirmative," came the typically disciplined response from the other Sangheili pilot.
      "Very good. I'm feeding you all the slipspace coordinates now, confirm reception."
      "Racetrack, ready."
      "Barrage, ready."
      Blade simply gave a comm click.
      "Very good. Jump on my mark. Three...two...one...mark."
      Space blurred around 'Toram's fighter as the slipspace tunnel irised into existence. The Sangheili pilot gunned his throttle, and his ship hurtled through the door to eternity.

***

      First Sergeant Al Anselm stalked down the line that was the battered remnants of Bravo Company, the Marine unit assigned to the Berlin. Bravo had been battered mercilessly by rebel Elites and their intendent aliens, both while defending the Berlin and on the hare-brained control room raid and Flood retrieval mission that Admiral Harsoth had ordered. Their Captain, Reach veteran Joseph Kline, had been killed defending the Berlin. First Lieutenant Delckiss, whose only major campaign had been the action in Voi and on the Ark, was now in command.
      "All right ladies and gentlemen, listen up. The Chief is back, and he needs your help. Covenant forces are besieging a Forerunner facility on the far side of the ring where his AI Cortana was being kept. This is a volunteers-only mission, so anyone who wants to come aboard, step forward. Be advised, I am leading this op, and this is an enlisted-man only job. Officers and senior NCOs are too important to maintaining company unit cohesion, so no platoon sergeants or leaders. Anyone have a problem with that?"
      Several of Bravo's platoon sergeants did indeed seem as if they had a problem with that, but they likely wouldn't argue with a man who resembled the bastard love child of Apone from Aliens and Sarah Connor from Terminator.
      Twelve men and women, none ranking higher than Staff Sergeant, stepped forward.
      Anselm surveyed them. The best Bravo had to offer, each and every one of them. Good. He'd have accepted no less. "Squad, this way. Lieutenant Anderson will brief you."
      The squad marched into the Berlin's antiseptically-clean amphitheater-style briefing room. In the center, in front of the planning screen, stood Hocus and Warrant Officer Shilds.
      Staff Sergeant Jhonan Sanchez quizzically furrowed his bronzed brow at Hocus. "Hey, Hocus, good to you're see handling the airlift. Where's this Lieutenant Anderson?"
      A smile broke out over Hocus's face. "I never did tell you guys my name, did you?"
      Shilds, who had received such privileged knowledge, chuckled to himself.
      "All right people, settle down," said Anselm. "Hocus?"
      "The Chief is in this facility here, with a substantial number of Covenant besieging him. Now, we have several options..."

***

      Space snapped back to normality outside the cockpit of Refu 'Toram's fighter, and the Sangheili pilot immediately activated his ship's stealth systems.
      "Running dark," he muttered into his comm. "Radiation suppressors activated. Everyone, report."
      "Racetrack, running dark."
      "Barrage, going quiet."
      "Blade, stealthed."
      'Toram clenched his mandibles as he maneuvered into formation in front of Racetrack. "Racetrack, get your sensors online. Everyone else, stay sharp."
      The patrol maneuvered into formation, 'Toram slipping in front of Racetrack, Barrage to the side, Blade to the left; the purple drives of the spacecraft the only thing besides the stars lighting up the void. But it wasn't long before Installation 06 manifested itself...along with the rebel fleet around it.
      "Visual," said Racetrack.
      "Anything on sensors?" growled 'Toram.
      "Multiple capital ships," replied Racetrack. "Scanning five...six...seven CARs. And two Assault Carriers."
      "Two?" gasped Blade, unusually verbose.
      "Affirmative, two carriers."
      "Seraphs," said Barrage.
      "What do you mean?" said Blade, speaking more than he had in a year.
      "They're incoming."
      "Floodspores!" cursed 'Toram. "Racetrack, send a signal to Shadow of Intent, let 'em know that---"
      "Already done!" came the reply, "I'm sending them the data I've got on the enemy---"
      The signal dissolved into static---as did 'Toram's control displays. "What the---?"
      The Seraph's systems were going offline faster than a food nipple's contents down an Unggoy's throat. The stick had locked up, sensors were blank, ship-based comms displayed only static, even the omnipresent purple lights had dimmed to nothing.
      Wait, 'Toram thought to himself, ship's comm may be offline but not suit comm...
      Thumbing his headset to life, 'Toram addressed his squadmates: "Flight, this is No-Jaw. Can you hear me? They're jamming our computer systems somehow...I've never seen anything like this..."
      Several pod-like shapes clearly visible through 'Toram's canopy loomed out of the void. "Incoming, incoming. Multiple Seraphs. Can anyone hear me?"
      Racetrack's voice crackled through: "No-Jaw, Racetrack. I'm trying to get a restart on my systems. I have no control, no comms..."
      "No-Jaw, Barrage. I can't get anything online, I have zero functionality."
      A clicking noise sounded over the comm after Blade's signal. 'Toram recognized it as human morse code: an SOS. It seemed that Blade would be Blade to the bitter end.
      Small blooms eclipsed the Seraphs for a brief moment. "Missiles," growled Barrage.
      "Flight," said 'Toram, "we have three seconds until impact. Seal your suits, get your swords out, and cut your way out of your cockpits. Move!"
      Suiting action to words, the Sangheili flight leader scrabbled for his sword, shoved the handle against the cockpit canopy, and thumbed the blade to life.
      The dual turquoise points seared through the canopy, which shattered under the stress, venting the Seraph's atmosphere into space with a loud roar.
      The missiles were less than a second away at this point, and 'Toram realized that he had doomed himself.
      He had failed to undo his safety harness.
      'Toram knew he was dead anyway, but he was not going to sit back and accept his fate. Moving faster than he had in any duel, he began to undo his restraints.
      The missiles slammed into his fighter, harder than any barrage he'd taken from a human fighter. The last experience Refu 'Toram had on this mortal coil was of a flash of purple, so bright it blinded him, an accompanying roar, and then cold, cold so intense he could feel his body freezing over. And just before he died, he could've sworn he heard screams.
      He was. His headset was still transmitting; his flight hadn't made it.
      'Toram didn't even have time to think about that before he died.

***

      Harsoth and Hood were attempting to teach 'Vadum how to play poker, knowing just how extreme a breach of protocol it was, but not giving a damn due to the sheer boredom they were experiencing, when Racetrack's garbled distress signal came through.
      "Fleet Master!" exclaimed the scarred communications officer. "Signal from the recon flight! They're under attack!"
      "Details," barked 'Vadum, throwing down his cards, "I need details."
      "The signal ends abruptly, Fleet Master, but it appears they have been reinforced by a second Assault Carrier and two more CARs."
      'Vadum spat out a particularly vile Sangheili curse. "It seems, then, we'll have to do this hard way."
      "What do you mean, Fleet Master?" Hood asked, brow furrowed even more than usual.
      "Navigation!" barked the half-jawed commander.
      "Yes, Fleet Master?"
      "Plot a jump---"
      Harsoth's emaciated frame stiffened. "Fleet Master," he interrupted, "we are outnumbered and outgunned by a considerable margin---"
      "---inside the ring's atmosphere."
      "Right away, Fleet Master."
      The two human Admirals looked at each other. "Fleet Master..." Harsoth began.
      'Vadum swiveled to face the two. "As I told your Intelligence Admiral, so I shall tell you: a Sangheili warrior never leaves his comrades in the hands of the enemy."
      Hood and Harsoth couldn't even muster a response to that.
      'Vadum swiveled to face the nav officer. "Jump when ready."

***

      Kilo 23 hurtled across the storm-whipped ocean, lightening occasionally lighting up the cockpit more than the meager amount the screens of the control consoles provided. Hocus was at the controls as per usual, Shilds at the co-pilot's seat. First Sergeant Anselm was in the third seat, looking distinctly uncomfortable, his face more green than black.
      "You didn't go this way according to your mission logs," accused the First Sergeant.
      Hocus, wrestling with the dropship's stick, took a second to answer. "Gunny Stacker's team was using 'Hogs, and we had to go from wherever the hell it was they were keeping the Chief. This is the most direct route from the Berlin."
      "LT," Shilds interrupted, "port-two thruster's fouling up again."
      "Lock it down, then!" replied Hocus. "Look, First Sergeant, I know you don't like storms, but can you please take your discomfort aft so I can focus on flying this thing?"
      As Anselm hauled himself aft, he heard Hocus shout, "Shilds, I said get that damn thruster locked down!"
      "You all right, First Sergeant?" asked Staff Sergeant Sanchez, sitting at the aft of the troop bay. The bay door was open, the stormy weather sucking the smoke from the Staff Sergeant's cigar into the frenzied atmosphere.
      "Those'll give you lip cancer, Staff Sergeant," replied Anselm, motioning to a scar on his lip. "I learned that the hard way."
      The Latino Staff Sergeant quirked a grim smile. "First Sarnt, I'd rather die of cancer than from those alien bastards."
      Anselm sat himself down on the other side of the troop bay, in front of the door. "You think he's still alive?"
      "The Chief? Probably. There ain't the Covie born who can kill him."
      The First Sergeant meditatively spat out the rear of the troop bay. "Dunno...they managed to kill the other Spartans."
      "Maybe," replied Sanchez, lightening casting shadows over his craggy bronzed face. "Maybe."

Attack on Installation 06, part 22
Date: 19 June 2009, 12:21 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 21
2200 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      The edge of the storm system, along with the ocean it hovered over, was finally visible. Lieutenant Sarah Anderson, better known to practically every other person in a uniform by her callsign of Hocus, breathed a sigh of relief.
      Her co-pilot, Warrant Officer Daniel Shilds, echoed those sentiments. "Thank God, LT. It'll be clear flying from here on."
      Hocus shot a look at Shilds; even though her mirrored visor obscured her face, Shilds winced from the censure behind it. "Warrant Officer, if we get shot down, I am blaming you."
      "Yes, LT," was the meek reply.
      The Pelican was by now hurtling over the desert landscape that bordered the facility that the Chief was bunkered down in. It was featureless; the sensors hadn't picked up a whiff of plasma and not even a glint of purple could be seen through the cockpit canopy.
      "Goin' dark," remarked Shilds. "Suppressors online...comm jammers active...I suppose I'll go aft and let the First Sergeant know he can insert."
      "Over the facility now," remarked Hocus, twisting around to face her co-pilot. "Yeah, get your ass aft and let the Marines know they can move in."

***

      Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, following in the Chief's wake, hurtled through the labyrinthine corridors of the Forerunner facility.
      "Cortana, anything from Shephard?" he managed to grate out.
      "Negative," came the dispassionate reply. "No signals from Third Squad have been received."
      The Chief halted his inexorable advance to peer around a corner. "Clear!" he grated.
      "Move!" answered Stacker.
      The two squads worth of Marines advanced around the corner. Corporal Chips Dubbo, battle rifle clutched close to his chest, sidled up to Stacker. "Think he's still alive, Gunny?"
      Stacker was spared having to answer courtesy of a rattle of gunfire from somewhere near the main entrance.
      Dubbo made a face. "Yeah, never mind, Gunny."
      The Chief looked around to face Stacker. "Sergeant, keep your men moving, we don't have time to waste."
      "Aye, Chief," replied Stacker, throwing himself into a run once more.
      Up ahead, the Chief had halted at a fork in the corridors, peering left and right as if to gauge which one would offer more resistance. "Sergeant, we're going to the---"
      That was when the ceiling exploded, sending down a torrent of rubble, burying the Chief underneath a mountain of what had once been the roof to the Forerunner facility.

***

      First Sergeant Al Anselm stood at the back of Kilo 023's troop bay, surveying the damage by the C7 shaped explosives. "Alright, breach secure! Everyone on the ropes, let's go!"
      The twelve men and women of the rescue squad hooked up, the clicks of the rapelling gear mixing with those made as they readied their weapons. Staff Sergeant Johnan Sanchez, Anselm's second, gave a curt nod.
      The First Sergeant, for his part, was already standing on the Pelican's blood tray, one hand holding his battle rifle, the other clutching at his rappelling line. A green light flicked on over his head.
      "Green light!" came Hocus's voice. "Go go go!"
      Anselm leapt out of the Pelican, wrapping his legs around the rappelling line, feeling the familiar sensation of rope burn as he hurtled into the Forerunner building.
      Staff Sergeant Sanchez evidently felt the same sensation, judging by the muttered swear he said as he hurtled down the rope.
      Anselm landed on the rubble, panning his battle rifle around the room.
      There were no Covenant inside, only two squads of Marines led by a horrified-looking Master Gunnery Sergeant whose goateed face mottled with shock as he looked at Anselm.
      "Way to go, jackass!" spat a Corporal whose accent placed him as one of Chi Ceti IV's Australian colonists. "You just killed the Chief!"

***

      The Shadow of Intent tunelled out of slipspace into Installation 06's atmosphere, her crew ready for battle.
      On the bridge of the cruiser, the command triumvirate surveyed the tactical board, the two human Admirals looking astonished.
      "You do realize what you just did is impossible?" gaped the gaunt Brett Harsoth.
      Fleet Master Rtas 'Vadum shot his human counterpart an amused look. At least, Harsoth thought it was amused; it more closely resembled the look a shark gives its prey before eating it.
      "As you humans say," remarked the silver-armored Sangheili, "nothing is impossible when you put your mind to it."
      "Fleet Master!" exclaimed the communications Elite, "Berlin is hailing us!"
      "Put her through," replied Half-Jaw. "It is good to hear from our comrades after so long."
      The vidcomm crackled to life, and the bald head of Lieutenant Freyyr swam into existence on the screen. "Admiral Harsoth?"
      The flag officer in question stepped forward. "I'm here, son. Report."
      Freyyr's face was that of a man who'd been staring down death for the past few days. "We've taken substantial casualties, Sir. Bravo Company's all we've got left defending the cruiser; 'Taham's Elites are God knows where, Gunny Reynolds has had a goddam aneurysim, Master Gunny Stacker's out helping the Chief, and Hocus just commandeered twelve of Bravo's best men to help him out."
      Lord Hood, watching the junior naval officer intently, stiffened. "Son, who is Stacker helping?"
      The forty-year-old Lieutenant decided to ignore being referred to as "son" twice now, and fixed Hood with a grim look. "You heard right, Sir, the Chief is alive, it's not a hoax. Last we heard, he and Stacker were being attacked in this facility---" here, a small wireframe model of a Forerunner building, along with coordinates, appeared on the screen, "---with a substantial number of Covenant besieging him."
      That was Half-Jaw's cue to break into the conversation. "I have a full battalion of Orbital Drop Shock Troopers embarked; I believe we can, as you humans put it, make their eyes water. And what is this about 'Taham being MIA?"
      "He knocked out his pulse-generator targets, brought Will Reynolds back to Berlin, and we haven't seen him since. Permission to speak freely?"
      'Vadum and Hood exchanged glances. "Granted," said the human Fleet Admiral.
      "Sir...Fleet Master...if you had a full ODST battalion on board, why didn't you deploy them sooner? We could've used them."
      "It was supposed to be a surgical strike," replied Hood. "Get in, neutralize the ring, get out while evac'ing Berlin's crew."
      "Understood," said Freyyr, looking as if he did understand, but not much liking it. "One more thing...'Taham has to have defected to the Rebel Elites, Sir...he just wouldn't go missing for no reason."
      'Vadum stiffened. "Tread carefully, Lieutenant. The warrior whose honor you impugn has served with me for many years."
      "So doesn't that make it more understandable why he wouldn't like us?" shot back Freyyr. "Gentlemen, I have to go. Berlin needs me."
      "Good luck," replied Hood. "We'll have you off this ring soon."
      "I hope so, Sir," came the response. "Freyyr out."

***

      Gunnery Sergeant Will Reynolds awoke.
      That in and of itself surprised the Gunny; in his admittedly limited medical experience, men did not simply have aneurysims and wake up just fine.
      Then he saw his surroundings and revised that opinion.
      Maybe I'm not feeling that great after all.
      He was in a valley, a small depression overgrown with foliage common to the region of Africa that it was located in. A small log bridged the sides of the---
      Reynolds suddenly had a feeling he knew where he was.
      "Hello, Will."
      The Gunny swivelled around to see a face he thought he'd never see again.
      Lieutenant Vough looked just like he had the day he'd met his platoon sergeant, kind, cheerful, with a mischevious glint to his eyes.
      The last Reynolds had seen of the LT, his head was being pulverized by a Brute Chieftain's gravity hammer. The results had resembled an orange caught in a blender.
      "Sir...it's---it's been a while."
      Lieutenant Vough apparently didn't see fit to address that. "It's time, Will."
      That did not bode well for Reynolds. In fact, it was giving him the chills. "Time for what?"
      "Time for you to regroup with us, Gunny," replied a new voice.
      Reynolds turned around; several Marines stood behind him, each and every one a face he recognized painfully well. As Bravo Team surrounded Reynolds, all the Gunny could do was gape, "What the hell---"
      "It's time, Will," Lieutenant Vough repeated, and this time, an M6D sidearm was pointed at Reynolds.
      Gunnery Sergeant William Reynolds didn't even have time to muster a response to that before Lieutenant Vough fired.

***

      In Berlin's medbay, the patient in Bay 327 abruptly flatlined following an abnormal spike of brain activity. Medics immediately identified the cause of death as an aneurysm.
      Lieutenant Freyyr stood over Reynolds's body, mournfully shaking his bald head, wondering how the hell he'd explain this to Admiral Hood.

***

      "What the hell do you mean I just killed the Chief?" asked the black Master Sergeant.
      Stacker managed to jerk himself out of the horror that had taken hold of him when he'd seen the mountain of rubble falling on top of humanity's best rubble. "That hole you blew in the roof, Top---"
      "First Sergeant," growled the other.
      "Sergeant-Major, if it'll make you shut up," Stacker barked back, "that hole you blew in the ceiling? The Chief was underneath it, he---"
      The Gunny was interrupted as pieces of rubble clattered down from the top of the pile. For a second, the Marines froze, praying the Chief was clawing his way out from the rubble...but no one emerged.
      "Gunny..."
      "What is it, Dubbo?"
      The Aussie marine looked grim. "Gunny, we better get moving; Shephard's still in trouble."
      Stacker nodded: "ODSTs, move out." As his men once more clattered down the corridor, Stacker turned to face the First Sergeant. "You coming, First Sergeant?"
      The Marine cast a horrified glance at the heap of debris lying on top of the Chief. "Yeah," he managed to whisper. "Yeah, we're coming."

***

      Sergeant Adrian Shephard knew he was in trouble; it probably had something to do with the fact that he was one of three members of his squad still amongst the living.
      On the other side of the makeshift barrier, Corporal John Tower, black dried blood caking his brown face, took a break from firing his M498 SAW to wipe his brow with the bandanna he customarily kept wrapped around his forehead. "There's a ton of them, Sergeant."
      Lance Corporal Daniel Strayer, his heart-shaped face flushed red, looked at his commanding NCO. "Maybe we should pull back, Sarge."
      Shephard didn't respond, no doubt due to the Grunt attempting to clamber over the barricade. A round to the head from Shephard's SOCOM variant of the M6C pistol dissuaded the unusually bold alien from continuing his attack.
      "We're holding the line," the Sergeant growled. "Gunny Stacker will be here soon, with the Chief and two squads' worth of reinforcements."
      "But Sarge---" bawled Lance Corporal Strayer.
      "We. Are. Holding. Out." Shephard accentuated the period with a grenade hurled at the oncoming Covenant. Whether or not it killed anyone was up for debate, but the screaming Grunts certainly confirmed a wound or two.
      Corporal Tower shrugged, swapped out the ridiculously hot barrel of his SAW for a fresh one, and resumed his suppression fire, unintentionally spraying Lance Corporal Strayer with spent shell casings.
      Shephard took a moment to inventory his supply: thirty-eight rounds for his SOCOM, and one frag grenade. Gunny Stacker had better hurry up. "Corporal Tower, how much ammo do you have left?"
      "Two belts, Sergeant," came the reply, punctuated by a Jackal's death warble. Tower was apparently not bothering to cease fire for the two seconds it took to spit out his answer.
      "Two hundred rounds, right?"
      "Affirmative, Sergeant."
      "Conserve your ammo, you're likely to be the backbone of our defense." Shephard turned to face Strayer, who had his back pressed to the barricade as if it would vanished if he moved away. "Lance Corporal, how much ammo do you have left."
      Strayer's face grew even redder as he fumbled with his M7 and tactical vest. "Erm...two clips left in the M7, Sarge, and one frag grenade."
      "You've got ammo, what the hell are you holding onto it for? Get on the bloody firing line!"
      The Lance Corporal looked as if he were going to have a heart attack, but he meekly complied, triggering bursts at the oncoming Covenant.
      "Elites, incoming!" shouted Tower.
      "Shit!" replied Shephard. "Someone get me a plasma pistol!"
      "What?" screeched Strayer, who had returned to his cowering behind the barricade. "That's the worst Covie weapon---"
      Shephard had about had it with this miserable goldbricker, but he said nothing. "Tower, cover me."
      "Roger, Sergeant."
      Shephard vaulted over the barricade, searching for a Grunt and soon found one, a silver-armored Ultra. A lesser man would have uttered a witty quip, but Shephard remained silent as he dropped the alien with a round to its methane rebreather. That done, the Sergeant grabbed a plasma pistol and hightailed it back to the barricade, throwing himself down next to Tower once behind it.
      "Where are they?" asked Shephard.
      "One minor, one major," replied the Corporal. "Both standing overwatch at the end of the hallway."
      Shephard nodded. "Don't worry; my HUD's got 'em locked."
      Tower knew what his Sergeant had in mind. "Careful with the recoil; I damn near broke my wrist once."
      "I'll be fine," replied Shephard, a green glow building up around his weapon. "One away. Charging two."
      Tower peered down the barrel of his SAW. "Major's shields are down. Firing."
      "Two away," Shephard noted as his plasma pistol sent a green blob hurtling down the corridor at the second Elite.
      "I got the minor, but the major's taken cover," spat Tower. "His shields will recharge in a few seconds. Got any grenades?"
      "No," growled Shephard, "but I know someone who does."
      "No," whimpered Strayer. "No no no no no."
      "If you're too much of a pussy to do it, give the Sergeant your grenade, you goldbricking bastard," ordered Tower through gritted teeth.
      Strayer held out the grenade to Shephard, his lower lip quivering faster than Tower's SAW was firing.
      That was when a hurled plasma grenade affixed itself to the Helljumper's proffered explosive.
      Shephard didn't even have time to swear
***

      The muffled thud of a frag grenade, along with the more unsual sound of a plasma grenade going off, sounded from somewhere near the front of the facility.
      Stacker skidded to a halt, Corporal Dubbo and the newcomer First Sergeant nearly slamming into him. "That did not sound good. Cortana, contact---" The Gunny cut himself off as he realized his mistake. "Dubbo, contact Shephard, see what the hell that was."
      "Roger, Gunny." There was a brief squeal of static as Shephard switched over to the comm channel for Shephard's squad. "Shephard, this is Corporal Dubbo. We need a sitrep, over."
      There was no response, save for the crackle and hiss of static.
      "Shit," said Stacker. "Keep it moving, people. Hopefully their comms are just down."
      One of the newcomer Marines, a bronzed man bearing the chevrons of a Staff Sergeant, shook his head. "I know Adrian; he won't go down without a fight."
      Stacker didn't bother to ponder how a regular Marine infantryman would know an ODST. "There's still hope then; keep it moving, boys."
      The Marines and ODSTs forged onwards, praying they weren't too late.

***

      The triumvirate of Admirals and one Fleet Master stalked down the Shadow of Intent's retrofitted drop bay. The bay still had the antiseptic smell common to newly minted ships, unsurprisingly so; Shadow of Intent had received this drop bay only several weeks ago, and had yet to use it.Orbital Drop Shock Troopers stood at stiff attention in front of their assigned pods, battle rifles slung over their shoulders, visors polarized and gleaming.
      Lord Hood and Admiral Harsoth halted in front of one Helljumper, a huge man, only slightly smaller than a Spartan. Two stars gleamed on the man's chest. Fleet Master 'Vadum hesitated, then hastened to return his fellow fleet commanders.
      "General Hugo Silva," said Hood.
      The commander of the UNSC's Orbital Drop Shock Trooper corps responded, in a thick accent, "Lord Hood."
      "General, I did not know you were assigned to this drop. An officer of your grade does not normally command a battalion." Hood seemed to be genuinely confused, but Harsoth had no doubt that the Fleet Admiral had had some inkling of the Helljumper General's presence.
      "My son's memory would permit nothing less," was the simple reply.
      Hood had nothing to say to that; Major Antonio Silva had been KIA on the first Halo ring discovered when the Flood-invested Covenant ship he'd commandeered had been destroyed due to the actions of a courageous subordinate. He'd become a martyr in the ODSTs, and for a time his example had hardened Helljumper opinion against the Spartans. The Chief had managed to turn that around for the most part during the actions on Delta Halo and the Ark, but some resentment still lingered.
      Apparently, some of that resentment was courtesy of the Helljumper's General.
      "General," said Hood, "I know you don't much care for Spartans, but your men will aid the Chief."
      Silva's visor depolarized; Hood had yet to see a more offended man. "You dishonor me, Lord Hood," said the General. "I will do whatever is within my power to aid the Master Chief and his men. However, please try to remember that my men are better suited to hunt down and destroy any Covenant forces than they are to mount a holding action at Berlin."
      "Noted," replied Hood. "You may drop when ready."
      The ODST general executed one of the sharpest salutes Hood had ever seen, and swiveled to adress his men.
      The Admiralty trio departed, Harsoth looking rather preturbed. "Can we trust him?"
      'Vadum's face was as introspective as the two human's had seen a Sangheili's. "I believe we can. He is almost Sangheilian in his adherence to a personal honor. He will carry out his job to the best of his ability."
      "I agree," said Hood. "Hugo was...rattled by the death of his son, but he's performed his job to the best of his abilities ever since we instated him into HIGHCOM."
      "I hope you're right, Terrence."
      "So do I, Brett."
      "Excuse me, Lord Hood, Admiral Harsoth?"
      The two turned around to see a thin man, wearing the Recon-specialized ODST equipment given to ONI Section One field operatives, approaching. The eagle of a naval Captain glinted on his chest. 'Vadum did not look happy to see this man.
      "Captain Nielson," said Admiral Harsoth, his voice tinted with the disdain he reserved for any and all ONI operatives. "What can we do for you?"
      The ONI attache to the Installation 06 mission shook his head. "I've just got something quick I need to clear with you, some orders I got from higher-ups in the Office."
      Lord Hood was considerably more diplomatic than his Vice Admiral comrade. "Not a problem, Captain. What is it?"
      Through the depolarized visor of his Recon helmet, the ONI operative's eyes were inscrutable. "Nothing special, Admiral. It's just that Vice Admiral Parangosky needs you to die."
      And with that, the ONI operative drew his SOCOM variant of the M6C, pointed the sidearm at the trio, and opened fire.

***

      In the bowls of the Forerunner facility where Shephard's Helljumpers were battling for their lives, a small piece of rubble dislodged itself from the top of the pile of debris.
      Soon another piece of debris followed it. Then another, then another, and before long an armored green arm punched its way through the top of the pile of rubble.
      The Master Chief hauled himself free from the mountain of debris, clicking his helmet comm online as he did so. "Cortana."
      "Yes, Chief?"
      "Get me Hocus."
      There was a brief click as Cortana switched comm channels. "Cortana to Kilo 023, requesting extraction."
      The smooth voice of the Pelican pilot came through. "Erm...Cortana, this is Kilo 023. Request the Chief confirm this is really him."
      Cortana's voice contained more than a hint of humor. "Well, Chief?"
      "Hocus, this is Sierra One-One-Seven. That request for extraction still stands."
      "No mistaking that rasp," replied the Pelican pilot. "Inbound now."

***

      The frag-plasma grenade combo had taken out a significant portion of the incoming Covenant, but Sergeant Adrian Shephard knew his minutes were numbered. The single clip left in his pistol was the only ammo he had left. Tower was down to a single belt for his SAW, and Strayer had expended his M7's ammo some time ago. A pile of captured plasma pistols lay behind the barricade, but Shephard was praying it didn't come to that.
      For the moment, the Covies had ceased their advance, but Shephard had no doubt that would soon change.
      "I still can't believe you managed to throw that thing," Lance Corporal Strayer said, an air of wonder to his words.
      "Neither can I," replied Shephard. "Now grab a plasma pistol, and get your ass on the firing line. Tower, anything?"
      "Not a damn thing," replied the Corporal. "Your visor getting anything?"
      Shephard clicked his helmet over to VISR mode, better known to Helljumpers as the "tag-and-bag" mode. "Nothing," he said. "Not a single---"
      The corridor the barricade faced split into a T-junction about ten meters down. A massive red outline flared from each junction. "Oh, shit..."
      "What is it, Sarge?" squealed Strayer, his face redder than ever.
      "Get down. Now."
      Strayer was happy to oblige, but the Lance Corporal did not quit. "Sarge," he whispered, "what is it?"
      Through the barricade, Shephard's visor was picking up two brooding red outlines standing silent sentinel at the far end of the hall. Each one was about the size of two humans standing atop each other, and their red outlines had spikes protruding from them.
      Corporal Tower heard the growling noises first, and it didn't take him long to make the connection.
      "Hunters."
      Lance Corporal Strayer resumed whimpering.
      "Stay low," growled Shephard, "stay quiet. My SOCOM uses the same ammo as the old '6D. If I get the shots in, I'll be able to take each one down with one shot."
      Tower looked incredulous. "I don't think I need to point out the flaw in your plan."
      Shephard nodded. "No, you don't, but it's our only option."
      His fellow NCO nodded. "Let's do it, then."
      Shephard peered the slightest bit over the barricade; the two Hunters were still standing still, making rumbling noises that probably qualified as conversation in their language. To Shephard, it sounded animalistic and that made it easier to kill them than it already was.
      The ODST inhaled, held his breath, raised his pistol, and opened fire.
      Hunter Number One took the round right to the stomach and dropped, the worms that composed its body spilling out from its armor in nauseating fashion.
      Hunter Number Two hunched over, took the round on its arm-mounted shield, and began to charge up its assault cannon, the green glow obscuring its other arm-mounted appendage.
      "Shit!" barked Tower. "Sergeant, look!"
      Shephard, resisting his better instincts, stayed above the barricade and saw something that scared the living shit out of him.
      "Shit," he echoed.
      The Lekgolo worms of the Hunter that he had killed were twisting together into a single amorphous blob. And this blob was clearly pissed off that it had lost its bipedal form, its worms glowing an angry red.
      "Do we have any incendiaries?" bawled Strayer.
      "Too late!" cried Tower, hunching down beneath the barricade.
      The second Hunter, its assault cannon fully charged, opened fire, a green stream of plasma hurtling towards the Helljumpers' barricade. Tower cradled his SAW like a baby, Shephard dialed up his helmets aural buffers, and Strayer finally gave in and collapsed into a fetal position, still whimpering.
      A massive explosion sounded, followed by a flash of light. When it faded, Shephard and Tower were untouched save for a few steel fragments in their armor.
      Lance Corporal Strayer was two meters back from the barricade, his body cut in two. Amazingly, he was still breathing.
      Then the Lekgolo worms from the Hunter hit by Shephard hurtled through the hole blow in the barricade, enveloping what was left of Strayer. A horrific cry over the helmet comm pierced Shephard's ears, and the Helljumper had no doubt he was next.

Attack on Installation 06, part 23
Date: 20 June 2009, 12:45 am

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 22

0800 Hours, July 07, 2553 (Military Calendar)
ONI Headquarters, Sydney, Austrailia

      Captain Jonathan Nielson hated meeting with Admiral Parangosky.
      ONI's headquarters were singularly unimaginative in architecture, and Nielson, a former student of that discipline, found it extremely irritating. It was a large cube-shaped building on the outside, and its interior was even more bland. Steely grey was the only color present, and everything was designed for utility first and creature comforts second. Nowhere was this more evident than in the office of the woman that most considered to be more powerful than even Lord Hood, Admiral Margaret Parangosky.
      Parangosky's office, in direct contrast to the rest of ONI headquarters, was painted entirely in black. Some claimed it was some super-special-spy paint---a notion which most ONI officers found laughable---that blocked listening devices; others thought that it was a metaphor for the black depths of the Admiral's soul, a practical joke from whoever built ONI HQ. And inside that black hole of an office were three things of note.
      The first was what was probably the most advanced vidcomm system in the whole UNSC, one that was rumored to be able to contact ships in Slipspace. The second was a book case with a frosted glass cover, an intentional feature on the Admiral's part, denying even the miniscule psychological advantage that might be gained over her by knowing the literature she read.
      Rounding out the unholy trinity was the Admiral's desk, a massive affair that mounted the most advanced computer system outside of HIGHCOM's rig, but whose true purpose was to showcase the grandeur of the most powerful woman in the UNSC.
      Parangosky was a grim woman, and looked the part, ancient-looking and harsh. Put one toenail wrong with her, you'd be busted down to E-1, thrown into the UNSC Marine or, God help you, Army infantry and sent right to the hottest battlefront of the war. Nielson knew that from experience.
      The Captain accepted a respectful salute from the two ORION veterans guarding the Admiral's office. Even though some in ONI thought soldiers of that caliber would be better utilized in the field, Nielson knew Parangosky would accept nothing less to guard her life.
      The doors to the Admiral's office hissed open, and Nielson entered, immediately snapping to attention and rendering a salute, concealing his surprise at the room's extra occupant.
      Parangosky was tapping away at her computer, no doubt condemning some poor soldier who'd gotten on her bad side to a horrific demise.
      The room's second occupant was the infamous Colonel James Ackerson, looking quite a bit worse for the wear after his being held hostage by the Brutes. Even more worrisome was the fact he was toying with an M6F sidearm.
      Ackerson looked at Nielson. "He's here, Admiral."
      Parangosky looked up from her computer and finally returned Nielson's salute. "Excellent. Captain, please take a seat."
      "Thank you, Ma'am."
      The Admiral customarily did not bother with pleasantries. "Have you heard of the rebellious Elites bedeviling our colonies?"
      Nielson nodded. He hadn't---surveillance of Covenant species wasn't his area of operations---but he had no doubt he was supposed to. "Yes Ma'am."
      Ackerson leaned in close to Nielson; the man looked even uglier up close. "They've found a Halo ring."
      "Shit," was all the Captain could think to say.
      "They've gotten completely out of hand," Parangosky growled. "We never expected they would do this."
      "Begging the Admiral's pardon, but what do you mean?" Nielson was afraid he would not like the answer.
      "We created the Rebel Elites," replied Parangosky. "ONI recognized that there would always be anti-human dissent amongst the Covenant, and we also recognized that humanity simply cannot stay away from each other's throats without some evil overaching foe threatning us."
      You mean you did, Nielson thought. Then a memory struck him---the colony world of Paris IV, rebuilt after the Covenant War, massacred in an attack by dissendent Covenant forces. Oh my God...those people...
      Clearing his throat, he managed to grate out: "an extremely bold idea, Ma'am."
      Parangosky snorted. "Spare me the sycophancy; if I want that, I'll talk to Captain Gibson. I know you think it's a horrific idea, but I also know you'll do what I order you to do. That's why I chose you for this."
      "Chose me for what, Ma'am?"
      "A few days ago, Brett Harsoth and his ship stumbled across this ring and the Covenant forces there. Without a human, the Covenant could not activate the ring, but Harsoth somehow contrived to crash-land his cruiser on the ringworld. If the Elites find out they need a human, and take one prisoner..."
      "We're all dead," growled Ackerson.
      "It gets worse," continued Parangosky.
      Ackerson stopped pacing the room, and committed the unforgivable sin of leaning on Parangosky's desk. The Colonel gave a sardonic smirk. "It always gets worse."
      "Lord Hood and Fleet Master 'Vadum are launching a rescue mission, and are taking some of our best Marines and ODSTs, including an ORION veteran."
      "Stacker?" hazarded Nielson.
      "Yes," confirmed the Admiral.
      "That's all quite worrisome, Ma'am, but what is it you want me to do?"
      "Terrence will at some point disobey me. That is a given, considering what his mentality regarding stranded soldiers is. When that occurs, I want you to terminate him, 'Vadum, and Harsoth."
      "Ma'am, are you---"
      "I am quite sure, Captain. Can you carry out my orders?"
      I'm going to Hell for this. "Yes Ma'am."

***
2230 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      Captain Nielson felt the pistol buck in his hands, and stared in disbelief as Admiral Harsoth threw himself in front of Lord Hood. Two holes blossomed in the Vice Admiral's chest, making for a stark contrast with his dress whites.
      Lord Hood was drawing his service pistol, but Fleet Master 'Vadum was already leaping into action with the speed only a Sangheili was capable of, energy sword blazing to life in his hands.
      Nielson knew his days were numbered, but he also knew that if he faltered, what Admiral Parangosky would do to him would be a fate worse than death. So he fired again.
      This time, Hood couldn't avoid the round. The venerable Admiral dropped, a single blood-red hole blossoming in his gut.
      Nielson had just enough time to pray for divine forgiveness before Half-Jaw was on him.
      The Sangheili warrior actually drop-kicked the ONI operative to the ground with one hoof. Even through the Recon-variant ODST armor that he'd received as a Section 1 field operative, Nielson could still feel the wind get knocked out of him.
      'Vadum loomed over Nielson, stomping one hoof down on the Captain's chest, energy sword glowing blue in his hand. "Why?" growled the Fleet Master.
      Behind the Sangheili warrior, Nielson could see medics racing Admiral Hood to sick bay. Curiously, they weren't showing as much attention to Harsoth. At least one part of his mission had been a success. Which meant...
      Nielson polarized his visor, and for 'Vadum, that was reason enough to terminate the ONI operative's existence. Two blue points pierced Nielson's chest, and the Captain spasmed.
      In the last moments the Captain had to him, he called up his helmet's mission logs, and had his helmet comm send them through Shadow of Intent's comm relay to ONI HQ on Earth. Admiral Parangosky would know he'd done his job. Then he activated the dead man's trigger of his armor's self-destruct system.
      And even though he'd betrayed some of the best commanders the UNSC had, Nielson knew he could die with a relative degree of peace, knowing he'd carried out his orders.
      Two seconds later, Rtas 'Vadum, veteran of more campaigns than most Sangheili put together, followed suit and left this mortal coil.

***
2240 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
ONI Headquarters, Sydney, Australia

      Ackerson did not like the look on Parangosky's face. When Maragaret got that look men died. Painfully.
      "Well, at least the Fleet Master and Harsoth are dead," he ventured.
      Parangosky's face went from painful-death to hell-on-Earth. "Yes, Colonel, but Hood is still alive."
      "I'm sorry, Ma'am, just trying to look on the bright side."
      "Don't, Ackerson, it doesn't suit you in the slightest."
      "Sorry, Ma'am."
      The comm on Parangosky's buzzed. "Yes."
      The voice on the other end was that of Master Sergeant Nolan Byrne, the commander of the ORION veterans defending ONI HQ. "Ma'am, the Arbiter is here as you requested."
      Parangosky inhaled. "Good. Send him in."
      The doors leading into Parangosky's office hissed open, and the Arbiter entered.
      If the Sangheili leader had any sign of age, he wasn't showing it. He was still clad in the battle armor that all who had held his title wore, and a deactivated energy sword handle was affixed to one leg. His inscrutable eyes sought at Parangosky and Ackerson in turn, seeming to size up the Admiral as an unknown, and relaxing somewhat when they settled on Ackerson. The Covenant warrior clearly did not see him as a threat.
      "Admiral," growled the Arbiter.
      Ackerson blinked as Parangosky had a rare uncertain moment. "Mr...erm...Arbiter..."
      "You will address me as 'the Arbiter'," interrupted the Sangheili leader.
      The Colonel could feel the conversation slipping away from the Admiral. "Yes, Mr...the Arbiter."
      "Why have you called me here?"
      Parangosky's fists clenched. She isn't used to being on the lower rung of a conversation, Ackseron thought. This won't end well.
      "To inform you that ONI has decided to declassify details of one of our black operations due to some if it pertaining to your position as current ruler of the Covenant."
      The Arbiter stiffened, and when an Elite did that, Ackerson knew, the proverbial shit was about to hit the fan. "What are you referring to?" grated out the Sangheili leader.
      "What I'm referring to," replied Parangosky, "are the rebel species in the Covenant who wish to continue their campaign against humanity. Haven't you wondered why you had so little dissension other than them?"
      "We exiled them," said the alien warrior-leader. "Denied them ships, weapons, how---" The Arbiter's face grew more alien than Ackerson had ever seen it, and it was all the more scary for it. "You did this," he grated out. "You have permitted these fanatics to roam the galaxy and kill helpless humans and Covenant who did not ally with them, you---"
      "Are keeping humanity stable and secure," interrupted Ackerson. "Arby, without some grand looming threat, humanity is at its own throat. Giving your fanatics their weapons and ships removed dissent from the Covenant, and gave humanity something to focus its fear on."
      The Arbiter looked incensed at the nickname, but somehow managed to keep his warrior's wrath under control. Instead, he shot a piercing glare at Parangosky. "Is what your subordinate says true, Admiral?"
      "Yes," Parangosky replied unapologetically. "And there's more."
      "Something," growled the Sangheili's premier warrior, "tells me I am not going to like this."
      "No," replied Parangosky. "You will not. Fleet Master 'Vadum is dead."
      The Arbiter stiffened at the news. "How do you know this?"
      ONI's commander indicated the computer screen. "That is a mission report from an Office of Naval Intelligence field operative by the name of Captain Nielson."
      The Arbiter seemed to relax as much as an Elite could. "Ah, so he witnessed his death."
      "No, he caused it," Parangosky bluntly replied.
      Ackerson saw the Arbiter's hand blur for his sword handle almost before it happened. The Army officer snatched at his M6F, but by the time he had the barrel in line with the gap in the Arbiter's helmet, the Sangheili's energy sword had already blazed to life, the points barely a centimeter away from Parangosky's neck.
      "Explain," ordered the Arbiter.
      Something flickered across Parangosky's eyes, something that Ackerson had never seen there before. It was fear.
      Seeing it on Parangosky's face, Ackerson began to feel it himself.
      "It was...necessary," Parangosky managed to grind out; she wasn't much one for apologizing. "We had to do it. It would keep humanity and the Covenant peaceful...it would just be a conflict out on the border worlds. If Hood and 'Vadum managed to annihilate the threat, we'd have chaos again."
      "But you did not reckon on them finding a holy ring," replied the alien warrior-leader.
      "No," replied Parangosky, by this time sweating considerably less. "We did not."
      The Arbiter gave the alien equivalent of a sneer. "And now that your plan has gotten away from you, the solution is to simply kill everyone."
      "No," repeated Parangosky. "The plan is to kill anyone and everyone who knows how to activate the Halos."

***
2250 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Tharidanis System, Installation 06

      Major General Hugo Silva stalked the aisles of Shadow of Intent's drop bay, surveying his men.
      The Helljumper battalion all stood at attention in front of their pods, weapons of choice held at their sides in a parade-ground-perfect position of attention. Not a man spoke, nor through any depolarized visor could Silva discern a twitch, yawn, or other inappropriate gesture. These men were the best.
      As well they should be, the commander of the ODST corps thought to himself. My son was one of the best, and yet he still died on one of these rings. I will see this damned place destroyed.
      Silval turned to face the ODST who had been standing by his side. The man's chestplate bore three chevrons, four rockers, and a star in the middle. "Sergeant Major," said the General. "Put the men at ease."
      The Sergeant Major carried out the command with one of the best parade-ground voices in the UNSC: "Battalion! At-ease!"
      Armor and weaponry clacked as the ODSTs spread their feet the prescribed twelve inches, posting their weapons at a slight angle next to them.
      Silva looked at his Sergeant Major and nodded.
      The Sergeant Major inhaled once more: "Battalion commander---post!"
      An ODST bearing a Lieutenant Colonel's oak leaf on his chest plate snapped his battle rifle to his chest, advanced two steps forward, executed a crisp right-face, and advanced up to the General and his senior enlisted man. "Lieutenant Colonel Brian Henderson, commanding officer 1st ODST Force Reconnaisance Battalion, reporting as ordered Sir."
      Genneral Silva surveyed the man. Through his depolarized visor, a war's worth of lines webbed the Colonel's face; his eyes were those of a man who had seen far too many of his comrades go to their deaths before they should have.
      But for all that the man had still remained with the Helljumpers, still commanded a line battalion...was still every inch a soldier.
      "Colonel, have you received my orders?"
      "Yes, General. I have."
      "Do you understand them?"
      "No, General."
      Silva started---he'd thought he had had a better grasp of Henderson's character than that. "Perhaps you had better elaborate, Colonel."
      "General, your battle plan makes no provisions whatsoever for the evacuation of Berlin's survivors...or for that matter, defense of the Berlin herself." Henderson looked grim. "Call me stupid, Sir, but I think rescuing our comrades should be a priority."
      "This is my battle plan, Colonel, not yours---"
      "General, with all due respect, what has Admiral Hood had to say about this?"
      Silva tensed; he'd heard the gunshots while still inside the troop bay. "Nothing as of now; the Admiral is...indisposed."
      "Then who's commanding Shadow of Intent?"
      The General had just about had it with this presumptious battalion commander. "Some low-ranking split-chin, I presume. And you will execute my battle plan as provided, Colonel...unless you would like to find out firsthand whether or not Private Jenkins's experiences were a fluke occurance?"
      Sweat broke out on the battalion commander's face; he'd no doubt heard about that little incident. "Yes Sir. I understand, Sir."
      "Good. Sergeant Major, you can handle the rest of the drop preparations."
      John Sharpe nodded. "Colonel, if you'll resume your post..."
      Henderson blinked; Silva might as well have slapped him in the face. But his former Sergeant Major was now the General's right hand man, so all Henderson could do was walk back next to his pod, and snap to at ease. As he did so, his eyes tracked Silva, and had the Helljumper General seen them, he would not have liked the look within.
      For his part, Silva was stalking out of the drop bay, intending to see how the only major obstacle to his plans for the ringworld was doing...and hoping that Admiral Hood was merely incapacitated and not dead.

***

      Corporal John Tower had barely enough time for a panicked yell and a burst of fire from his SAW, and then the mass of Lekgolo worms was on him.
      Sergeant Adrian Shephard, crouched down behind the barricade that was the only thing between the ODST, Marine and one seriously pissed off the Hunter, dumped the rest of his M6C/SOCOM's second-to-last magazine into the amorphous orange blob.
      He must have hit a vital spot, for the worms let out a sonorous cry and fell, lifeless.
      That was when the second volley from the surviving Hunter's assault cannon smashed the barricade to pieces.
      The aural buffers of Shephard's helmet kicked in, damping the noise of the explosion. The helmetless Corporal Tower wasn't as lucky; blood was pouring from his left ear.
      "Fall back!" Shephard cried, praying Tower heard him.
      The SAW gunner scrambled to his feet, clutching at his M498 like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Which, for that matter, it was.
      A green glow illuminated the room once more, and the two Marines hurtled around the corner.
      "Shit," panted Tower. "Now what?"
      Shephard clicked his HUD's VISR mode online. The brooding red outline representing the Hunter was standing still, assault cannon fully charged and ready.
      "He's just standing there," the Sergeant growled. "No way in hell I'll be able to penetrate his armor with him on the alert like that...I'll need a distraction."
      Underneath the grime and dried blood, Tower's face had gone pale. "Dammit, Sergeant..."
      "It's our only chance, Tower."
      The Corporal was regular Marine infantry, not ODST, but he certainly didn't lack for courage. "Alright...I'll draw his fire."
      "Thanks, John."
      "You just get those rounds in there!" the machine gunner replied, abnormally irritated. "I survived the damn Covie War, I don't want to die doing some mop-up mission on this damn ring!"
      "Yeah," said Shephard. For a second, the NCO thought he heard the sound of combat boots clattering down the corridor. For a second, he thought Gunny Stacker and the Chief had finally come to the rescue. But only for a second.
      He must have looked forlorn, because Tower gave him a strange look. "You alright, Sergeant?"
      "Yeah...just hearing things...All right we go on three. Ready?"
      Tower yanked the charging lever of his SAW. "Ready as I'll ever be."
      "Right...one...two...THREE! Go go go!"
      The two marines hurled themselves around the corner, Tower's SAW already chattering. Rounds bounced off the Hunter's armor, and the creature gave a derisive laugh just as Shephard realized he'd miscalculated: he'd assumed the Hunter hadn't charged its assault cannon.
      The Hunter in question was considerably more savvy than Shephard had assumed. He'd had his assault cannon charged since its targets had disappeared around the corner.
      A green stream of molten plasma hurtled towards the Marines. Tower, SAW still blazing, let out the most horrific cry Shephard had ever heard as his face melted. The cry stopped abruptly---the stream of death had gotten the Corporal's lungs.
      Shephard was luckier, relatively speaking. He was just cut in half at the waist.
      Doing his best to ignore the pain searing through his body, the Sergeant struggled to bring the barrel of his pistol in line with the Hunter's exposed worms. Summoning all the energy he had left, and then some, he squeezed the trigger, emptying the magazine.
      The rounds bounced off the Hunter's chestplate.
      A sudden feeling of dizziness shot through Shephard's head. He was dimly aware of collapsing completely, pistol slipping from his hands. He was also aware of the fact that he was going to die.
      The Hunter, standing over his hapless victim, suddenly let out a grunt and crouched into its defensive stance. Battle and assault rifle rounds suddenly began to slam into the creature's armor. Shephard dimnly registered the loud crack of an M6D, a strange splash from the Hunter's exposed flesh---and then the hulking walking tank collapsed, narrowly missing Shephard with its shield arm.
      Shephard heard shouting, combat boots clattering, and suddenly Master Gunny Stacker was standing over him. "Shephard? Shephard, is that you?"
      The ODST blinked once at a sensor on his HUD, depolarizing his visor.
      Stacker swore. "Hang tight, Marine, Hocus is standing by. Don't worry. We'll get you medevac'ed faster than you can---"
      The world was spinning for Shephard; a warning was flashing on his HUD; the Master Gunny sounded like he was underwater. Shephard tried to move his lips, tried to apologize for losing his squad, but it was no use.
      That was when everything went black.

***

      "Where to, Chief?" asked Hocus.
      The Master Chief, sitting in the third seat of the Pelican's cockpit, shook his head. "To whoever's in command now."
      Hocus bit her lip; she'd seen Shadow of Intent drop into the ringworld's atmosphere not too long ago, but she didn't know whether or not Hood was still aboard. Warrant Officer Shilds, setting next to the Chief, looked terrified of the armored warrior. "Chief, the Shadow of Intent just showed up not too long ago, but we have men down there still. First Sergeant Anselm and Gunny Stacker's teams."
      The Master Chief twitched; Hocus had once heard that he considered every man left behind a personal failing, but still...
      "No," said the Spartan. "I have a mission."
      "And what kind of mission would that be?" asked Shilds, all but covering his mouth afterwards.
      The super-soldier ponderously swiveled his helmet to face Kilo 023's co-pilot. "I have to get Cortana and her information on the Halo rings to Admiral Hood. And ensure that this ringworld is neutralized."
      Shilds was rather bold today. "Gunny Reynolds and a team of Elites already took care of that," he said, waving his hands dismissively. "All the pulse generators are disabled."
      The Master Chief twitched again. Hocus suppressed a worried gulp; if the Spartan lost control of himself---
      Fortunately, the retrieval team's CO chose that moment to send his request for evac. "Kilo Two-Three, do you copy? Come on, Hocus, talk to me."
      The Pelican pilot thumbed the comm board. "I read you, Gunny. Comin' in now."
      "Hocus...you be advised, there's too many of us to fit on your dropship. Pick up First Sergeant Anselm and his team, and give my boys some supplies. We'll use the Hogs to get back to Berlin."
      Hocus surveyed the remnants of the Warthog squad that had been the facility's first line of defense. Of the ten Hogs, there were about five still operational. "Gunny, how many men do you have? There's only five Hogs driveable."
      "Fifteen, plus a few I'll send along with the First Sergeant."
      "Copy, we'll get them back to Berlin."
      Shilds threw a look at Hocus. "Ma'am, the Chief's mission comes directly from HIGHCOM; doesn't that take priority?"
      "Warrant Officer, Gunny Stacker's men need our help."
      "But the Chief's mission has priority."
      The Master Chief stolidly sat in his seat, staring straight ahead, but Hocus had no doubt he was listening.
      Hocus could see Stacker's team mounting up on the Hogs, and she could hear the clanking that was First Sergeant Anselm and his men clambering into the back of the Pelican. "Shilds..."
      "He's right," grated out the Chief. "My mission does indeed have priority."
      Hocus looked from Shilds's face to the Chief's mirrored visor. "What is this, a mutiny?"
      "No," replied the Chief. "We're doing the right thing."
      "I hope so," said Hocus, turning the Pelican skyward.

***

      Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker watched as the Pelican hurtled into the sky, shading his brow with one gloved hand; his NCO's cap did little to keep the sun out.
      Behind him, Corporal Chips Dubbo experimentally spun the barrels of the LAAG, the whirring noise cutting through the air. "All Hogs are functional Gunny. Dunno if I can say the same for the LAAGs."
      Stacker playfully shoved his fellow Installation 04 veteran off the mount. "Well, we'd better find out soon. We have to haul ass back to Berlin."
      Dubbo clambered into the driver's seat, revving the motor as he did so. "Well, we'd better get going, then."
      Stacker snugged his cap against his head, gave the barrels a spin, and nodded. "Punch it."
      Five motors roared to life in the grassland, and five vehicles hurtled into motion, forging their way towards safety and, with luck, a way off of the ring.

***

      Major General Hugo Silva clambered into his drop pod, revelling in the pneumatic hiss as the hatch slammed shut. The two comm screens on either side of the central glass pane crackled to life with the depolarized helmets of Sergeant Major Sharpe and Colonel Henderson. "Gentlemen," said the General over the command frequency. "The time has once more come. Drop in five. Sergeant Major, would you care to do the honors?"
      There was a shimmer as the visors of his command staff polarized, and then Sharpe's voice crackled over the command frequency: "Troopers! We are lean, green, and very very mean!"
      Silva nodded his approval at the age-old rallying cry; the General enjoyed tradition like that. "Lieutenant Colonel, commence countdown."
      "Yes Sir. Five..."
      Silva settled back into the meager cushioning of his drop pod, smiling. "Well, Agathon, it's time."
      The voice of the dumb AI assigned to the Helljumper battalion crackled through Silva's helmet; he'd had his armor upgraded to support an AI some time ago. "So it is, General. I'd like to point out that your plan will account for a number of friendly KIAs that could be avoided otherwise."
      Silva snorted; he hadn't expected the AI to understand. "Just do what you're told, Agathon, and we'll get through this OK."
      Henderson's voice said "one" into Silva's ear, and the General braced his legs against the walls of the pod, gripped the controls, and readied himself for the drop.
      A series of sharp beeps sounded in Silva's ear, and the HEV shuddered as the explosive bolts connecting the pod to Shadow of Intent went off. The General felt the familiar vertigo that he loved so dearly. "Agathon, please flag the Berlin's crash site on my map."
      "Yes General."
      Silva, observing the map that had suddenly popped up in his HUD, nodded. "Good, now map-flag the ringworld's control room."
      "So you do have some guilt over this..."
      "Just do it," growled the Helljumper General.
      "Done. Your two locations are quite a distance away, General."
      Silva gave a grim nod. "The mission takes priority. Remove the Berlin's data."
      The AI's voice had a distinctly disapproving tone. "Done, General."
      On the comm screen to the right of the HEV's middle pane, Colonel Henderson started. "General, are you seeing this?"
      Silva glanced at the HEV's altitude counter; the ODST battalion was now nine thousand meters of the deck. "Seeing what, Colonel?"
      Sergeant Major Sharpe broke into the conversation. "General, take a look down below."
      Silva did so, and was stunned to see five Warthogs hurtling headlong into the battalion's mile-wide drop zone. "Oh hell."

***

      Pete Stacker was the first to hear the drop pods approaching. Swivelling his LAAG around on his mount, Stacker thought he heard something over the wind howling around him; in fact, it sounded a lot like the familiar sound of an HEV hurtling into the atmosphere. For a second, the Gunny thought he was having a flashback to his previous drops on the first two Halo rings discovered. Then he looked up.
      "Corporal!"
      Dubbo looked back from his position in the driver's seat. "Yeah, what is it Gunny?"
      Stacker just jerked his head skywards.
      "Oh fu--"
      The curse was cut off as the first drop pod slammed into the ground directly in front of Stacker's Hog. Dubbo had barely enough time to yell for his LRV's occupants to hang on before he spun the Hog's wheel hard to the left, almost throwing Stacker off of the LAAG.
      Drop pods smashed into the ground around the Warthogs like so many artillery shells, throwing up dirt and foliage against the vehicles' windscreens, making it practically impossible for the drivers to see.
      As the lead Hog, Stacker's had the worst of it. "Where are they, Gunny?" cried Dubbo.
      "Go left! Now right! Your other right, dammit!"
      A horrific cry sounded from behind Stacker as the last Hog in line took the brunt of an HEV landing on top of it. Stacker, who'd rotated his LAAG to face the source of the sound, watched in horror as the LRV crumpled like a tin can. Something that might have once been a human fell out of the wreckage. "Shit!"
      "Gunny, I need directions!"
      Stacker spun his LAAG around from viewing the demise of the last Hog and looked up. "Break left, now!"
      Dubbo spun the wheel, and the Hog bucked in response. "Gunny, she ain't built for shit like this!"
      "If the Chief could drive his off a damned Halo into the hangar of a fricking frigate, we can navigate through an ODST drop zone!"
      The Corporal let out a cry as he gunned the Hog to make it underneath a landing drop pod. "Gunny, how big are ODST landing zones?"
      "Normally, about a mi---" Stacker was cut off as the third Hog in line was clipped by a descending drop pod. The vehicle was launched into the air, executing a barrel roll that would have better suited a Longsword or Seraph. Stacker saw one of the occupants, the gunner, fly out and struggle to his feet unharmed. That was when a second drop pod came hurtling down, and crushed the man.
      "A mile?!" bawled Dubbo, still valiantly trying to avoid the descending HEVs.
      "Affirmative!" cried Stacker. "We should be coming to the edge---Dubbo, break right!"
      It was too late; the only way the could have avoided the oncoming HEV would be to have not been there in the first place, but Dubbo had another plan in mind. Not even bothering to exhort his occupants to hold on, he hurled the vehicle sideways, the Hog's wheels struggling for traction as it still hurtled towards the area where the HEV would land. The Corporal slammed his feet down on the brake, but Stacker knew it was too late. The Gunny braced himself for an explosion, and was not disappointed.
      Approximately two seconds after said explosion, Stacker realized he was alive.
      The explosion he'd heard had been the HEV they'd narrowly avoided collision with blowing its hatch off. In the pod, battle rifle in one hand, stood a thickset Helljumper, his grim black face visible through his depolarized visor, and the two stars of a Major General shining on his chest.
      Stacker had never thought he'd see the day when he would meet the commander of the ODSTs. "General Silva, Sir!"
      The ODST General looked down at Stacker. "Well, I'll be damned, Gunny Pete Stacker. My son told me a lot about you."
      Stacker blinked; he'd only been an E-7 in Major Antonio Silva's battalion, hadn't even had a billet like First Sergeant or company ops chief. "He---he did, Sir?"
      Silva nodded. "Said you were one of the best NCOs in the battalion and that he wished he had seven more like you."
      "Oh..." It took a lot to fluster Stacker, but this did the job just fine. "Thank you, Sir."
      "It's good to see you, Gunny," continued the General, "I need someone with Halo experience for my mission."
      Stacker looked at Dubbo and the other Marines in the surviving Hogs. "What about my men, Sir?"
      Silva waved his hand dismissively. "I'm sure they'll manage fine."
      The Gunny bit his lip. "At least let me take Dubbo, Sir. He's been on every campaign I have, including the Halos."
      Silva's intense gaze swept across Dubbo. He evidently liked what he saw, because he said, "Fine. But the rest of your boys are on their own."
      Stacker gave an apologetic glance to the next-ranking NCO, a bronzed man wearing battered Marine armor, a cigarette cluthed between his teeth. "Sorry, Staff Sergeant."
      The other revved the motor of his hog. "No problem, Gunny. See you back at the Berlin."
      Something passed over Silva's face at that. "Anything wrong, Sir?"
      The ODST general's visor shimmered as it polarized, cutting off Silva's face from further scrutiny. "No. We'd better get moving. Fall in with my command staff."
      Stacker nodded. "Yes Sir."
      The command staff, marching in the middle of the Helljumper formation to minimize their exposure to hostiles, consisted of a very disgruntled Lieutenant Colonel Henderson, and a slightly less irritated Sergeant Major Sharpe. Stacker, who'd worked with both on previous drops, decided to find out what was wrong.
      "The General's battle plan is what's wrong," growled Henderson when queried. "He's not pulling out the troopers stranded on Berlin. He's so obssessed with destroying this ring that he's leaving them to die."
      Stacker and Dubbo exchanged worried glances. "What about Shadow of Intent?" asked Stacker. "Couldn't we send in a few dropships?"
      Sergeant Major Sharpe looked grimmer than usual. "There was an assassination attempt against the Admiralty, Lord Hood's the only one probably still alive...as of now I don't think Shadow of Intent's in any shape to do anything more than defend herself."
      This time, the two Installation 04 veterans were too busy picking up their jaws to exchange worried looks.
      Stacker, as usual, recovered first. "Damn."
      "Yeah." Sharpe angrily yanked the charging lever of his BR-55.
      By now, the battalion had flowed around the conversing troopers. General Silva, leading from the front as was his custom, turned around. "Hey! What're you waiting for, Colonel? A god-be-damned invitation? Get your ass and those of your command staff in gear!"
      Stacker sighed and began to trudge ahead. "Colonel, what is your mission here?"
      Henderson looked grimmer than Stacker had seen any member of Silva's battalion, even after the Flood had been unleashed. "Our mission here, Gunny?"
      "Master Gunny, actually. But the question still stands."
      The short-bird Colonel gave a weary smile. "Our mission here is simple Gunny, and precludes rescuing those stranded on Berlin.
      Chips Dubbo, who'd heretofore kept quiet, finally could no longer shut up. "But what? What is your mission?"
      Sharpe and Henderson exchanged sad smiles. "Our mission," the Sergeant Major began, "is to destroy this ring, at all costs."

Attack on Installation 06, part 24
Date: 16 July 2009, 11:46 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 23
2330 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
UNSC HIGHCOM headquarters, Sydney, Australia

      Walking into the meeting room for the UNSC's HIGHCOM always made Colonel James Ackerson nervous.
      Walking into it with Admiral Parangosky on the eve of her long-planned coup d'etat made him feel like there was a dogfight going on his stomach.
      I have to do this, he thought to himself. I have to. If I don't, the UNSC will collapse into anarchy, humanity will be easy pickings for the Covenant...
      The thin justifications running through his head did little to improve Ackerson's conviction.
      In Admiral Hood's absence, Parangosky had been made interim Chairwoman of the UNSC, but Parangosky had no intention of keeping that modifier to her title. So far as Ackerson could understand the inscrutable chief of ONI, Parangosky felt that she would do a better job of protecting the UNSC than Lord Hood.
      Or, the Colonel reflected to himself, she's finally found a way to achieve ambitions she's kept secret from all of us.
      Parangosky paused in front of the door to the HIGHCOM's conference room, inhaled once, and pushed the door open with all the bravado her ancient-looking frame could muster. Ackerson followed, one hand cautiously resting on the butt of his pistol.
      The remaining members of HIGHCOM, having already received Parangosky's memo declaring her to be Chairwoman, wore various expressions of shock, awe, and on one or two, outrage.
      The Arbiter, seated at the far end of the table, looked almost as angry as he had when Parangosky had revealed to him the circumstances of Half-Jaw's death, if not more so. His eyes were lit up with pure hatred, and his mandibles gnashed audibly.
      Admiral Tim "MAC Gun" McDonald, Chief of Naval Operations, bore a sad look on his round face, as if he'd been expecting this day to come for some time now.
      General of the Army Daniel Pershing bore a look of pure hatred on his face for Parangosky, but when he saw Ackerson enter the room, a hint of betrayal crossed over it.
      No, thought Ackerson. More than a hint...I was once the poor man's protégé before I went into ONI...
      Last but not least was Nicolaus Strauss, Commandant of the UNSC Marine Corps, who'd finally received his second two stars after the end of the war. Strauss bore an expression grimmer than it had been during the human-Covenant War; no doubt he had some inkling of the Orwellian horrors lurking in the back of Parangosky's mind.
      Parangosky came to a halt at the end of the table, and surveyed her new subordinates. "Gentle...beings, I presume you've read the memo?"
      "Damn right we have, Marge!" Pershing spat. "And we're not going to stand for it!"
      Affecting an aura of unconcerned politeness, Parangosky merely asked, "Oh, really?"
      The man descended from one of the former USA's two six-star generals would not back down that easily. "Yes. Really."
      Parangosky simply shot Ackerson a look. The Colonel nodded.
      Ackerson respected Pershing, but the choice was no choice at all. In a flash, he drew his pistol, brought the barrel in line with Pershing, and dumped three rounds into the General.
      Red holes blossomed in Pershing's forehead and chest, and the General pitched face-first onto the conference table. The other members of HIGHCOM recoiled, all except for the Arbiter, whose eyes narrowed as he re-evaluated Ackerson.
      Thinking of me as a threat now, split-chin? About damn time.
      Admiral Parangosky surveyed the room's living occupants. "Do any of you have any objections?"
      There was a good deal of glancing as the others selected a spokesman. Eventually, Nicolaus Strauss inhaled. "No. We're behind you one hundred percent...ma'am."
      "Good," replied Parangosky. "I presume no one has been able to find any legal precedent for me not to do this?"
      All eyes turned to Admiral McDonald, who held the reputation of the HIGHCOM's legal expert. The CNO's eyes flicked around the room and settled on Ackerson's re-holstered M6F. "No ma'am. Nothing."
      "I have a question," growled the Arbiter. "What will be done about Admiral Hood?"
      Ackerson shot a questioning glance at Parangosky; that had been the one aspect of the plan she hadn't elaborated on.
      "That," replied Parangosky, "remains to be seen."

***

      "Kilo 023 to Shadow of Intent, requesting permission to land, over."
      Through the cockpit canopy of her Pelican dropship, Hocus could see the Assault Carrier's cloud of Seraphs coalesce into formation like the bugs they were named for and approach Kilo 023.
      The Master Chief and Warrant Officer Daniel Shilds were in the rear two seats; the Warrant Officer looked rather nervous, the Chief just looked like the Chief. "Hope the split-chins don't forget the treaty..." Shilds murmered.
      A grim-sounding voice with the unsual inflections of a Sangheili speaking English crackled over the comm. "Kilo 023, this is Ship Master 'Sraom. Permission granted to land in bay three-twenty-seven, over."
      Listening to the transmision, Shilds frowned. "Ship Master? What happened to Fleet Master 'Vadum?"
      A cross between a death rattle and a cry sounded from the other end of the comm. "Dead," the Ship Master managed to grate out. "Killed by one of your intelligence agents."
      Hocus had known of only ONI operative assigned to the Assault Carrier, and could not believe Captain Nielson would do such a thing. "Captain Nielson killed the Fleet Master?"
      "Along with one of your Admirals; the other is in sick bay."
      A shocked inhalation sounded in Kilo 023's cockpit. Hocus looked at Shilds, who shook his head, then, disbelievingly, at the Chief. The Spartan was actually trembling.
      Then he reached for the comm board; his voice containing far more of a tremor than Hocus felt comfortable hearing in the allegedly iron-tough warrior. "Do you know which one was killed?"
      'Sraom growled. "No I do not; you humans all look similar to me, especially uniformed ones. However, rumors indicate that one Admiral Harsoth has been killed, and your Lord merely gut-shot."
      The Chief nodded, even though the Sangheili could not see. "Thank you."
      "Yes, yes," replied the Ship Master. "Now will you land, or shall you be continuing to tie up approach vectors my Seraphs could be using?"
      "Sorry," replied Hocus. "We're on our way."

***

      He was floating in a dream state, and he knew what that meant. As usual, the parade of comrades long since deceased had started.
      Lieutenant-Commander Hicks, the commander of the corvette One for the Money, his first posting as Ensign, whose last words had promoted him two grades at once and given him command of the corvette. Master Chief Gunner's Mate Loryt, the skinny little deck chief of the Rodger Young, who'd sacrificed his life to defend the dreamer from Innie boarders. Gunner's Mate First Class Sanderson, Captain Fortiori...the parade went on.
      They talked to him, of course. Some asked how he could've let them die. Some, particularly Hicks and Loryt, complimented him, telling him that he'd made them proud. Some just gave him a mournful look and said nothing.
      The dreamer was soon aware of a new voice, one that didn't belong to any of his shipmates long gone. It was an iron-hard voice, rasping, slightly tinny-sounding, as if it was coming through a speaker. "Sir? Mission accomplished, Sir."
      He knew who it was.
      His dead comrades had heard the voice, too. "He needs you, son," said Hicks.
      "I don't know if I can make it..."
      Master Chief Loryt shot a scornful look at the dreamer. "I didn't throw myself on that grenade so you could quit on me."
      "But..."
      "But nothing, Son," said Hicks. "He needs you."
      The dreamer stiffened. "Yes Sir."
      Hicks' creased face broke into a grin. "Good. Your duty is to the living, son. Not to the dead."
      Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood nodded once more, and the figures of his deceased comrades vanished. Above him stood a giant clad in battered green MJOLNIR armor.
      "Sir, Master Chief Petty Officer Spartan One-One-Seven reporting as ordered."
      Hood's face broke into a smile for the first time in far too long. "Good to see you, son. Talk to me."

***

      "General Silva, this is Recon One. The control room is half a klick ahead of our current position."
      Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, surveying the building that housed the control room with the rest of his four-man recon team, could already see the objective, so huge was the facility. On the first Halo ring discovered, Fireteam Zulu hadn't accompanied the Chief all the way to the control center, but Stacker had read the reports: it was a tall, ziggurat-like structure, accessible through a series of switchback ramps.
      Apparently, the builders of this ring hadn't gotten the memo. The facility was certainly tall, but it resembled a modern-day skyscraper more than a pyramid. Shade turrets, both the open-cockpit variant and the new ball-turret model, protruded from the facility's windows. There were no Grunts or Jackals to be seen standing sentry. Instead, a whopping twenty Hunters walked a brooding patrol, overseen by no less than six Major Domo Elites, and an unprecendented three Field Masters.
      "Do you have eyes-on?" came the General's reply.
      "Affirmative," Stacker replied, adjusting the gain on his borrowed sniper rifle's scope. "Looks like the Covies beat us to it."
      "Number and type?" came the rather irate voice of Colonel Henderson.
      Stacker gave them.
      For a few seconds, there was no reply. Then, Sergeant Major Sharpe's southern twang crackled through: "Gunny, are you sure your scope's aimed at the control room and not the Covie base camp?"
      Corporal Dubbo, lying prone next to Stacker, eyes pressed to his spotter's binoculars, gave a wry chuckle. "I'm thinkin' the two are one and the same, Gunny."
      Stacker nodded his agreement. "Negative, Sergeant Major, this is definitely the control room, but I'm thinkin' the Covies have adapted the place for their own purposes."
      "Roger," came the General's reply. "Stand by, Recon One. Out."
      Dubbo yanked his eyes away from the binoculars and gave Stacker a curious look. "Thinkin' what I'm thinkin', Gunny?"
      "I doubt it," replied Stacker, still observing the Covenant through the barrel of his scope. "Your thoughts are typically too far from what the rest of us call "normality"."
      This time Stacker's fellow Installation 04 veteran shot him an amused glance. "Gunny, you want to talk normality? You're gettin' on forty by now, but you're still fightin' on the front line of a war against some of the most horrific aliens humanity's ever seen, despite numerous offers of an honorable discharge or a nice, safe, cushy, staff position. Any normal person would've taken one of those."
      Now Stacker removed his gaze from the sniper rifle's scope. "Dubbo, can you guess my MOS from when I graduated boot camp?"
      "Sure, Gunny. Oh-three-hundred, infantry."
      "Right. Not some rear-echelon pogue. Infantry."
      Dubbo considered it for all of a nanosecond. "Sorry, Gunny."
      "No offense taken," Stacker replied. "What's the range on that gold bastard giving the orders?"
      "There's one in charge?"
      "Yeah, you can tell by all the heads angled his way."
      Dubbo adjusted his spotter's scope, and sang out the range. "Watch the wind, Gunny, it's starting to pick up."
      "Roger. Agathon?"
      The voice of the AI assigned to the ODST battalion crackled over the comm. "Yes, Master Gunnery Sergeant?"
      "Let General Silva know that I'm targeting the leader of the Covie defenders," said Stacker, clicking in windage on his sniper rifle's scope. "And that he can attack when ready."
      "Understood," came the grim reply, which was completely in-character for the AI. "Agathon out."

***

      "So you have the data on the Flood and the Halos? Everything Cortana and you could scrounge up from Halo and the Ark?"
      The Master Chief nodded. "Yes, Admiral."
      For the first time in far too long, Terrence Hood relaxed. "Job well done, Chief. Go get yourself some rest."
      Hood couldn't be sure, but the Chief looked like he'd given a confused blink behind that inscrutable mirrored gold visor. "It's...it's been a while since I've had a chance to do that, Sir."
      "I understand, Chief. Why don't you---"
      The rare emotional moment was interrupted as a thickly built human naval NCO bearing the stripes of a Senior Chief Petty Officer skidded into the room. The man threw a salute, and glumly recited, "Lord Hood, Senior Chief Grath reporting."
      "Something the matter, Chief? You look like you've seen a ghost."
      "Sir...you...you have to get to the bridge."
      "Any particular reason why, son?"
      The naval NCO looked even more pained than before. "It's Admiral Parangosky, Sir. She'd like you to know that you're out, and she's in."
      "What?"
      "You and the Chief had best get to the bridge, Sir. She's on the vidcomm for you."
      Hood shot the Chief a look. "I think we might want to take a look at this, Chief."
      The Spartan nodded.
      Hood levered himself out of the hospital bed. "Alright, son," he said to the Senior Chief. "Lead the way."

***

      "He's not going to buy it," said Ackerson.
      Parangosky, sitting in front of the vidcomm in her office, shot a curious look at him. "He'll have to. I have the legal precedent."
      The Colonel shook his head. For someone who relied so much on skullduggery, Parangosky was surprisingly naive when it came to the frontline soldier's adherence to rules and regs. "Admiral, he's not going to agree, to him it won't seem right---"
      Ackerson was interrupted as a voice emanated from the vidcomm screen. "Well, Margaret?"
      Parangosky inhaled slowly. "Terrence. Good to see you, although you look a good deal worse for the wear."
      Unable to see the screen, Ackerson raised his eyebrows at Parangosky. The Admiral clicked on the screen's projector, showing Hood's face to Ackerson. The ex-Chairman of the UNSC did not look pleased.
      "No thanks to you, Margaret," Hood replied. "Did you have to use poor Jonathan? I taught him, Margaret, he was one of my favorite pupils, and you send him on a mission to assassinate me? The depths that to which you will sink in order to destroy a rival are unimaginable..."
      "Spare me, Terrence," snarled Parangosky. "I take it you've by now received a copy of my memorandum?"
      Hood actaully chuckled. In Ackerson's experience, doing such a thing in front of Admiral Parangosky was liable to put a bullet through your brain. "Of course I have. You really think I'm going to let you get away with it?"
      "You don't have a choice," growled Parangosky. "As we speak, UNSC forces are acknowledging the change of command. Why, I believe your old comrades Fleet Admiral Harper and Colonel Easley are not attempting to have it overturned..."
      It was like watching a verbal clash of titans; Ackerson was so transfixed he couldn't muster the energy to make a smartass remark.
      "Bullshit," Hood bluntly replied. "Ted would never go along with you, and neither will I."
      Parangosky's face set. "I take it the Master Chief is with you?"
      "Yes."
      "Put him on."
      Hood nodded, and moved away from the comm's pickup. The Master Chief's inscrutable helmet soon moved into the cam's field. "Ma'am, Master Chief Petty Officer---"
      "Yes, yes, I know who you are," interrupted Parangosky. "Do you know what UNSC regulation two-zero-six-zero-six states?"
      "Yes Ma'am, that any UNSC officer---"
      "I know what it says," spat the newly instated chairwoman. "Admiral Hood, however, seems not to, because he is violating it."
      Ackerson had no idea what the reg meant, but judging by how the Chief stiffened, he certainly did.
      Parangosky's eyes narrowed, and a small, vaguely evil smile, crept across her face. "Then enforce that regulation, Master Chief."
      The Chief twitched, then---
      "Yes, Ma---"
      The Chief's acknowledgement was interrupted by the somewhat unsual occurence of the Spartan collapsing. A loud clang was heard on the other end of the comm.
      Ackerson roused himself from his trance. "What the fuck?"
      Hood's face reappeared on the comm, looking pleasantly surprised. "Cortana, I take it we have you to thank for this?"
      A smooth female voice came from off-cam: "That's right, Admiral. What you do is up to you, but I'm not going to let him kill you."
      "Excuse me," interrupted Ackerson, "but how the hell did you manage to take down the Chief?"
      The unseen woman gave a distinct impression of having a sly smile. "I'm the AI for his Mjolnir armor; all I needed to do was inject him with an electrify the circuits in his armor's gel layer. He'll be unconcious for some time, though."
      Hood smiled. "Alright, Cortana, good work." The Fleet Admiral turned to face the cam. "Margaret, I know better than to keep the Chief imprisoned against his will; the results tend to be fairly unpleasant. Expect a Longsword piloted by Cortana to show up at Earth sometime soon."
      "Terrence---"
      Hood's face abruptly hardened. "Margaret, I've tried to work with you, tried to contain your excesses for far too long. We have reached an impasse here, and believe me, we will not be seeing each other again." Hood turned to someone offscreen. "Senior Chief Grath? Send the message."
      "Terrence," said Parangosky, her voice dangerously calm, "what are you doing?"
      "Sending a message to the UNSC. The real UNSC, Margaret, not your thugs."
      "Saying what?"
      "I think you can guess. I've lingered for too long, in any event. Hood out."
      The comm screen went blank.
      Parangosky was still for at least a minute, unblinking, unmoving. Ackerson knew this was going to be a bad one. Finally, she spoke. "James."
      "Yes Ma'am?"
      "Send a message to all UNSC forces: Terrence Hood's command is to be located and terminated immediately. Any and all ships that join him are to be considered traitors and likewise eliminated. Any and all ships that locate him and do not act upon it---"
      "I can guess the rest."

Attack On Installation 06: Finale
Date: 6 August 2009, 9:40 pm

Attack on Installation 06
Chapter 24
2400 Hours, July 09, 2553 (Military Calendar)
Installation 06, Tharidanis system

      The ground around Installation 06's control room was invisible.
      This was not due to some magical Forerunner technology, but rather due to the fact that every single square inch of ground in a half-kilometer radius was covered by a dead body, Covenant or otherwise. And if not from bodies, from mechanical debris, courtesy of Shade turrets, Hunter armor, and the bizarre purple spiked comm boxes that had been in Covenant service since Installation 04.
      General Hugo Silva stood in front of the door to the control room, surveyed the spot where a little more than half his battalion had lost their lives, and laughed.
      It wasn't a pleasant sound, high-pitched and with more than a touch of madness to it.
      Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, standing with fellow ODST Lieutenant Colonel Brian Henderson and Installation 04 veteran Corporal Chips Dubbo, was scared.
      "Colonel, he's lost it," he whispered.
      Henderson, eyes inscrutable behind his helmet's polarized visor, nodded. "Yes, I think he has. But he's also just sane enough to...well, frankly, I'm not sure if he's sane to begin with."
      Chips Dubbo, grimly silent until now, suddenly started. "Hey, Colonel, where's the Sergeant Major?"
      Henderson mutely jerked his thumb over his shoulder at a torso missing its appendages and head. The name emblazoned on the chestplate read "Sharpe".
      "Oh," said Dubbo.
      Meanwhile, out on the battlefield, General Silva's maniacal laughter had ceased. The commander of the ODST corps advanced on his command group. "Colonel, report."
      Henderson gulped. "The entire facility is secure, Sir, but we can't operate the mechanisms in the control room. If this ring has a self-destruct system, there's no way we'll be able to activate it from here."
      Silva's visor was depolarized; behind it, his eyes had a glint that Stacker didn't like. "You mean to tell me I sacrificed more than half my battalion for nothing?"
      Henderson stiffened. "They were my men too...Sir."
      Silva laughed. It was even more unpleasant than when he had been standing knee deep in corpses. "Of course they were! But they were under my command. So. We must find another way to destroy this damned place."
      Henderson's visor flashed to transparency. His eyes showed more fear than Stacker had ever seen on a Helljumper's face. "Sir, isn't our job to save the UNSC forces left on this ring?"
      The General's laughter abruptly ceased. "I don't give a damn what HIGHCOM says, Colonel, this ring must be destroyed."
      "General, what about our duty to our comrades?"
      Silva shook his head like a horse bothered by flies. "Our comrades-in-arms will be best served by our destroying of this ring."
      "But...General, what about the men still stranded on this ring?"
      "They knew the risks assaulting this facility."
      In a flash, Henderson yanked his pistol from his holster, and shoved it against the General's visor. "General Hugo Silva, I am relieving you of command, as per---"
      The Lieutenant Colonel never got a chance to finish his sentence. The General extended the spring-loaded knife in his knuckleplate---there was no SHINK noise, as the movies were fond of portraying---and shoved it into the bodysuit covering the Colonel's throat.
      "So you too, see fit to dishonor my son's memory," said the General, kneeling as Henderson fell to the ground, gurgling as his uniform darkened with blood. The battalion commander was mouthing something. Somehow, Silva understood.
      "Why?" mocked Silva, chuckling. "My son's memory demands that I destroy this place, and I shall..."
      The life had by now gone out of Henderson's eyes. Stacker and Dubbo exchanged worried glances.
      Silva turned to look at the two troopers. "...No matter who gets in my way."

***

      On the bridge of Shadow of Intent, Fleet Admiral Sir Terrence Hood appraised his situation.
      It wasn't good, but then, declaring a rebellion against a legally established government tends to put people in nasty situations.
      "So let me see if I understand you correctly," Hood said to the seniormost naval NCO on board the assault carrier. "Of the commands we sent our transmission two, precisely two have decided to assist us?"
      Senior Chief Petty Officer Donald Grath, round face looking miserable as always, gave a glum nod. "Yes, Lord Hood. Fleet Admiral Theodore Harper and the Terran Home Guard---"
      "Oh, Margaret is not going to like that..."
      "And Colonel Marcus Easley and Rapid Response Task Force 21."
      Hood sighed. "I probably should've expected this."
      Senior Chief Grath blinked. "Sir?"
      "I spent too much time doing my job and not enough playing politics...Ted's an old buddy of mine from my first command, and I've known Marcus since Luna."
      "So you're saying only your friends have decided to join us, Sir?"
      "That's correct. Did you send the coordinates?"
      "Yes Sir; out in the Trojan Asteroids?"
      Hood nodded.
      "Sir, isn't it dangerous being that close to Earth?"
      The Fleet Admiral shook his head. "I doubt Margaret expects us to regroup that close to Earth."
      "If you say so, Sir."
      The Elite manning the communication station swivelled to face Hood. "Lord Hood! Transmission from the ODSTs!"
      "Good. Put General Silva on the horn."
      Bathed in the blue glow of his screen, the Elite's face looked grim. "Sir, it is Gunnery Sergeant Stacker."
      "Is it, now."
      "Yes Sir...he says he has news."
      Terrence Hood had worked with Stacker for some years now, and 'news' for Pete tended to be something big. And not necessarily in a good way.
      "Put him through," said Hood.

***

      The bridge of Berlin, normally a raucous hive of activity owing to its use as the nerve center for the stranded humans, was dead silent. This probably had something to do with General Silva's declaration.
      Lieutenant Freyyr, Berlin's paunchy, bald commander, blinked incredulously. "You...you can't be serious. You're going to destroy this cruiser? How the hell will we leave this ring; how the hell will we even survive if you blow her to pieces?!"
      "I have my orders," replied General Silva, arms folded over his chesplate. "I'm to neutralize this ring by any means necessary, at any cost."
      "Like shit you do!" spat the naval Lieutenant. "You're a goddam General, you can modify your orders as you see fit!"
      Silva stiffened. "You really believe that?"
      "Of course I do!" barked Freyyr. "Goddammit, General, there has to be another way to destroy this place that won't ruin me and my crew!"
      The commander of the ODSTs shook his head. "I'm doing what must be done."
      "But what about my men? What about your men? This isn't one of the old Halcyon-class, you make this baby go nuclear, you won't have any time to get out!" cried Freyyr.
      Silva cocked his head, like a dog pondering a curious but ultimately inconsequential bit of information. "I have my orders. Colonel Henderson!"
      Stacker, standing at Silva's side, coughed.
      "Ah, yes, that's right," said the General in a light tone. "Very well then. Pete?"
      The Gunny stiffened. "Yes Sir?"
      "Get an engineering team down to the ship's reactor core; override the safeties. On the double, Master Gunnery Sergeant."
      Stacker pressed one hand to his comm headset, ensuring the transmit button was held down, and prayed Hood had heard everything. "Roger, Sir." He turned around to face his fellow Installation 04 veteran. "Dubbo! Get a team together; head down to the engine core, on the double!"
      The Chi Ceti IV-born Corporal blinked. "Gunny...are we really---"
      "On the double, Corporal!"
      Whatever non-verbal cue Stacker had given must have worked; Dubbo relaxed slightly. "Roger, Gunny."

***

      "Turn that off," Hood said to the comms Elite.
      As the Sangheili warrior complied, he turned to face Senior Chief Grath. The naval NCO looked grimmer than usual. "What now, Sir?"
      Hood inhaled slowly. "We move. Get Hocus, have her get her squadron down there and start evac'ing the Berlin's survivors before Silva's plan is enacted."
      "Sir, it seems like Stacker's going along with it. Can we be sure that he won't actually destroy the Berlin?"
      By now, the Admiral had stood up, and was motioning for his new aide to accompany him to the pelican crews' ready room. "Yes, Chief, we can," he said as they entered the bustling corridor leading off of Shadow of Intent's bridge.
      "What makes you say that?" panted Grath, trying to keep up with Lord Hood's fast clip and avoiding the multiple Elite and human crewers bustling up and down the corridors at the same time.
      "Pete barely escaped the first Halo with the skin of his teeth after a similar situation, Senior Chief," replied Hood, shouldering his way past the most corpulent Elite he'd even seen, no doubt the ship's cook. "I have no doubt he would like to avoid a similar situation."
      "I'll take your word for it," replied Grath, making the turn into the considerably less crowded pilot's country with an almost palpable air of relief.
      Hood smiled. "You don't have a choice in the matter, Chief, so I'm happy you concur," came the sardonic response.
      By now, they were in front of the ready room for the Pelican crews, a slapdash affair filled with several rows of seats optimized for humans in front of a podium. Two large plasma screens were behind the podum, and pilots rigs and squadron posters hung on the walls. Spitballs, wads of tape, and food wrappers covered the floors. The podium was currently occupied by the petite blond figure of Hocus, the trim figure of Warrant Officer Shilds silohuetted against the control board for the display screens. The rest of the Pelican squadron---the 69th "Drillers" according to the patches on their flightsuits---were the audience, paying various degrees of attention, ranging from the obviously asleep, to idiot-savant levels of attentiveness.
      Grath, a veteran of the lower decks, took it all in stride. Hood, on other other hand, hadn't been out of flag country in quite some time, and was quite appalled. "Chief, is this really how they normally keep this place?"
      The naval NCO chuckled. Officers, he thought to himself. I'd forgotten.
      "Yes, Admiral," he said aloud. "They normally don't have the Chairman of the UNSC dropping in on them for a chat."
      Hood had to chuckle at that. "Point taken. Well. Shall we interrupt their cozy little briefing, Chief?"
      "Admirals first," was the deadpan reply.
      Hood opened the door, and stood calmly in the back of the room for a full thirty seconds before Warrant Officer Shilds spotted him, executing a beautiful double take. Hocus, so engrossed in her briefing, didn't notice.
      "Umm...ma'am..." was all Shilds meekly ventured.
      The dropship pilot and squadron leader shot him a look of mild irritation; her co-pilot simply cocked his head in Hood's direction.
      Hocus's jaw dropped open enough to swallow her pilot's helmet, but she recovered fast enough to bark out, "Attention! Admiral on the deck!"
      The pilots and copilots of the 69th shot to bewildered attention, wondering if their squadron leader was having a little joke at their expense. That was when Hood chose to advance to the front of the room. "As you were," said the Admiral.
      "Something I can do for you, Sir?" asked Hocus, looking bewildered.
      "Come out in the corridor for a second, Lieutenant," said Hood. "We need to discuss your next mission."
      Hocus hesitated for a second, but nodded. "Yes Sir," she said, turning to face her pilots. "Drillers! The Admiral needs me for a second. Try not to let Ladykiller over there destroy the place." The pilot in question laughed, and Hocus nodded to the Admiral.
      The three---Warrant Officer Shilds, ever the good co-pilot, had joined them---moved into the hallway where Senior Chief Grath was waiting.
      "I'll make this brief," said Hood. "General Silva wants to destroy the ring by way of the Berlin's fusion reactor, and he's not concerned about collateral damage."
      "And you want us to evac as many people as possible?" asked Hocus.
      "That's right," replied the Admiral. "Can you do it?"
      "We're going to have to reckon with Silva's loyalists."
      "Pete Stacker is now the unofficial second-in-command of the battalion," replied Hood. "There will be people on our side."
      Hocus was still leery. "Sir, even so, a little less than a battalion's worth of ODSTs is no small adversary."
      "LT, we have to do it," broke in Shilds. "We owe it to Stacker at the very least."
      Hood and Grath shot the Warrant Officer an appraising look. The man stared back with a studiously blank expression.
      Hocus bit her lip. "All right. I'll start drawing up op orders---"
      "No," interrupted Hood. "You launch now. I don't know how close Silva is to causing that wildcat explosion, and I'm not eager to find out. Get your birds in the air on the double. Am I understood, Lieutenant?"
      Hocus and Shilds stiffened to attention and saluted. "Sir!" they chorused. "Yes Sir!"

***

      "Who's on our side?" growled Stacker.
      Dubbo gestured at the company's worth of ODST troopers in the engineering section, not destablizing the reactor as Silva had ordered, but setting up defensive positions instead.
      "Just Alpha Company?" was the incredulous response.
      The Corporal nodded. "And not even all of them. Their Captain, officers, and senior enlisted staff refused to go along with it; the shortfall's been made up by the rest of the battalion's enlisted personnel."
      "Jesus," muttered Stacker. "Whatever happened to all the good officers? Lieutenant McKay would never have gone along with something like this..."
      "Melissa..." Dubbo mocked.
      Stacker looked at Dubbo. "Not funny, Corporal. We could've had something if she hadn't gone to Luna."
      "Come on, Gunny, you know as well as I do talent like that would've been wasted as an enlisted man."
      "I know," replied Stacker, "but that doesn't make it any less annoying for me."
      The comm headset slung over Stacker's scarred brow crackled to life. "Gunny, report."
      It was Silva.
      "Working on it, Sir, there's quite a few safeguards for my engineers to get through..."
      "As quick as you can, Gunnery Sergeant."
      "Yes Sir."
      Dubbo, directing the setup of the few SAW gunners who'd sided with Stacker, shot a glance at the Gunny. "We won't be able to hold off Silva forever,"
      "I know," replied Stacker, looking grimmer than he had since Installation 04. "We just have to hold out long enough."

***

      Hocus slid into the pilot's seat of her Pelican, smiling as she felt the dropship's engines raor to life. Warrant Officer Shilds, as usual, was in his seat in the back, fingers dancing across the comm and sensor boards. "We're in the green, LT."
      "Roger," replied Hocus, clicking the comm over to the squadron frequency. "Alright, Drillers, you've been briefed on your mission---"
      "Hocus?" came the voice of one of the other Pelican pilots.
      "Yes, Drifter, what is it?"
      "Are we authorized weapons-free if Silva tries to shoot us down?"
      Hocus was keenly aware of Marine Sergeant Nomuri, her Pelican's crew chief and operator of the rear-mounted AIE-468 heavy machine gun, who hadn't really done much during the whole campaign, and frankly rather resented it, listening in from the troop bay. "Well, Lieutenant?" he called up. "What is it?"
      The Pelican squadron leader hesitated...but the answer was fairly obvious. "Only if we're fired upon."
      A new voice cut into the channel: Shadow of Intent's Elite landing signals officer. "69th Pelican squadron, cleared for hard drop."
      "Roger, LSO," replied Hocus. "Standing by."
      "Drop in five---"
      From his spot on the machine gun in the troop bay, Sergeant Nomuri let out a war whoop. "We're on an express elevator---"
      Shilds shut the door connecting the cockpit to the troop bay.
      "Two...one...mark."
      The clamps holding the Pelican in the Assault Carrier's starboard hanger bay were relased, and with a dull clang, the dropship simply plummeted out of the hangar bay, hurtling into the ring's atmosphere.
      "Shilds," growled Hocus, "gimme more power to the maneuvering thrusters if you want us to make it through this drop!"
      "Roger LT," replied the other, adjusting the power allocation.
      They were through the ring's atmosphere by now, and the plateau that had been the Berlin's home for some time now was visible through the cockpit canopy, along with the cruiser herself.
      "Hocus," came the voice of Drifter again, "we have eyes on the cruiser."
      "Roger," replied Hocus, "hailing now. Shilds, get---"
      "Channel open now LT."
      "Berlin, this is Kilo 023 and the 69th Pelican dropship squadron. We're here to evac all personnel to the Shadow of Intent, over."
      The voice that crackled back was not that of Lieutenant Freyyr's; it was a hard, rough voice that rather grated on Hocus's ears. "This is General Hugo Silva. There's no need for that, Kilo 023, have your dropships turn back."
      "Sorry, General, but my orders come from Lord Hood."
      "Kilo 023, I cannot permit your ships to land."
      Berlin's landing bay was now looming through the cockpit canopy, Hocus cast a worried glance at Shilds, then realized her mirrored visor would somewhat nullify the import. "Shilds, tell Nomuri to get the bay open."
      "Yes Ma'am."

***

      On Berlin's bridge, General Silva tapped the comm angrily. "Kilo 023, this is your last warning, if you land---"
      Static was his only reply, then---
      "Any and all crewmen and troops on the Berlin, this is Lieutenant Sara Anderson of the 69th Pelican Squadron. We are here to get you off this ring. Head for the primary hangar bay and board a Pelican. Time is of the essence, take only your essentials. Out."
      Silva stood stock-still for a few seconds. Then, swearing, the General turned to face one of his company commanders. "Captain, get the battalion down there and block off access to those dropships!"
      The man, the name "Knaun" stencilled on his chestplate, cocked his head. "Sir, shouldn't we evacuate the crew if we're going to make this ship go nuclear?"
      "Captain Knaun, I will not be defied in so blatant a fashion. Do not let anyone on those dropships!"
      The ODST officer was practically shaking in his boots. "Sir, yes Sir!"

***

      "LT," came the voice of Sergeant Nomuri. "We got a problem!"
      Hocus, eyes glued to Kilo 023's sensors, frowned. "What sort of problem?"
      "An ODST sort: they're cordoning off the troop bay!"
      "What?"
      Hocus and Shilds scrambled aft to the troop bay. Indeed, a company of ODSTs, grim black armor making for a stark contrast with the hangar's burnished steel, had set up a perimeter around the dropships.
      "They're carrying M7 SMGs," Shilds noted. "Crap against Covies but great for crowd control...this is gonna be trouble, LT."
      "Look!" cried Nomuri. "Here come our would-be passengers."
      The ODSTs stood fast as the Berlin's crew and Marine compliment started to pour into the hangar bay, muttering angrily as they found their way blocked by the Helljumpers.
      "Hey!" Hocus shouted at the thick black line. "Let 'em through! What the hell do you bastards have to gain by keeping them on here?"
      The ODST captain apparently heard, for he issued a series of hand signals, and two platoons of the shock troopers about-faced inwards, pointing their SMGs at the Pelicans and their waiting crews.
      Hocus bit her lip. "Nomuri, get on the HMG. For that matter---" She shut up for a second as she clicked on her helmet comm. "All crews, get your crew chiefs on their HMGs. We're not gonna go down without a fight."
      All around the hangar, whirring sounded as the dropships spun up their bay-mounted machine guns. The ODSTs began to shift nervously, some playing with the controls on their SMGs.
      "Not good," said Hocus. "Definitely not good."

***

      "Stacker, report!"
      "Workin' on it, Sir, these bastards were not messing around with their safeguards."
      "Well hurry it up!" barked the General. "We don't have time; these damn Pelican jocks are going to ruin everything!"
      There was a click and the line went dead.
      Dubbo, crouched behind a partition, waiting for the attack that would come when Silva realized that the team wasn't trying to overload the reactor, shot a look at Stacker. "I think our ride just showed up."
      "Agreed," replied Stacker, slamming a magazine into his battle rifle. "But how're we going to defend this place if Silva shows up?"
      "Gunny, if Hocus evacs everyone, there won't be anyone left for Silva to kill."
      Stacker shook his head. "We can't take that risk, Dubbo."
      Dubbo said nothing.
      One of the ODSTs who'd taken up a defensive position shot a look at the senior NCO. "Orders, Gunny?"
      "Abandon positions," Stacker crisply replied. "We're going to the hangar."
      "What about me?" interrupted Dubbo.
      Stacker shot his old comrade a mournful look. "Do what you think is right."

***

      ODST Captain Knaun was sweating inside his armor, not a pleasant sensation at all. Neither was staring down the barrels of a squadron's worth of rotary cannons.
      "Sir!" said one of his men. "Look! It's Gunny Stacker and Alpha Company!"
      Knaun smiled at the sight of the company's worth of Helljumpers marching in good order into the hangar bay. "So the General did see fit to send us reinforcements. Lieutenant, hold the line!"
      The ODST Captain advanced up to the senior NCO. "Master Gunnery Sergeant, good to see you. If your team will hold position here---"
      "No need," came the jaunty reply. "I'm gonna talk to these rocket jocks, see if I can get 'em to stand down."
      If he hadn't been wearing a helmet, Knaun would've wiped his brow in relief. "Thanks Gunny. I owe you one."
      "Dont mention it."

***

      "Hocus, look!" said Shilds.
      "What is it?"
      "It's Stacker."
      Hocus peered out the back of the troop bay, and indeed the Gunnery Sergeant was advancing towards Kilo 023. "Something I can help you with, Gunny?" she called.
      "We need to get the men off this rock, it won't be long before Silva---"
      There was a sudden sound, the rattling of an M7 submachine gun, and Stacker fell to the ground clutching his leg.
      In the troop bay of Kilo 023, Sergeant Nomuri squeezed the trigger of his HMG.

***

      Captain Knaun smacked the ODST who'd opened fire on the back of the helmet. "What the hell were you thinking, you idiot?"
      "Sir, he was collaborating with the enemy---"
      "The enemy?" the Captain all but shrieked. "They're on our side, he was going to talk them down!"
      The other ODST didn't have a chance to reply, because the hail of rounds from the Pelican-mounted HMGs tore him in half.
      Knaun threw himself to the ground twitching involuntarily as the deckplates around him were stitched with bulletholes from the Pelicans' weaponry. The Captain was vaguely aware of yelling over the helmet comm, his own: "Shit! Shit! Shit!"
      The other ODSTs were shouting over the comms as well:
      "MEDIC!"
      "Get to cover!"
      "What cover, there is no---"
      That last was punctuated by a brief gurgle, and silence.
      Knaun raised his head enough to see that the Pelicans hadn't sealed their troop bays. What he had to do next was distasteful...but what Silva would do to him if he didn't was worse.
      "All ODSTs, stand to! Rush those dropships!"

***

      Hocus was getting one particularly nervous Berlin crewer situated in the Pelican's troop bay when Sergeant Nomuri, still manning the HMG, let out a cry. Rushing back to the gun position to see what was wrong, the Pelican pilot skidded to a halt, horrified.
      As one, the ODSTs stood to like a single black mass, charging for the dropships, wildly spraying fire from their SMGs. Sergeant Nomuri, even behind the bullet shield of his mounted machine gun, looked fearful.
      Hocus stood transfixed, until an SMG round slammed into the rear of the Pelican's troop bay. "Sergeant, light those bastards up!"
      The Marine NCO once more squeezed the trigger of his HMG, and the gun thundered to life. Sweeping the tribarrel assembly across the hangar, Nomuri uttered a faintly audible chuckle.
      Hocus had drawn her sidearm, not quite believing the medieval tactics being used by the ODSTs: not a single one had yet to get closer than ten meters from the dropships. In such a ridiculously one-sided engagement, she had no desire to get involved.
      Of course, that was when an M7 round slammed into her chestplate, knocking her to the deck of Kilo 023's troop bay. Swearing quiety, she staggered to her feet, drew her sidearm, and opened fire.

***

      Captain Knaun had not been in the vanguard of Helljumpers charging the dropships, and for that he was devoutly thanking God as he saw his men cut down like so many weeds.
      The Captain knelt to one knee, trying to get a comm call to the General, when a new noise, the crack of an M6-series pistol, sounded above the rattle of the machine guns.
      Something, no doubt the explosive slug, slammed into Knaun's chestplate and fragmented. Coughing, he collapsed on his back, and tasted blood.
      "Gunny!"
      Knaun's company operations chief hurtled over to his captain and knelt down, projecting an air of worry even through his polarized visor. "Hang tight, Sir. Doc Jaye will be here---"
      "Forget me," coughed the Captain, sounding somewhat bemused at the blood that had splattered his visor. "Just get General Silva, tell him what's going on---"
      The crack of the M6 once more rose above the thundering machine guns, and a clean hole blossomed through Knaun's visor. The Captain fell dead in his ops chief's arms.
      The Gunny spared a single glance at Knaun's body before getting on the radio with Silva.

***

      "General Silva, the Pelicans are firing on us!"
      The ODST officer swore at the comm for the second time in far too short a timespan. "That does it! If you want something done right..."
      Lieutenant Freyyr, standing near the exit to the bridge, shot Silva a glance. "General...what are you doing?"
      "I'm going down to engineering to overload your reactor. If you believe in a god, I suggest you pray to him."
      An M6D flashed into the middle-aged naval officer's hand with astonishing speed. "I can't let you do that, General."
      Silva let out an insane laugh. "What is this, argue-with-the-general-day? Stand down, squid, before I lose my patience."
      "No," Freyyr replied, and pulled the trigger.
      But the Lieutenant hadn't fired his weapon in a while, and the M6D is no popgun. The recoil so surprised the navy officer that the round went wide, and the recoil caused the sidearm to smack him in the forehead, laying him out cold.
      Silva spared the man a contemptuous snort before shooting him as he walked off the bridge.

***

      Captain Knaun's ODSTs were long-dead, and the first wave of would-be evacuees was on board the dropships, but more Navy crewers and ODSTs-cum-riot-police were still coming.
      Stacker, seated in one of Kilo 023's rear cockpit seats, looked at Hocus. "Hocus, we gotta go!"
      "We can't leave these people!"
      "We don't have a choice," was the sad reply. "We can either save who we have now, or all die. It's as simple as that."
      Hocus swore, but the logic was all too clear. "This is Hocus to all Pelicans. Start powering up your engines."

***

      General Silva stalked into the engine room, pistol at the ready. Nobody emerged to greet him, and his visor showed no hostiles.
      Of course, that was when a burst of submachine gun fire chattered out of nowhere, slamming into the wall next to hin. "Who the---"
      "G'day, General!" came a cheery voice. "Sorry, but we're closed here at the engine room."
      That was it, the General realized. Dubbo. That damned obnoxious Alpha Halo veteran that Pete lugged everywhere with him.
      "Corporal!" Silva shouted. "I'm giving you once chance to stand down. If you don't---"
      A note of seriousness entered the mockingly cheery voice. "I saw what you did to Colonel Henderson; I can guess."
      On Silva's HUD, his visor had tagged a silohuette standing near the reactor controls. "Well, you're probably wrong," replied Silva, "your demise is going to be considerably slower."
      And with that, Silva drew his M6G and loosed several rounds at the silohuette, and was rewarded with seeing the man drop onto his back. Relaxing, Silva advanced.
      Dubbo wasn't dead, not yet, though blood coated his armor and face. "You're one tough bastard, General, I'll give you that."
      "And you don't know when to quit," replied Silva, chuckling. "I'll give you that."
      The grimmest excuse for a smile the General had ever seen spread across Dubbo's face. "Thanks," said the Corporal, and opened up with the remaining rounds in his SMG's magazine.
      Silva collapsed onto the control board, his armor clanking loudly.
      Dubbo eyed up the body and nodded appreciatively. Letting out a cross between a cough and a chuckle that caused more blood to appear on his face, he remarked, "I'll see you all soon...Mendoza...Jenkins...Bisenti...sorry I didn't have your backs...we might all have made it out if I had..." and collasped, dead.
      Silva, on the other hand was not. He didn't have much time, but the General was right where he needed to be.
      Some quick computer work and a few slices with his knuckleplate knife did the job quite nicely.
      General Hugo Silva settled back against the control board, and waited for the end. And to see his son again.

***

      Kilo 023's engines had flared to life when a sudden rumble rocked the Berlin.
      "Oh, shit..." muttered Shilds.
      "Shilds, all power to the engines, now!" cried Hocus.
      A muted roar surged through the Pelican's cockpit as the power sent to the thrusters increased. Hocus shoved the dropship's throttle forward, and the ship shot out of the hangar like a bullet.
      "How long until it blows?" barked Stacker.
      Hocus stood the dropship on its tail and sent it clawing for space. "Shilds?"
      "We've got one minute!"
      Hocus shot a look back at her copilot. "How long until we make it into space?"
      "A minute and a half!"
      "All power to the engines, then! I didn't make it through three of these damn rings to die in some nuke explosion!"
      "You made it through another ring besides the Ark?" Stacker inquired.
      "I was there for the first one; I was the one who got you and Dubbo off, remember?"
      "Oh, yeah..."
      The Pelican pilot shot another look at her copilot. "Shilds, all power to the engines!"
      "I already did it, LT!"
      "Shunt it from nonvital systems!"
      "Roger---ETA, now fifty seconds."
      "How long until she blows?"
      "Fifty seconds!"
      "It's a race, then," growled Hocus, and opened the throttle of the dropship all the way.
      "What the---"
      "What is it, Warrant Officer?"
      "Silva really fucked that cruiser over, she's going nuclear now!"
      It was all Hocus could do to keep from screaming. "Send power to the engines from everything you can get, divert from life-support if you have to!"
      Shilds' hands danced across the control board. "Done. Berlin is gonna go nuclear in ten..."
      Now Hocus did let out and animal howl, shoving the throttle forward as far as it would go. "Come on, dammit, come on..."
      "Six...five..."
      "Shut it, Shilds, will you?!"
      In the cockpit's third seat, Pete Stacker closed his eyes, and wondered how it would feel to see Zulu and Charlie teams again after so long.
      "Ma'am, we're in space!"
      "What?"
      "We did it, LT, we're out of the atmosphere!"
      "Thank---"
      Hocus never got the chance to finish that, because the brightest light she had ever seen washed over her Pelican, and her visor polarized so much she could barely see her dropship's controls. A sudden hiss of static and a yelp from Shilds informed her that Kilo 023's non-EMP hardened systems had gone dead.
      Then, suddenly it was over. The hiss of overloaded systems still sounded in the cockpit, there was some panting in the troop bay, some crying, some hyperventilating, but everyone who had come on board the Pelican was still alive.
      "Kilo 023, this is Shadow of Intent LSO. Slave your systems to us, we'll guide you in. Tell your squadron to do the same."
      "Roger," replied Hocus, and relayed the message. Reclining in her pilot's chair, she tugged off her helmet, and shot a glance at Shilds, who'd done the same. "Well, Dan, we did it. Seems like we earned ourselves a happy ending."
      The other smiled at the use of his first name. "Care to get some coffee with me in the mess hall, LT?"
      Hocus chuckled. "Sure, I don't see why not."
      Master Gunnery Sergeant Pete Stacker, sitting in the rear seat next to Shilds, snapped to attention and executed the best salute of his long career, honoring the comrade he'd known for so long. He didn't cry, but a close observer could discern a glimmering in his eyes not attributable to the lighting.

***

      "The dropships are aboard, Lord Hood."
      "Very good, Senior Chief. Let's get to work, then. We have a government to take back."

FIN

We are NOT Bungie, Inc.! Bungie Inc. are bungie.net!
Halo © Bungie Inc., 1999-2012, Microsoft 2012-2024
Intellectual © halo.bungie.org, 1999-2024