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Biological Storage by Dagorath
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Biological Storage: One
Date: 16 February 2006, 9:39 am
He awoke to the smell of roses, shifting in the breeze. He awoke to the bright morning sunshine streaming in. He awoke to the feel of his wife's body pressing tightly against his back.
John rolled out of bed, pushing the thin sheets out of the way. Cassandra rolled onto her back and opened her eyes sleepily. "Good morning," she slurred.
John smiled at her, before getting out of the bedroom. Despite the beautiful weather, he felt restless. He felt more alert, and the world felt, somehow, less real. The breeze streaming in felt artificial. The light flickering on the walls seemed almost as though it were generated by a computer.
At least that was how his son Jacob would describe it as. The boy was an absolute computer freak. His workstation filled half the room, he owned five GameGlobes and had even gotten a job with a game developer. At least his boundless enthusiasm for sprites and nodes and staring intently at a screen had some sort of use.
Whatever his son's way of describing would be, John agreed. There was something…different, about today. John was past sixty but he felt as alert as when he began his soldiering career.
Down in the kitchen, John fixed breakfast for himself and started without the others. There was something queer about the bread. The texture seemed to be too....vivid. "Vivid" was a word describing colours, but it fitted his feeling. Almost as though something that wasn't bread was trying to be bread.
He marched up the stairs again, having finished his sandwich, and started getting dressed. Cassandra had gotten up from bed. "Finished so quickly?" she asked.
John nodded absentmindedly and pulled on a polo shirt and pants. "I'm going out for a bit," he said.
She frowned a little, but let him have his way. "There's that reunion for the veterans of the War today," she reminded him.
"Yeah, yeah," John replied, and went down the stairs again. Slipping into his trainers, he pulled open the door and took a deep breath.
And gagged. Somehow, he had a strong feeling that whatever he inhaled wasn't air. But how was that possible? The wind was blowing in his face and he could feel it clearly. It couldn't be anything else.
People nodded pleasantly as John walked down the road. He decided to go for a light jog. Perhaps that way he could shake off the feeling of unreality that he felt.
John ran from his home all the way into the city centre, a full ten kilometers. He was barely breathing hard. John's army training had kept him fit his whole life, though of course he had a daily work-out on his gym equipment.
He walked around the shops a little. Looking in a tailor's store, he felt the fabric of the clothes on sale. There was some sort of artificiality still. Almost as though the touch were engineered, not real.
He had the same feeling when he bought a pastry at the baker's. The oily taste, the dusting of crumbs, everything felt odd, out of kilter.
The run back home didn't ease matters. Whatever it was, he couldn't shake off the feeling.
For the rest of the day, John stayed in the house, trying to interest himself in Maria's stamp collection or Jacob's GameGlobe games. It didn't work. Cassandra kept badgering him and his brain kept screaming "Fake" when he ate his lunch.
Time crawled on, but it passed at last. After five o'clock, John almost sprinted to his room to put on his suit and get out of the house. Jumping in the Ferrari, he swung out of the garage and screamed down the road, to the disapproving frowns of his wife.
Speeding into town, John stopped outside an expensive-looking hotel, with the huge sign "Hotel Zanzibar" in front. Ten years had past since the War, and all the damage had been repaired. The Hotel Zanzibar had once more consolidated its position as the top hotel in the city.
Continuing into the building, his eyes flicked over the sign in the lobby saying "Human-Covenant War Veterans' (Officers) Reunion" and stepped into the lift. It sped upwards and he adjusted his tie as it did.
Smiling, John stepped out of the lift a minute later and swept his eyes over the elegantly dressed men and women chatting together with glasses in their hands. Unobtrusive stewards slipped in and out of clumps of people, holding trays of drinks high above their heads. Many of the guests wore medals on their clothing; John kept it unobtrusive and just pinned his Captain's insignia on: a bar with several coloured stripes. It was enough.
Walking through the reception, he smiled politely and nodded at the people around him. Suddenly, John felt the instinctive premonition of danger behind him and twisted round, one leg snapping out in a kick. The enormous man in a tuxedo creeping up behind him took the brunt of its full force in his stomach and flew backwards. To the surprise of the guests, the man did a back flip in the air and landed on his feet, grinning.
John was grinning too. He ran at the man, his arms a blur of fists, which the other blocked and then returned to the assault with a flurry of chops and kicks.
Two seconds later, both stopped, looked around them, and laughed. The guests, those who didn't know them, looked rather startled, but some laughed uproariously. "Way to go, Chief!" they yelled.
John and the other man embraced. "Fred! Keeping well?"
Fred was rubbing at the huge mark on his white shirt where John's foot had slammed into it. "No, my wife will kill me when she sees this," he said ruefully, then grinned again. "She's even more dangerous than you!"
The two friends walked off, grabbing drinks on the way, to a small table, where the remaining Spartans sat. Will looked rather ill at ease, shifting around on his chair, but Linda seemed completely relaxed. Wearing an elegant dress that showed off her smooth skin and muscles, she looked like a model or an actress. Age didn't seem to have had much of an effect on her.
They sat down and talked for a while, as various officers and dignitaries walked past, greeting them. Linda and Fred chatted endlessly, seemingly completely at ease, but John could tell that Will was restless. He slid closer to the other Spartan.
"What's up, soldier?" he asked in a low voice.
"Do you sense something wrong?" Will asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Something….odd." Will shook his head. "There's something wrong, I know it. Everything seems fake, artificial. It's like we're in a game or something, some kind of illusion" – he waved his hands emphatically – "I dunno!" He frowned. "Sir –"
God in heaven….
"You were always a joker," John said smiling.
"Never!" Will replied vehemently. "This is for real, John! There's something wrong, and we're going to have to fix it. Why do I have a feeling this is our true purpose in life?" His face was twisted in an expression of ugly determination.
"We were here for the Human-Covenant war," John said quietly. "And that's over. They disappeared. They're gone. We did what we had to do. For Earth. It's finished.
"Calm down, soldier," said John, but he could feel a tiny shake in his voice. Will had hit the nail right on the head. He took a deep breath and said, "This is the anniversary of their defeat, after all. Maybe you're just on edge."
"Sir –" John shook his head once, and Will fell silent.
The rest of the reunion barely registered in John's memory. The unsettling feeling of unreality grew on him all evening: the food felt fake, the sounds seemed manufactured, even the people seemed artificial. And the sheer fact that Will felt the same made John feel even more worried. Lord Hood had passed away and Admiral Keyes and General Johnson had somehow disappeared off UNSC space. The reunion seemed intolerably bland.
He left as soon as was polite. Saying goodbye to his Spartans, he slipped quietly out of the hotel, into his Ferrari and drove off down the road. But Will's words echoed in his mind.
Everything seems fake, artificial….some kind of illusion….
And that terrible statement, which John wanted to deny so much. It was impossible, wasn't it? He had devoted all his energy and enthusiasm into winning the War, and he had nothing left.
Why do I have a feeling this is our true purpose in life?
John had a horrible thought: that Will was right. Why, God, why? John asked bitterly. There was, as usual, no answer.
Biological Storage: Two
Date: 3 March 2006, 10:45 am
The feeling of artificiality passed on the morning of the next day. John woke up to the morning breeze, and it felt just as it had any morning.
Somehow, John missed the excitement of yesterday. It had reawakened his warrior's spirit, his patriotism. He had felt decades younger.
Now, John felt the weight of the years press down on him again. He wasn't as young or strong as he had been when he wore the MJOLNIR armour. His limbs felt stiff and his brain slow.
John got out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown, and bent down to wake his wife with a kiss. She reciprocated and got up. Arm in arm, the two of them went down the stairs.
Jacob was already up. It was only seven in the morning.
"Where are you off to, boy?" John asked.
"We're releasing the beta," his son replied breathlessly. "We're gonna be receiving emails from ten thousand people. It'll be great. All that feedback…." He stuffed the rest of his toast into his mouth and leapt from the table.
John and the rest of his family ate breakfast while Jacob ran from room to room, collecting what looked like pieces of computers into his bag. John shook his head. He'd have to have words with his son about his tidying ability.
"PDA, PDA, PDA," he muttered, burrowing through a pile of computer components that had somehow fallen out of a kitchen cupboard. After a minute, he finally found the small, flat object and leapt out the door, yelling: "Bye dad! Bye mum! Bye sis!"
After breakfast, John, still chuckling about his son, went up to the study to look through his emails. He was retired but liked to read the news and offer advice to UNSC tacticians. Fhajad, one of his Spartans who'd become permanently damaged during the bodily augmentation process, was one, and was rising through the ranks. He was, after all, a Spartan.
Scanning through his mail, John saw an email from a sender called "oldsarge". The name caught his eye. Curious, John clicked and opened the file.
[Open file….executed]
[Subject: Hi]
[From: oldsarge128]
[Body start]
Hi,
It's me, Avery Johnson. Sorry about the reunion yesterday. I had business….well, let's just say I couldn't be there. I hope you and the other Spartans are keeping well. And I may be seeing you a lot sooner than you expect.
Just follow the eagle, old man.
Johnson out.
[Body end]
There was a knock on the door downstairs. John frowned. What was Johnson emailing for? Ever since the end of the War, Johnson had sped up the ranks due to his bravery, but his star had faded when he disappeared a year ago. They didn't dare remove his rank, but rumours were that ONI was investigating into his disappearance. Johnson had to know John's computer was probably being watched.
"John, dear, someone wants you!" Cassandra called from downstairs.
"Coming!" John replied. He switched the computer off with a tap with his left toe and ran down the stairs.
In the doorway was a young man in military uniform. The bars on his clothing showed him to be a Lieutenant.
"Sir!" The Lieutenant saluted smartly. John was technically retired, but the soldier hailed him out of respect.
He reciprocated. "Good morning, Lieutenant. What do you want me for?"
"Earth HighCom would like the pleasure of your company, sir, immediately." As cleverly veiled a command as the UNSC was capable of – not very much. "The Warthog is waiting on the drive."
"Why?"
"Sorry, sir, that's all the information I was given," the soldier said after a pause.
John saw the insignia on the Lieutenant's chest. It was a pair of gold and silver eagle wings and a trio of stars. The insignia of ONI, the UNSC's intelligence department. So quick? John had read the email five seconds ago.
John opened his mouth to refuse. He still had some modicum of freedom, it seemed. They'd have to leave….where? All known space had been folded into the UNSC.
Just follow the eagle….
Something made John stop and consider, his eyes glancing from the soldier's insignia. Was it some premonition, or just instinct?
John took a deep breath and said, "OK, lead the way, soldier." He turned to wave goodbye to his wife and followed the Lieutenant into the jeep.
Earth HighCom was nicknamed "The Hive" because of its structure: a beautiful, conical crystal dome that let in the sunlight and illuminated the shrubs and stunted trees that decorated the enormous atrium. It branched off into three smaller shoots: an educational facility for civilian sight-seeing, a row of lifts, and a small set of offices for administration. The atrium itself was vaguely circular and empty, except for benches set along the sides and a reception desk near the lifts.
The beautiful exterior was just a farce, however. Underneath the ground, buried under all the protection the UNSC could muster, including the hard granite of the Earth's crust, Titanium-A battleplate and EMP insulating layers, were conference rooms, research facilities and shielded vaults. Even the highest commanders of the UNSC knew only three quarters of the sprawling facility. It even had its own power plant and geosynchronous Super MAC gun in space.
John had been to such a facility on Reach, to rescue his Spartans after the Covenant first began drilling for the Forerunner crystal hidden deep within the planet. Earth's HighCom was just the same. Patrolled by a crack team of Marine MPs, protected from biological and chemical attacks, Earth HighCom was nigh impregnable.
John and the Lieutenant walked up to the receptionist, who directed them to Lift 5 with barely a glance.
The ONI man left him at the lift doors. "I'm not cleared for accompanying you all the way down, sir."
"Very well," John replied. "You may leave."
The soldier saluted and hurried out of the building. John went down into the bowels of the earth alone.
Within the lift, John had his identity verified by the retinal, fingerprint and DNA scanners. All checked out, and the doors slid open after a few minutes.
Striding down a corridor, John was stopped by two Marine MPs wielding battle rifles with under-barrel grenade launchers.
"Who are you?" they asked rudely.
"Spartan-117, reporting to HQ," John replied. The name and number were enough.
One of the MPs frowned. "Sorry, sir, but we don't have your name here."
"Impossible." But inside, John was uncertain. The LT's orders had been rather vague.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we can't let you in. Try going up to reception again."
Frowning, John walked back into the lift. It sped upwards and he exited within the glass atrium once more.
"The directions you gave to the lift were incorrect," he began bluntly to the receptionist.
"Name, sir?" she asked.
"Spartan-117."
"I'm sorry, but I think you should be on Crimson Level. Step into the lift, please."
John complied. This time, the lift sank even lower. He walked outwards and confronted the guards. Not waiting for them to speak, he barked:
"Captain Spartan-117, reporting as ordered."
"Sorry, sir, but we just received news that you're on Blue Level," an MP replied. "Please go into Lift 9."
Holding back his rising temper, John stepped into the lift and went upwards. When he reemerged, he was again redirected by the guards to another floor.
After a couple more such redirections, John was nearing bursting point. He finished on a corridor that ended in a large, steel door. There were no guards. Taking this as a good sign, John walked forward and pulled it open.
Sitting on a table in front of him was Admiral Keyes, in a sweater and jeans.
"Admiral on deck!" John barked, and snapped a salute.
Surprisingly, Keyes did not return it. "I have no time for this," she began. "Listen, Chief" – John was surprised to hear his old rank, but it brought a wave of nostalgia – "we've got to get you out of here."
"What do you mean, ma'am?" John asked.
"Look," she said bluntly, "the Covenant hasn't gone away. This is some sort of fake universe that they've wired us – well, most of us – up to and no one knows that they have. You've got to – "
The Admiral was talking bull, whatever else she was talking about. It was so amazingly impossible that John was amused more than startled. "Hold on there, ma'am," he said smiling, "you're saying that –"
There was a loud banging on the door. "Intruder in Section Gamma," a voice said over the COM system. "Drop any weapons you have and surrender. Marine forces are outside the door."
"Oh shit," Keyes swore. "Too damn little time." She turned to John. "Listen, Chief, you've got to find Johnson, somehow. This" – she waved her hand around the room – "is fake, unreal; it's generated by a goddamn Covenant AI. Several, in fact. And we know what you felt yesterday."
John stiffened slightly. Seeing this, Keyes plunged on. "Everything felt odd, didn't it? It felt as though it wasn't real. And it isn't. They know you felt it, Chief – "
"Who – "
"And they're going to come and get you." She slipped off the table, reached forward and grabbed John's shirt. The Marines had begun cutting through the bolt of the door. "You've got to find – "
The door suddenly burst open. Marines rushed in and aimed their rifles squarely at Keyes's head.
"Hold up your hands and freeze!" a grizzled Sergeant yelled.
"Calm down," John said soothingly. "She's a friend."
The Sergeant ignored him. "I said, put up your hands!" he yelled.
Keyes did not comply. Fixing her steely eyes on the Sergeant, she stared him down without moving a muscle. Flinching, the Marine averted his eyes.
How many of them can I take on? John thought to himself. He was old now, but some training you can never forget. The best he could do was knock two out, and then he'll fall, riddled with bullets.
In the electric silence, a phone rang. Keyes slowly drew her hand down into her jeans pocket and pulled it out, watched by the MPs, who looked like they wanted to eat her alive. She flipped it open and lifted it towards her ear.
Keyes smiled at John and, just as the phone touched her ear, she vanished.
Biological Storage: Three
Date: 10 March 2006, 12:59 pm
John and the Marine MPs gaped in disbelief as Miranda Keyes just disappeared before their eyes. She had raised the phone to her ear and just vanished. Even the mobile phone itself was nowhere to be seen.
"What is this?" John asked the Sergeant innocently.
The soldier blinked, then spun round. "That woman" – he pointed at the table where Keyes had been sitting – "infiltrated this complex."
"Impossible," John said smoothly. "This base is protected by granite, Titanium-A armour, EMP – "
"We are aware of what the base is shielded by," the Sergeant said testily, humiliated at having been stared down by Keyes before his men. "Who are you anyway?" he asked.
"Spartan-117," John replied. "And I can have you court-martialed for non-respect to a senior officer, son."
The Sergeant gaped at him a while, before the words "Spartan" registered in his mind. Humiliated before his men yet again, he said in a barely restrained voice, "Well, sorry to intrude upon you, sir. Why are you here?"
"Oh, it was nothing," John replied lightly. "I must be heading home now. I've stayed here quite enough."
"Of course, sir. Please take the lift."
John was troubled all the way back home in the Warthog the receptionist had provided. Events were going on at a furious clip, and John was being swept along.
He lined up the events in his head. Something was wrong, that was clear. He hadn't had a vision when Keyes disappeared in Earth HighCom. The Marines had seen it too. And Johnson's message was not a coincidence.
It didn't slot in with anything else he knew though. The Covenant had disappeared twenty years ago; nothing had been heard about them since. And how could he have been "wired up" – as Keyes put it – to some sort of virtual reality world?
John shook his head wearily. He hadn't lost the excitement of yesterday after all.
He slept uneasily that night. The images of the day swept through John's mind: the young ONI Lieutenant in the morning, Earth HighCom, and Admiral Keyes disappearing right before his eyes.
The whole scene re-enacted itself in his mind. Stepping out of the lift, pushing the door open, seeing Keyes sitting there. He didn't notice in the morning, but his mind brought the details back out. The exact colour of her sweatshirt, the slogan, even the minute creases in her jeans. Her every word, echoing in his brain….
And then the sounds of the Marine MPs moving into position at the door. That voice over the COM…..
Clank, clank, clank.
He could see Keyes gripping his shirt, shouting words into his face.
The sounds got louder, louder. Keyes's voice was gradually covered by the sounds of MPs running –
John's eyes snapped open, taking in the dark ceiling, the curtains rustling softly because of the breeze, and Cassandra leaning against him again. The clanking continued. This time, it came not from a steel door in memory, but right outside his bedroom door.
Instincts from more than thirty years of army service kicked in. John leapt up, picked up a wardrobe and used it to barricade the door. Then came two hardwood chairs and a small bedside table. Without a pause, John reached under his bed and pulled out his silenced M6C pistol. In a smooth action, he cocked it and hugged the wall just next to the door, waiting for the assailants to charge in.
A storm of bullets; the furniture burst into a shower of splinters and large fragments. Cassandra sprang up from the bed and screamed. A huge smashing sound. Five black-clad soldiers crashed in, searching for targets.
Puff, puff. John fired from behind the soldiers, downing two of them in carefully aimed shots to the back of the neck. He leapt forward and tackled one down just as the remaining two sprayed where he had been with bullets. One bullet zipped towards his ribs, but the bodily augmentations he had had before saved him. With an impossible twist, he arched his back and it sped past to hit the doorframe.
John's considerable weight slammed onto the soldier, knocking out his breath as the Spartan's body smashed him onto the floor. John did not even bother firing his weapon: he rolled over onto his back, using the soldier as a shield, and slammed his fist into the soldiers head, knocking him out.
Throwing the unconscious man off, John swept his foot out to trip the feet of one of the remaining soldiers. The man fell forwards, firing his rifle, which spat bullets onto the floor. One of them pierced the knee of his comrade, who screamed with pain. John elbowed the falling man and leapt up, putting a bullet in the other soldier's head. The man crashed to the floor.
John stood up, breathing hard. Cassandra was crouching behind the bed, her eyes round as coins, staring at the dead attackers. Bullet holes were all over the bedroom, from the head of the bed to the ones in the remains of the door.
From long experience, the first thing John did was eject the nearly-spent magazine from his pistol and reach for another one under the bed. It slid to with a satisfying snick. Then he turned towards the door.
Maria and Jacob were standing there, with their mouths wide open. They stared at the smoking pistol in John's hand. Jacob's eyes darted from his mother behind the bed to the corpses on the floor, then to the remains of the door strewn across the bedroom floor.
"What the…." Jacob breathed. In his hand was a PDA, where the voice of a man was yelling, "Are you there, boy? The beta testers are still asking for answers to that network problem!"
John opened his mouth to speak, and then saw Maria. Unlike Jacob, who was beginning to walk forwards unsteadily, Maria was still standing at the doorway, stock still. Neither her eyes nor her feet had moved.
He looked closer. "Maria – " and stopped.
There was a bullet hole just under her collar bone. As John leapt forward, Maria fell backwards onto the hardwood floor with a crash. Her head slammed onto the ground and there was a horrible crunch. Blood spread in a dark pool.
Cassandra screamed. John dropped onto his knees, desperately trying to pull his daughter back from the brink, as Jacob stood, terrified, his mother's wails echoing through the house.
Biological Storage: Four
Date: 17 March 2006, 11:58 am
The eerie siren of an ambulance drifted upon the breeze as it carried John's daughter towards the hospital. He himself had already lost hope. The soldiers who had attacked him had not been identified as part of the UNSC military or any sort of rebel group or militia. And John himself had been too ruthless to leave any for questioning: the blows he had landed on two of the soldiers, intending to knock them out, had killed them instead. He had been out of practice too long.
John breathed deep, smelling the roses. And he gagged once more. This time, the illness, if you like, grew on him as fast as a plasma burn spreading across skin and flesh. Suddenly, every smell seemed to disappear. The wind felt like a shower of tiny pellets against his skin; the colours of the world became garish and unbalanced.
John cracked. Screaming a wordless cry of rage and confusion, he was running down the road, running away from the world.
He ran onto the highway, and kept on running, ignoring the blares of cars speeding past, which now sounded cracked and ugly. His feet seemed barely to touch the ground. He was running in a fog, not connected to anything, the world fading around him.
John's feet carried him down an offshoot into a slum neighbourhood. He kept going, past bums and punks, turning blindly at corners.
He tripped and fell heavily. When he got up, he saw two exceedingly tall men staring down at them. They were even taller than John, almost as tall as the Elites he had fought in the War. Dressed in trench coats with white shirts and black pants underneath, the men looked like government agents. They fitted the stereotypical image perfectly. Men in Black, ONI agents, didn't matter. These men wanted him.
Playing dumb was not John's strong point, but he tried anyway. He got up carefully, dusted himself off, and opened his mouth.
One of them took a step towards him and cut him off. "Come with us," he said in a voice that allowed for no argument. It sounded eerily distorted, yet calculated and full of hate. Despite the illness, John could easily hear the thinly-veiled malice therein.
Authority from unidentified persons didn't work on John. "Why?"
The man offered no explanation. "You won't be hurt if you come quietly," he said steadily, ignoring John.
"I demand to know why I am being arrested!" John said. "My rights –"
The agent made a gesture of dismissal, and the duo advanced. OK, playing dumb unsuccessful, John thought to himself. As the man got nearer, John lashed out with his left fist while sidestepping to the right.
The man didn't even grunt. He let the fist impact and just walked forward, using John's own arm to push him back. John responded by retracting the fist and kicking viciously with his right foot, right into the man's head.
It would have downed a Spartan, but the man just took it. It smashed into his head, throwing it back. John followed with his left foot into then man's groin.
And he felt excruciating pain in his back. The other man had crept up behind him. John flew forwards, straight into the double fists of the first man, who had not only not crumpled from the groin kick, but had recovered from the head kick in a second. One fist smashed into his sternum and the other into his solar plexus, winding him. With each blow, the illness worsened.
Then both men kneed him, one from in front and one from behind.
Their strength was awesome. John could feel his back break. He could do nothing as the two – agents? – kicked and punched him as he lay sprawled on the ground. He could only grit his teeth in pain each blow landed squarely on his flesh –
Discontinuity.
- A hole ripped in the fabric of space. It was as though a hole into nothingness had been torn right in the nearest slum. Avery Johnson, wearing dusty-looking overalls, leapt out with a battle rifle, followed by Miranda Keyes in a casual suit, wielding dual SMGs. Before the men could so much as turn, Johnson had fired a three-round burst into the first agent's head, and Keyes had sprayed the second. The men slumped to the ground. Right before John's face, they disappeared as suddenly as Keyes had done so just yesterday morning.
The rift in space closed, leaving Johnson and Keyes with their smoking weapons. John could only groan. But inwardly, he smiled a little. No Spartan ever calls for evac, but who wouldn't be grateful when the situation was as dire as this?
But only Johnson knelt down to look at John's wounds. Keyes remained standing with a look of supreme contempt on her face. It was Johnson who flung down his battle rifle and whispered: "Chief! Oh my god, what have they done to you?" and Keyes who said, "Leave him, Avery. If he can't take care of himself, he doesn't deserve to live."
But it was both of them who walked off. John fainted in exhaustion and pain.
John came to after a few hours. It was only now that he noticed how horribly degenerated the virtual world had become. He hadn't believed Keyes when she explained the virtual world, but now it seemed as definitely a part of the truth as the fact that he had a broken neck. The colours had split up into red, green and blue. He could smell nothing. But the pain was real enough.
The light grew, brightening the crude colours all around John. A man-shaped figure scampered towards him and rifled through his pockets, pulling out his wallet and mobile phone. John could only whimper in pain as the man ran off again.
The light brightened. In the virtual world, the sun was coming up. No one looked at him. The heat grew, making sweat pour down John's back. He couldn't move his arms, couldn't move his legs, even his toes wouldn't move. It is a horrible death when you die of starvation, with days and days of pain, just to reflect on all your sins. John was reminded of James's death in the vacuum around Reach, floating, floating, with no one to help and no one to know when his life finally went out.
The sun moved to the noon. More bums searched him, but couldn't find anything. They left him to die.
The sun sank down to the west. John was freezing. He had lost a lot of blood. Headaches attacked every five seconds and the pain was getting to his iron-hard interior. There is a time when the strongest Marine cracked, and John had passed that barrier long ago.
It was dark. John couldn't feel below his neck, but the wounds on his head were pain enough. He had cracked his skull, and numerous bruises covered his head.
The moon rose up, a pure white disc. Everything else was black, and all John could hear was his own breathing.
The time on his watch read 0200 when he heard footsteps. John hadn't slept – the pain had kept him awake.
A familiar shape appeared around the corner. The machine wiring him to the Covenant's virtual word was gradually shutting his senses down, but he could recognize one of his Spartans purely by their posture and method of movement.
"Will!" he croaked.
The figure sprinted towards him and crouched. "Shit!" he swore. "What's your status, sir?"
In a detached, critical tone that would have done Dr Halsey proud, John replied, "I have a broken neck, a cracked skull, and numerous bruises and internal bleeding resulting from fist and foot blows."
Will didn't share in his calm. "I've got to get you out of here," he said breathlessly. He lowered his hands and lifted John up. He didn't feel anything. His broken neck took care of that.
John was one hundred kilograms of rock-hard muscle and bone, but Will was a Spartan too. He slung John over his shoulder without a grunt and started walking out of the slum.
"Wait…." John breathed.
"Yes, sir?"
"The world….is it still….fake like you said?"
"A little….what the hell happened –"
Will froze. Materialising before him were two agents. John couldn't recognize their faces, but their posture and the authority were similar to those he had fought earlier.
One stepped forwards. "You are helping an enemy of the State," he said, pointing towards John. "You are both to come with us to be interrogated."
Once a Spartan, always a Spartan. "No, thank you," Will replied steadily. "Present your identification first."
Wordlessly, the two men began circling to each side of Will. Their hands curled into fists.
"Sorry, sir," Will apologized in advance. He dropped John and whipped out a slim pistol.
The agents pounced. Will leapt into the air and shot one at point-blank range in the head. He kicked backwards with his left foot, right into the other agent's face.
Will landed, standing over John. The dead agent crumpled to the ground, but the second looked uninjured.
Will took the offensive. There was no way he could fire now: the time it took him to raise the gun would have cost him his life. Instead, he leapt forward with a powerful double fist. It slammed into the agent, flinging him backwards into the wall again. Bricks fell from the badly laid wall and one crashed onto Will's foot.
He stumbled, and the agent leapt forward. He stepped hard on Will, who rolled aside. The agent aimed kicks at the Spartan, who kept rolling.
John could see that the inhabitants of the slum had come out at the sound of the gunshot. As the agent ran towards Will, who had gotten unsteadily to his feet, they pulled their heads back and closed their shutters tight.
The agent ran at Will and leapt into the air in a perfectly executed karate flying kick, using the blade of his foot as his weapon.
But Will had jumped upwards too, his injured foot pointing downwards and the knee of his undamaged foot pulled up to his sternum.
John held his breath. He could only see the two figures as black shapes amidst blacker surroundings, but it didn't look good for Will. The agent had the momentum of his run; Will had none. Even if both kicks connected, Will would take the greater damage.
The two figures came together. Will yelled a hoarse war cry, but the agent remained silent as ice.
A shot rang out. The agent crashed into Will and both fell onto the ground. Neither got up.
A minute later, John breathed, "Will…."
One of the figures stirred and pushed the other off, staggering to its feet. It pulled its pistol's magazine out and checked the rounds inside. "I'm OK, sir," Will lied.
John declined to mention the fact that he had been Will's CO for thirty years and could see right through him. He allowed Will to carry him to his car, staying silent.
Inside's Will's car, John looked out the window. The police had not yet arrived. The bums themselves were mostly illegal immigrants or petty criminals of some kind or other. They would stay silent for fear of drawing attention to themselves.
John relaxed for the first time in two nights. Despite the fact that he only had ten percent control of his body – ironically like Captain Keyes's control of his cruiser after its crash on Halo – John was already thinking like an army commander in control of a platoon. What were his options? What was the enemy thinking? What were his chances of success?
Spartan-117 looked up at the moon. It was no longer a white disc; the features had returned. Despite the fact that everything he could see was probably fake, he drew comfort from the fact that he had finally returned to the world that he knew about, that he could fight in.
That he could win in.
Author's Note: I'll take a break for one week. I want to engineer a few cool plot twists and suchlike, but gaping holes are appearing in the next chapter. And unwanted characters keep barging in…. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, at any rate.
Biological Storage: Five
Date: 7 April 2006, 12:46 pm
Will sped along the highway to New Mombassa, the powerful engine of his car as soft as a big cat stalking its prey. His home was a relatively new apartment block near the city centre. On the way, John reiterated everything, from the reunion to the fight, to Will.
They drove down into the multi-storied underground car park, where Will swept through an identity-checking forcefield. John held his breath as they passed. If it didn't check out, the forcefield would increase in strength, locking the car within it.
They stopped in Will's designated parking space, next to Rolls Royces and Porsches. Killing the engine, Will peered around, his head swivelling from side to side swiftly. There were no signs of either agents or ordinary citizens. It was late at night, and the car park was silent.
He walked over to the back car doors and opened one side. "Sir," he whispered. "You still okay?"
"Except for my numerous injuries, yes," John replied with a small smile. He had in fact rolled sideways onto the seat and, whenever Will had banked left, his head had banged into the right car door.
Will pulled John out and checked once more. There was still no one. He picked the other Spartan up and slung him over his shoulder, before sprinting to the nearest lift.
The duo got increasingly nervous as the lift crawled down towards them. They could hear wind sounds in the shaft. What if there was someone in the lift? What if the agents had already caught up with them? They were sitting ducks here, with a pistol between them and only one tired man capable of wielding it.
The lift finally arrived. Will laid John down carefully on the floor and pressed the button for the lobby - this lift only serviced the car park.
Several sweaty seconds passed before the lift opened once more. Will pulled one of John's arms onto his shoulder and half-dragged him across the shiny floor towards the lifts that went up the building. They passed through a set of shiny glass doors, behind which the night guard strolled.
The guard walked over. He recognised Will, who was currently an electric engineer. "Hello, sir," he said cheerily. "Back from a round at the bar? Or several rounds at several bars?" He chuckled at his own joke.
John pretended to be asleep as Will cuffed him playfully on the head. "Drank enough drinks for the whole pub," he laughed. "He'll wake up with one hell of a hangover. Serves him right." Will strode towards the lifts. Suddenly, John's bruises seemed rather noticeable. They were black, with scatterings of blue, and mostly situated on his chest and head, contrasting wildly with his brown skin, which had returned to its natural colour after being out of the armour for ten years.
The guard was sharp, Will had to give him that. He peered at John, looking him up and down. As if he had read Will's mind, he asked, "Where dya get those purple beauties?" Suspicion crept into his voice.
"Huh?" Will smiled. "Well, let's just say that big, drunk men get into fights easily." The lift had arrived with a quiet chime. "Night!" he called. The lift door closed on the guard just as he was about to enquire about John's swollen neck.
Will's apartment encompassed the entire floor. He stepped out of the lift and ran towards the DNA scanner, which was mounted at the end of a small entrance lobby. It checked his retina and fingerprint before opening the ornate wooden double doors. Running an experienced eye over them, John could see that they were in fact mahogany-panelled steel.
Will's pad was decorated in the minimalist style. Designer sofas and plain walls contrasted with tastefully selected and placed objects d'art on pedestals and windowsills. Its stylish colour scheme contrasted wildly with the two bloody, dishevelled men who had just rushed in. At least, one rushed in, carrying the other, who was quite incapable of the act.
"Trinity!" the rushing man called, laying John down on the nearest couch.
Will's AI gave up its disguise of a Greek vase and resumed her usual shape: a French Revolution-era farm worker (the pedestal the vase was on was a holographic projector). "Yes, Will?" she asked. Hell, she even had an ancient French accent!
"Contact Fred and Linda immediately!" he yelled. "Tell them the Chief is down!" He paused. Trinity opened her mouth, but he cut her off. "I don't give about any fucking security! Just send it!"
Trinity paused, pulling at her red armband. Then she said, "OK, I've done it. You want to activate the Room?"
Will nodded quickly, and then picked John up again. He strode into his bedroom and slammed his palm on a large, green button set in the wall. It swung apart to show a chamber covered with screens showing landscapes of glassed planets. It contained two beds, medical tools and several weapons lockers. When John asked about the screens, Will just shook his head. John kept a polite silence.
Will laid John down carefully on a bed, and then reached towards him. "OK, sir," he said worriedly. "All the wounds you received mean it'll take the better part of an hour to stitch back together. But, those….men, agents, whatever, are going to call in the very near future."
"I have a plan," John said, trying to inject a little of his old confidence and authority in his voice. "Just fix my spine. My other injuries can wait."
"Yes, sir." Will turned John gently onto his side, and then reached for a laser scalpel from a tray of tools. Doing a few quick incisions, he exposed the damaged part of the spine – John tried hard not to imagine it in his mind's eye – and reached for the biofoam nozzle. Working carefully, he encased the entire damaged section in a rigid mould, before injecting some flash-cloned nerve cells. The spine was too complex for human technology to clone completely: the cells had to make the neural connections on their own.
"Now what?" Will asked ten minutes later.
"Do you have your MJOLNIR armour?"
Will blinked. His eyes darted from John to a wall, then back to John. "I guess it can be done…."
"It can," John said decisively. "You've done well so far, Will."
Will stood uncertainly for a while, then straightened and took a deep breath. He cracked his knuckles, and then walked towards the wall he had looked at earlier. "Trinity!" he called. "I want the armour unlocked!"
"Working," Trinity's voice replied over the wall-mounted speakers. A few seconds later, the wall slid upwards, revealing Will's green MJOLNIR armour. It was shiny, as though newly cleaned. The golden visor of the helmet stared at the Spartans impassively.
Will grabbed the chest plate hurriedly. Too fast. The back plates flopped forwards onto the floor with a loud clang. He swore, but managed to catch the helmet, which had been resting on the chest and back plates. Laying the chest plate and helmet down on a low table, he bent and picked up the back plates. Then he pulled John into a sitting position and attached the latter. The contours fitted John well: both he and Will had the same, muscular build.
There was a sinister rustling sound outside. "What's that?" John asked sharply. His head swivelled towards the direction of the front door.
Will yelled to Trinity: "Video feed on lobby! Now!"
A strobing holographic projection revealed an image of a squad of black-clad soldiers. Two of them were using a high-power plasma cutter to break the doors open. Behind them were two agents. One was loading its gun. At the same time, the virtual world started fading. John now took it as a sign that whatever was rendering the virtual world knew he was about to die and wanted to save resources as soon as possible.
Will had noticed it too. "Shit," he swore. "Where the hell are the other Spartans?"
"ETA in 5," Trinity replied coolly.
"Call the police!" he yelled. Will then fitted the chest plate onto John – the chest could not bend as far as the back, hence one plate instead of several. Whenever one of the contacts between the back and chest plates closed, it gave a gentle hiss and a soft beep.
He rapidly attached the arm plates. The front doors burst open. There were hoarse shouts as the soldiers ran in, firing wildly. Furniture burst into pieces. Ornaments flew and shattered. "This is private property!" Trinity yelled from her pedestal. "You have no right –" The pedestal burst into flame from a volley of bullets. Trinity continued from the TV speakers.
Will had finally attached the leg armour when there came the thud of automatic fire on the door of the Room. "Shit!" he yelled again. He grabbed the helmet and jammed it onto John's head.
Contacts closed and sealed with reassuring hisses. The power core thrummed into life. The armour ran self-diagnostics, and then interfaced with John's neural chip. He could feel cold water trickling through his brain. His paralysed limbs seemed to come back online. He couldn't feel them, but the signals from his mind activated the armour encasing them and shifted them laboriously.
It was an odd experience. As though he were a general, ordering his platoon – his limbs – to move into positions. Even his body had become one of his soldiers: he couldn't feel his heart beating, but his heart rate was shown clearly on the HUD of his helmet. It was speeding up fast.
John willed his legs to swing from the bed. Too quickly. They swung round violently and he spun on his back before clumsily stopping himself with his gloved hands.
"Is it OK, sir?" Will asked. He was fingering a battle rifle nervously, which he had taken from a locker. He had two extra clips of ammunition on his belt.
"I'm good," John replied. He got up slowly and shuffled over to Will, lurching left and right, his internal balancing mechanisms trying hard to adapt. "Thanks."
"No problem," Will replied. He tossed a rifle over. John raised his arm – too slowly. It swung in a lazy arc through his fingertips.
"Shit," John swore. He bent down shakily and picked it up in his gloved hand. He almost cried out in frustration as he tried to thread his fingers through the guard.
Wham! The doors burst open. Volleys of bullets sped towards the two Spartans. Will leapt aside and returned fire from behind a bed. Several bullets pinged off John's shield.
He raised the rifle and fired. His fingers slipped and the volley went wild, striking a screen. It exploded spectacularly. The gun reared backwards like a frightened horse.
Ba-la-boom. Will pushed the barrel of his rifle over the top of the bed and nailed one of the soldiers. The man fell, his rifle dropping from his grasp.
John raised his rifle again, cupping his left hand underneath the barrel and pointing as a soldier fired. He jumped aside clumsily and returned fire. The bullets passed within a hairs-breadth of the soldier's temple, and the man flinched.
John forward-rolled – actually, he pencil-rolled in the end – then crawled behind the other bed, panting. It was such a contained area. Soon, the soldiers were going to rip the beds apart. And there were the two agents as well….
"Fire in the hole!" Will yelled. A fragmentation grenade arched lazily overhead, bouncing up onto the face of one of the agents. He grabbed it and threw it right back.
The grenade exploded in mid-air, shredding the beds and tearing a gapping hole in the floor with a tremendous BANG! John and Will fell onto the bed of the occupant underneath. It crumpled under their combined weight.
The Spartans felt deafened. The metal skeletons of the beds fell on top of them; the sharp legs missed them with centimetres to spare.
John got up and fired at an agent, who was lowering himself down from the hole in the ceiling. He was getting better. The bullets pierced the man's chest and he fell, slumping on his front.
Will lay on the bed, his skin blackened from the wall of blistering heat from the grenade, which John's suit had protected him from again, though his shield had dropped to half. Before John could ask him his status, there was the whistle and whine of bullets flying past again, as well as a nasty slicing sound. The surviving soldiers had gotten down and were taking the offensive again. John fired a burst at one of the soldiers.
He looked towards the slicing sound. One of the soldiers had pulled out his jagged combat knife and was stabbing Will's burnt body. He rolled away slowly, screaming in pain as his raw flesh came in contact with the bed. The knife swooped in a lazy arc through his leg.
John ran forwards and swung his rifle in a wide circle. It impacted on the soldier's head with an ominous crunch and flew out of his grasp. The hard barrel slammed into the remaining agent's chest.
A middle-aged man ran into the room from the direction of the living room, shouting incoherently. When he saw the remaining soldiers attacking John from all sides, he stopped, shocked. John ignored him, swinging his fist at the nearest soldier. Bullets smacked his midriff, bleeding his shield down to zero.
His fist collided with the wall as the soldier dodged. John used his knee to knock the man down and did an open-handed strike at another soldier. He killed the remaining men with powerful blows. The last man flew out of a wall-to-ceiling window, propelled by John's roundhouse kick.
The armoured Spartan panted as he looked around him. The soldiers were all either dead or unconscious. There were bullet-holes on the walls and fragments of plaster raining down, leaving an uneven dusting on the floor like old snow. A hole gaped in the ceiling, through which could be glimpsed damaged screens and sparking panels. One agent had disappeared – he had shot it – but the other was getting up. The occupant of the house was staring at the remains of his bed, open-mouthed.
John kept his eyes on the agent but turned his visored head towards the dressing-gowned man. "Sorry about that," he said. "And I apologise for this," he added, leaping at the agent.
Five seconds later, John dusted his armour off, leaving it on the floor. He picked Will gently up and walked towards the front door.
"Oi!" the man finally yelled feebly. "Whatcha gonna do…." John could feel resistance on his arm as the man tried vainly to drag him back. He brushed him off and laid Will down, before slamming both palms into the door. It complained with a loud whine. Another blow made it creak open; a last shoulder smash brought the door crashing down. John had forgotten how strong the MJOLNIR armour was.
He picked his fellow Spartan up again and ran up the emergency stairs onto Will's floor. The doors had been blasted clean open by the agents, and the beautiful living room was a mess. Shredder rounds had destroyed most of the fixtures and fittings. A heavy dining table had collided with the TV. The latter had shattered. Glass littered the floor.
Most of the medical facilities had been destroyed in the fight. John laid Will down gently on a half-destroyed sofa and walked around the house in silence.
"Sir…." came a croak.
John ran over to Will. "I'll get skin cloned for you," he promised. There came the eerie sound of police sirens outside. Will relaxed.
John walked over to a cracked window and looked down onto the street below. Several police cars had pulled up and armed policemen ran onto the front steps, probably courtesy of the occupant one floor down.
"They're here," John sighed. "I guess that we can both have a little break." He sat down wearily on the floor.
A screech of tires. John ran over to the window again. Several sinister black wagons had pulled up. He could hear the familiar clank of soldiers - the black-clad ones. They streamed out of the wagons like armoured ants and pointed their rifles at the police.
John zoomed in on the scene with his helmet and strained to listen. One soldier was shouting something. A policeman yelled back, and they started arguing. The soldier punched the policeman, and the policeman shoved him back. They began trading blows. The policemen alternately laughed and looked worried. John looked away in disgust.
Then a complete silence fell. A black-suited agent stepped out of one of the wagons and stared hard at the fighting soldier. Right before John's eyes, the man burst into incandescent flames, setting fire to his opponent. Both men's howls drifted upwards.
The agent raised a hand, and the remaining soldiers opened fire. Caught by surprise, the police were shot down where they stood. Several managed to take cover behind their cars, and the opposing forces exchanged small-arms fire across the podium.
A score of soldiers stayed to keep the surviving policemen pinned down while the rest – thirty soldiers and six agents – hurried towards the building's main entrance.
John and Will exchanged looks. "Forget about the break," John said. He went into what remained of the Room to look for a rocket launcher.
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