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Guns of the Enlightened by Zerodev
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Guns of the Enlightened: Chapter 1
Date: 22 November 2006, 5:25 pm
Chapter One
Time Unknown, Date Unknown
Alien vessel, Earthian Sol System
John drifted back to reality. His eyes slowly opened, revealing a bright room that resembled a laboratory. The thin haze of sleep began to lift, and he began to wonder what situation he had gotten himself into. He could not remember where he was, but he was determined to find out.
He tried to move, a bad idea. Pain shot through his shoulder and leg. He then began to realize his situation – where was his MJOLNIR armor? John still did not know where he was. Worse, though, was that he did not remember what happened. All he knew was that he was lying in what seemed like a laboratory, in pain, without his armor, chained to the bed – John groaned, realizing he was pinned in his position.
Luckily for him, his captors, as he now thought of them, did not realize he possessed superhuman strength, even without MJOLNIR. He worked the shackles on his wrist until they were warped enough, then the same for his ankles. John rubbed the blisters on his wrists as he sat up and surveyed the room. He noted nothing except his "bed" and the bright, not-quite-fluorescent light five meters above him.
Where the hell am I?
His memory was gone. He barely remembered who he was and what he stood for. Was this a dream?
He saw a seam appear on the wall. The crack began at the intersection between the wall and the floor, and started to move rapidly upward. John quickly realized this was no ordinary seam; this was a door appearing in the wall. He sprang from his bed and ran toward the rapidly expanding crack. He crouched next to the opening, hoping to surprise who, or what, was coming.
It worked.
Almost too well, though, as the Spartan was able to sneak out behind the befuddled man in what looked like a hazmat suit.
"Too easy," he muttered. "What on Reach is going on here?"
Mindful that he was without his suit, the Spartan stealthed his way down a few corridors, looking for clues about his situation. These halls, while strange and foreign, seemed familiar. The walls and floors were a faint, metallic purple. John hated the color purple, he just could not remember why. He spotted no doors of any kind though, or at least any that John could see. Nothing.
"Who was that guy?" John thought to himself. Or was it really a guy? John was so intent on sneaking out he had failed to take a solid look at the man in the hazmat suit.
Just as John was beginning to think he was completely lost, he struck gold. He found a window that peered into a room with military gear in it. It was not just any gear – his MJOLNIR was dangling, in pieces, on the wall.
A flash of anger and despair washed over him. John cursed that he would allow himself to be captured along with his armor.
It did not matter anymore. What mattered now is that John had to get in that room. He searched high and low for an opening or a vent, anything that might get him into that room. He pounded the glass once, to no avail.
"Damn," he said to himself, "there's got to be a way in."
Another seam opened in the wall. John smirked – he always was the lucky one. He crouched near the opening until someone stepped out. Only this was no ordinary someone.
The towering hulk that lumbered forward froze John for a second. A mass of blue armor plodded out of the door, just as John remembered why he hated the color purple. He snapped out of it in time to take advantage of this opening. He dashed behind the monster as he stepped out of the room. The Lekgolo did not see him sneak past. It did, however, smell the human.
The armored beast wheeled around just in time to miss John melting into a shadow nearby. He stood there surveying the room for what seemed like hours. Fortunately for John, it was meal time, and the Hunter did not wish to be left with slop.
When the coast was clear, John quickly darted to the MJOLNIR on the wall. Relieved that he was able to get back to his armor, his situation was still bleak. Normally it took a team of technicians to help get his armor on. John was alone. How could he get this on in time? John knew how to mount the armor on himself, after years of practice. It would take him hours, though.
"I might as well ask someone to help me," he chuckled.
He knew this was no laughing matter, but he had gotten out of worse scrapes. John hurriedly began to slip into his armor. He slipped on his leg plates, followed by his boots. It was taking too long. He sped things up, putting on his torso plates next. The armor felt odd, almost as if it did not fit properly. He was getting started on his left shoulder when his heart nearly stopped – he heard that same noise he had now heard twice before.
The door was opening.
John tried to run and hide, but it was too late. The Hunter had finished dinner, and so had his bond brother. They came back in time to see John sliding into a dark corner. One Hunter bellowed and punched the alarm. The other started at John, who deftly and barely dodged the Hunter's charging-spine attack. John slid under the door as it was closing behind him.
He had not dodged the attack. Pain coursed through his side and John left a streak of blood as he ambled down corridors, not nearly as fast as he could. He now had a major problem. The MJOLNIR he was wearing was weighing him down, and he was hurt. Because he only had half of the armor on without the power supply, it actually felt like a ton. John had to ditch the armor. He hurriedly removed the armor he had on and stashed it in the only corner he could find. He hoped he could return to fetch it. He also wished he had a can of biofoam or two.
John ran until he came to a large steel door. It bore a strange, blue symbol that somewhat resembled a familiar insignia – the UNSC emblem.
"What the hell?"
Unfortunately for John, the door was immovable, even with his extra strength. Fortunately for him, the door groaned and began to open. John hid next to the door until he saw who – or what – came out.
It was a Spartan. This Spartan had his armor. John normally could tell the Spartans apart, even in armor. He did not recognize this one. Still, John was relieved to see a familiar "face."
"Where are we, Spartan?"
No answer.
"I asked a question, soldier. Where the hell are we?!"
The Spartan's answer was like a whip crack on John's spine. The Spartan's communication system opened up and he heard a quite unfamiliar voice.
"You are in your final resting place, demon," boomed an evil voice.
In a flash, the Spartan, or the creature clad in Spartan armor, had John's neck in its gauntlets. He started to squeeze as John struggled to free himself. John's vision began to blur and go black. He was near the end. Master Chief struggled but the effort was futile. He started to think about his days back on the playground, his training, Captain Jacob Keyes…
"Drop him," ordered a deep voice.
The being relaxed his grip, its head cocked in a quizzical fashion.
"He is our only hope, now if you kill him, I will personally have you rendered in four and devoured by a horde of Unggoys. Drop him!"
The MJOLNIR-clad creature removed its helmet with one hand, revealing Unih V'ulamee, a Sangheili of the Mirratord special force.
He answered, "But, Arbiter, he has been a thorn in our side for nigh two eras, why must we persist in these games?"
"He is of great value, and the high oracle demands it," replied the Arbiter.
"Very well," said the V'ulamee, as he gently lowered John's prone body onto the cold floor, "but I cannot stand this much longer."
Guns of the Enlightened: Chapter 2
Date: 27 November 2006, 1:33 am
Chapter Two
1427 Hours, November 6, 2552 (Military Calendar)
Alien vessel Titan, Earthian Sol System
The alarm blared, much to her surprise.
"Odd, how did he slip by me?" she wondered.
Of course, Cortana had not been herself. She had not been herself since September 20, 2552 when she breached Alpha Halo's system. Her problems only grew worse when she copied herself, and even worse when he abandoned her on High Charity. For an artificial intelligence, Cortana had taken a virtual beating.
She had been busy with calculations, interfacing with other systems, going through scenarios, maintaining slipspace generator integrity, and going through more ONI files she managed to steal when the alarm blared, much to her surprise.
She tracked him through the corridors, alerting the Elite known as Unih V'ulamee about his whereabouts.
Cortana pulsed red when the prisoner was carried into the medical bay.
"How are his vitals?" she asked.
"As usual, he's pretty beat up. He'll live," said the doctor.
"Wake him up," bellowed Cortana.
"But–"
"Just do it!" the AI ordered.
John did not drift back to reality this time – he was ripped from a dream into what seemed like a nightmare. He was back in shackles, this time too weak to move. Pain shot up his side, as he struggled on his bed.
"Relax," said Cortana. "At least you're not stranded with a giant plant."
The Master Chief was not amused. He was, however, quite confused.
"How the hell did you get here?"
"That's classified," retorted the AI.
"Funny. Now how did you–"
"You'll get all your answers when you're ready. Now is not the time. We need to get you healthy again, you're in your usual ragged shape," she said, matter-of-factly.
"What for?"
"For the game that trumps all," the doctor interjected.
He had not heard that voice since he was on a rebel meteor-turned-base. He thought she was long gone. Then again, he thought everything was long gone.
John's memory began to flood with images. Horrific images of mangled marines lumbering at him like zombies with tentacles, images of planets burning and friends being sacrificed. He saw Sam's burned side and Linda's lifeless body. Dr. Halsey was the only good memory he had right now, and it was damn good to see her.
"Ma'am!" he exclaimed as he tried once again to wrangle free from his bonds.
"Calm down, John," she replied, "You're in bad shape, don't make it any harder on me."
John's memory was being jogged, but he was incredibly confused at the same time. Dr. Halsey had deserted them. He had done the same to Cortana. He never thought he would see either again, yet here they were in the same room on this strange ship. Something did not feel right.
Dr. Halsey interrupted his racing mind. "John, I'm going to have to perform some surgery on you – again. You've got a ruptured spleen, a torn rotator cuff, burns on 37% of your body, and you've managed to tear your Achilles' tendon yet once more. Is pain an illusion for you, or are you just plain stupid?"
John laughed, then coughed. She was right, he had always pushed himself to the limit. He was lucky to have survived this long, and even luckier to have survived his latest adventure in his condition.
The doctor continued, "Your recovery time should be ten days, but I've given up trying to calculate your actual recovery period."
Another familiar face gave an almost imperceptible nod. No one noticed. No one, that is, except John. Even then, he barely saw it.
Now it was a trio of women that had re-entered John's life. Kelly-087 was standing in the corner of the room, nearly in tears. Spartans rarely showed emotion, but the occasion was too much to bear for John's closest living friend. They shared a bond that a universe full of strife could never break.
Loved ones were resurrected. John had not felt this much happiness in a very long time. Or perhaps it was the anesthesia Dr. Halsey had begun pumping into his system.
John slipped into a wonderful dream.
"Doc, you know we don't have ten days," stated Cortana.
Cortana could not help but admire the man on the table. She may have been angry with him for leaving her, but she had not left him much choice. She thought it would be for the best. Turns out, she needed to borrow some of Spartan-117's luck to escape Gravemind and High Charity.
"The demon is a remarkable human specimen, I am amazed he is still breathing," noted the Arbiter, in an unusual display of respect for the human race.
"I would appreciate it if you called him Spartan-117, or at least John," Dr. Halsey remarked. "He's on your side now."
"Very well. This 'John' is a remarkable specimen. With a detestable name."
Dr. Halsey almost chuckled. She was relieved Cortana's automated translation software had been perfected. It was easy for her Spartans to understand the Covenant banter with their built-in translators, but it had been another matter entirely for the normal folk. Dr. Halsey had fashioned a portable translation pack she was able to plug directly into her neural link.
"I need some peace and quiet with my patient, Mr. Arbiter," she kindly stated.
"Very well. Do not delay, we have much work ahead," he responded.
She knew that. She also knew that John needed to be ready much sooner than ten days from now. She hoped John still had some life in him after all these years. More than that, she prayed.
"Silly human superstitions," Cortana sneered.
"Funny. Now help me get started," Halsey replied. Cortana was indeed different. She was amazed at how things had changed since Cortana's "birth." She set those thoughts aside and began her work. They had a universe to save.
Guns of the Enlightened: Chapter 3
Date: 6 December 2006, 3:34 pm
Chapter Three
0625 hours, November 4, 2552 (Military Calendar)
UNSC MAC Orbital Platform Bombay, Earthian Sol System
near Earth Moon
"Damn those ONI spooks and their bureaucratic time-wasting. Griffith, get your ass down here on the double!"
Commander Harrison was not happy. Even before the Covenant's initial attack, his MAC gun lacked the AI to run it. It had been almost a month since that attack, with the Office of Naval Intelligence promising a new and improved tactical AI. It was due to arrive on the Bombay today – three hours too late.
Harrison was afraid of that. Every time he queried someone, anyone, about this situation he got the same answer. Almost every station had been outfitted or retrofitted with an artificial. The Bombay was dead last on the waiting list. It was, after all, at a pseudo-Lagrange point between Earth and the battered Moon, not exactly line-of-sight in a defensive battle.
He finally was able to coax a solid ETA as a favor from an old friend, Colonel Ruskav. Ivan was scheduled for download from FleetCom at 0900 hours. He was a "revolutionary" new AI that was going to help turn the tide in space battles. That's what they said about the last artificials developed. Harrison always had his doubts.
Those doubts became moot when slipspace bubbles began appearing at the edge of the Solar System.
"Rothstein, scramble the Longswords. Jones, get your men in place!"
FleetCom had instituted new protocol for every orbital platform. The Covenant had uncharacteristically made a mistake with their initial botched invasion – not only had they been repelled, they lost a major tactical advantage. Harrison and every other platform commander now had three Longsword squads and a naval Destroyer protecting them from Covenant insertions, and a Marine battalion to repel boarders. They made several attacks since that first one, all in similar fashion. The Covenant would have to take down the platforms the hard way.
Every platform, of course, except the Bombay. FleetCom probably thought the moon was enough protection. Resources were thin, so they cut the Bombay's line of defense to just one group of Longswords.
There would be no more botched attacks – no fewer than 300 major contacts appeared on the edge of the system.
"Bastards finally came to finish this," he muttered, "Guess we'll have to fly this solo."
***
Lieutenant Mario P. Griffith was a naval weapons specialist, but he would have fit right in as an ODST. The UNSC typically frowned on tattoos and loud music, and Griffith was an obvious exception. If he had not set so many records at the academy, he would have landed with the Marine Corps. He wished he would have purposely bombed all those tests, but he could not resist kicking everyone else's tail.
Fear Factory, an ancient "hardcore" band, blared through his cramped quarters as he took a razor to his head. His CO always wished he would let that razor loose on his face – Griffith had a knack for keeping some sort of facial hair, against regulations of course.
"Griffith, get your ass down here on the double!" bellowed Harrison over his COM.
"Great," the lieutenant said, "Probably another damn simulation. I'll make him sweat."
Griffith was untouchable. In 76 combat simulations, he had scored 73 direct hits with the station's MAC cannon. Without an AI. Griffith was a deadeye from 50,000 kilometers. Even though he had help from the station's computer system, his accuracy was already legend.
He had just finished the left half of his head, however, when he felt the subtle shift in gravity. Griffith dropped his razor and sprinted straight to the command deck – sans UNSC issue uniform shirt.
The crew needed a laugh to break the tension. Covenant had been spotted at the edge of the system. Earth had expected this ever since the day New Mombasa was vaporized. There was no more hiding the truth. Ironically, military enlistment tripled since that day. Maybe the human race should have known the truth all along; they might have been able to win a few more fights.
"Ivan's stuck on a virtual drive down in Sydney, looks like we're on our own. Griffith – somebody get him a damn shirt – get your ass in gear and ready protocols."
"Sir!"
The mood was grim. Even though everyone knew this was coming, humans faced extinction that day. Sure, there were a few more sparsely populated colonies, but if they lost Earth, they lost everything.
Griffith was ready for this. He was the star of his class. Hell, he was the star of the last 40 classes. He still had a problem – what would he shoot? The moon made for nice target practice, but hardly gave him a real shooting solution.
Ensign Remy returned with the rest of Griffith's uniform.
Wrong size!" Griffith growled.
Remy was already on her next task, so he was stuck with a shirt that was two sizes too big. It was a petty thing anyways.
Flashes began dotting the view screen as other orbital platforms began firing.
"Listen up, men," Harrison barked, "I don't know who these bastards have as a CO, but they're sure acting stupid. They're still trying to board platforms, but their ships are moving in range of our cannons. Looks like they forgot how to fight us."
Harrison was right, and that worried him. The Covenant rarely made mistakes, and they had made plenty already. They tried to board platforms like they had in the past, but they failed to account for the new defenses. Most boarding parties were annihilated before they got within 100 kilometers of a station. That was good news, except for the Bombay.
Somehow the Covenant knew about their location. Even worse, they seemed to pay special attention to his station. For whatever reason, three boarding parties accompanied by Seraph fighters were detected on a burn around the moon – right at Bombay station.
"Griffith, what's our status?" he shouted.
"Magnetic coils at 95% – full charge in 10 seconds, sir!"
"Take aim at Crises."
"Sir?"
"The Sea of Crises, Giffith. Christ, you're a crack shot in space but you don't even know your own moon?"
"Yes, sir," Griffith replied. That was just stupid, and he felt it. But he needed every ounce of confidence.
"The Covenant seem to have taken a liking to our little station, boys. Griffith, take out those bastards when they come around the moon!"
ONI had cooked up some delicious new tech for MAC accelerator rounds. After years of scavenging and improving Covenant technology, the UNSC finally got a boon when Cortana plundered Covenant technology and records while on the Ascendant Justice. Among other things, ONI developed an explosive plasma round that could be detonated on impact or remotely.
This was especially useful in taking out a group of smaller craft. Perfect.
Griffith keyed in coordinates and the cannon slowly swiveled. "Magnetic coils at 100%, re-routing energy to recharge buffers. We'll have a second shot within 30 seconds."
"Excellent. Fire at will!"
Harrison hoped this would work. He knew the Bombay would likely be boarded regardless, he just hoped he could reduce enemy forces enough for his Marines to have a chance.
The computer screamed at Griffith. Covenant dropships and Seraphs began appearing on the edge of the Moon. He waited three full seconds, then fired.
Lights flickered and the station shuddered as the round accelerated out from the cannon. Griffith was glued to his screen, waiting for the exact moment to detonate the round. Sweat dripped down into his eye, but he did not flinch.
Suddenly, a bright blue flash appeared on the screen. Griffith had not done anything, but the round detonated.
"You lucky bastard, you actually hit something?" Harrison laughed.
Griffith admitted this hit was pure luck. He had no intention of hitting the tiny drop ships or Seraph fighters. He managed to do so anyways, taking out two boarding parties and half the Seraphs to boot.
That was the best he could do. Even with the quick recharge, the cannon could not track the quick Covenant craft at this close of a distance.
"Get those Longswords in formation. Prepare for intruders!" howled Harrison. They would have to fight the rest off the hard way.
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