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Halo Story
Date: 23 April 2001, 10:56 AM
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I do love a good challenge. And so, when I found these stories here, relating the lovely world of Halo, I couldn't help but to take it as a challenge. And thus, I took it upon myself to write the best story here.
Have I done it? No. Not by my reckoning. I'd say a good half-dozen of the stories already here give me a whalloping in the posterior. But it isn't my reckoning I'm writing for. It's yours, the readers, and whether I did well or not it up to you. Maybe you'll enjoy it, at the very least. I enjoyed writing it.
The rain made a light, hypnotizing patter against the hard-baked mud, turning the deep-churned earth into a sludge of dirt and blood. In another time, another place, it might have been called calming, romantic. But here, it was a maddening reminder of their mortality. Because the sergeant knew it was killing them.
Lance Corporal John Falcone reclined against the rock, inhaling the dusty scent of the underground passage. Corporal Jerry Michaels sat next to him, flipping plasticene playing cards into a pile. Despite their plastic coating, the cards had been soaked through to the core the day before, and the flayed edges pulled up bits of soil until it looked like he was playing with a dirtball. He finished the stack, then sighed and flopped back against the ground.
"It's over, isn't it, Falc? First thing tomorrow."
Falcone eyed the man with his best look of disgust. He blanched ever so slightly, then continued unfettered.
"I mean, it's true though, right? We're all dead!" Falcone just stared. "Well, I'm sorry! But it's going to happen whether I say it or not! And there's no goddamn wood to knock on around here, so don't bother checking. Unless maybe you count the head of our darling commander."
Falcone broke his trance, looking away as if embarrassed. "He's a good man, Kazinski. It's a bad time. Even for the good ones."
"Well, begging your pardon, but bullshit. If it weren't for him, we wouldn't be here, and that's ALL I need to know. And don't call me that."
Falcone grunted.
Specialist Freebachi, the platoon's computer tech, plopped down beside them with a grin that betrayed in a heartbeat where he had been the day before. Or rather, where he hadn't been. What he hadn't seen. Bastard, Falcone thought halfheartedly, then immediately regretted it. It wasn't his fault that the leg had been just fractured enough to miss the patrol duty. He was lucky. Just a kid. He shouldn't be here. None of us should.
Falcone, watched, painfully bemused, as Freebachi waved the item in his hand with glee. "Check it out, guys! I had no idea it was here! I thought it was just lost, dropped in the crash... something... but it was here all along! Stored along with the emergency cache!" He stopped moving long enough for Falcone to discern the gleaming object he held. "My trumpet!"
Falcone remembered now. Freebachi had been a musician, before.
"What the hell are you going to do with a trumpet, Feeb? Lock and load?" asked Michaels.
"Oh, I know, I know I can't play it. Not here. We want until morning, at least, until they find us! But I found it! I can play it tomorrow, or the day after, or whenever I get a chance!"
Falcone shared a look of pity with Michaels. If any of them lived through tomorrow, trumpets would be the last thing on their mind.
The sergeant walked by, still in full armor, carrying his helmet. He must have been on sentry. He approached the trio.
"You guys... everybody's counting and amalgamating ammunition. You three can be a group. Split it up, spread 'em out."
He walked off. The three favored his back with a glare. "Bastard." Michaels said. "Does he think we can't handle this? Just because he's seen more combat than us, he thinks we don't know our asses from holes in the ground."
He glanced at the others for support- Falcone, giving a noncommittal look of neutrality, Freebachi, just grinning as usual. "Oh, forget it. Let's do ammo."
The three men pulled out their weapons and dropped the clips. One-two-three. "Three full," Michaels said. He slid his last two spares from his battle harness, dropping them in the pile. He followed them with his last grenade, then worked the magazine free from his sidearm and deposited it. The others quickly added what they had.
The final count was, to say the least, less than perfect. They had nine clips of the 12mm RunHard penetrators, only seven of them full. Four magnetic fragmentation grenades, three more pure concussion. A couple plasma charges for incendiary work. Michaels and Falcone had five clips of charger ammunition between the two of them, to be loaded in the pistols, and god knows where but Freebachi had found thirty-two static round for his shotgun. There were innumerable flares, several mass-sensor mines, and, of course, Falcone's sword.
He clicked the switch a few times to make sure it still functioned, watching the glowing energy run down the metal like St. Elmos fire. He swirled the air a few times, and did a sharp riposte that plunged through the rock that Michaels leaned against, causing him to jerk forward in fright. "I can't believe you still have that damn thing," he muttered in irritation.
Freebachi was more charitable, smiling as the custom-made weapon painted streaks of fire into his vision. "The Falcon rides again."
The rest of the night passed quietly, in taut, tight, anticipation. Around midnight, Falcone rose and went to talk to the sergeant. He came back, hours later, leaned against his backrest, and fell into a deep, untroubled, practiced sleep.
The birds chirped madly, as if they knew it was bothering the men.
"Feather-ridden peacock," Michaels muttered, making a reflexive motion to wipe sweat from his forehead. He arrested his hand a few inches from his faceplate. Times like this, no matter what the computer said, they were sure you could roast a pig inside one of the suits.
That pigs were indeed roasting therein was an old, old joke, and one they didn't consider very funny in the at these 100-degree moments.
Falcone shifted his rifle to lay across his knees, punching his system to run a diagnostic. Greengreengreenyellowgreenred. Not bad. The same, at least, as five minutes ago when he had run the previous diagnostic. His jump jets had gone away and weren't coming back, and there wasn't much he could do about it, but otherwise, he had everything he needed.
If it came to that, he would need nothing more for the plan.
He tapped the particle transmitter on his belt. The PPE beeped. At least something was working right. "Sergeant."
"Sergeant, this is Falcone. Hole one one is good to go."
"What about yours?"
"Sir, hole one one is-"
"I know, I know. Never mind. What about- uh... the, ah, thing we discussed?"
"It'll either happen or it won't. Pray we don't need it. Everything we can do is done."
"They'll be there or they won't?"
"That's about it. Just hope. And hope it's not necessary."
"Pardon me, corporal, but that's not going to happen. Not even in my wildest dreams have I dreamt we can hold this position."
"Just hope, sir. Anything can happen. If we get out of here, we'll have even worse problems to deal with."
"What? What's that?"
"Finding a way to get you to dream about things wilder than trenches." He keyed off the channel.
He ran down the list in his mind, as he ran his eye and his hands down his body. Weapon cocked, locked, and sighted in. Clean enough to eat off of. Breastplate fitted. The pistols were snugged to his belt, the one he had borrowed off Private Winters cleaned and checked. Grenades attached, ammo secure. Sword sheathed. The detonator had been gone over by six separate men.
He looked up. Now, it was just them. And the enemy.
As if in response to his summons, a distant rumbling, like steel lightning, resonated in his earpiece.
"Speak of the devil" he whispered, tracing the line of his blade with one finger.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, Michaels let out a laugh.
Falcone and Freebachi turned to stare at him. He grinned. "Don't you get it? The devil! It's the devil! Hell! It's the Devil! We're in hell!"He swept his hand his a massive circle, encompassing the air, the ground, all of their surroundings. "Don't you see? We're in hell!"
Falcone froze, closing his eyes. Whisperingly, wordlessly, he let his finger run over the words engraved on his sword, speaking them without a voice.
"AND WHERE HELL IS THERE MUST WE EVER BE".
The roar grew louder, as he felt the second line, along the opposite side of the blade. "YET I COME NOT TO BRING PEACE, BUT A SWORD"
A maddening grin coursed across his face as he swept up his sword, and spinning, rose in the air, his glimmering spike of light reflecting the sun like a shard of crystal, as he keyed onto the main channel and spoke the words recalled from days of long memory.
"Come on, you bastards! You wanna live forever?"
The tide roared, like a crashing wave.
TO BE CONTINUED
Halo Story Part II
Date: 27 April 2001, 4:05 PM
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed.
The sergeant had arranged the battle in a semi-circular firesack deployment, a layout that had been used for literally hundreds of years. Nothing fancy, just a scimitar-curving grouping of foxholes and trenches, thickly-laid and distributed in the order of battle. A hook on one end of the scimitar contained two of the three surviving ARVs, and the single heavily damaged light tank, all dug in hull-down through the heavy clay and grime of the earth. The configuration was simple, well-planned and executed, and tested innumerably by time and grizzly battles. It was a strong and effective.
But it was not a miracle.
The swarm of Covenant struck without ceremony and without needlessly complex tactics. They outnumbered the marines nearly 10 to 1, and were not disposed to overplan in any case. Number were numbers, and numbers worked.
The first line, two hundred strong and composed of grunts employed as shock-troops, swept over the human emplacements in moments. They closed the distance, grappling to get near enough to use their close-range and melee weapons, bellowing war-cries and lighting the air with bursts of energy fire, and upon reaching a line one hundred meters from the trenches, died.
The marines, none of which had fired more than three shots, quietly recalibrated their scopes, took a moment to place weapons or comms in more convenient positions, and balefully eyed the next wave of Covenant.
The sergeant settled into his hole, watched the swarm of attackers sweep over a second invisible line, and spoke into his mike: "Light."
Falcone pressed the button.
Four hundred alien bodies, this time split roughly 50/50 between grunts and warbling elite, were hurtled into the air in a variety of pieces.
The battle came, full speed and without mercy.
Scarcely behind their ranks of still-warm dead, and through the billowing clouds of smoke and soot, the roaring tide smashed into the trench-line with the whip-crack ferocity of a striking snake. Blazing white-hot plasma down the field, they met a solid wall of doom and fate as the 44th Marines finally let loose their fire.
The fortified vehicles added their own efforts, pouring the heavy rat-a-rat staccato of the heavy machine guns and the slower ka-LAM of the tanks single cannon. The marines raked the charging line with the last of their ammunition, filling the sky with fire.
Falcone had thrust his sword into the ground as a rally point, and eschewing the safety of the trench from which Michaels and Freebachi were slewing reams of fire downrange, he lanced streak after streak of DU and armor-piercing penetrators after the advancing hordes from a kneeling position he assumed in the loamy earth. He fired in short bursts, seeking out the heads of the taller elite above the crowd when he could. He cut two away from a squad-manned energy weapon, shot a third through the knees as it approached to take their place, and put the last five shots of the magazine into the hooded viewing-prism of an armored vehicle. Without pausing in his tirade, he let the clip fall about an inch before becoming impatient and knocking at aside with a fresh one, which he slammed into place. Laying a ceiling of fire over a group approaching him, he twisted into a roll, running a half-dozen steps before crumpling under an incoming barrage. When it abated- momentarily- he revolved upright, continued the motion through his arm, and flipped a plasma pyrotechnic a dozen meters forward. He dropped again, falling barely under a hail of fire, counted a fast three, and was up and sprinting again as the grenade exploded, casting up a plume of smoke and dust. He was behind it and then through, firing as he ran, dropping figures in the mist one-two-three, floating spectres that haunted him as his gun jammed on a misfeed, clacking harshly as he begun to turn to engage a new target; he finished the turn, accelerating into a savage pirouette, and hurled the rifle javelin-straight into a crowd of locust-swarming grunts. One fell, the others turned inward in confusion, and his hands found the grip of his pistols and they were out, tracking two targets bam-bam-bam; six grunts fell pocked with the charged neodymium, heart head gut-gut vessel chamber, and one hamstrung through both legs in an incredible lucky shot. Luck? Was it luck?
Was it ever?
He heard the roar and knew it, fell back rolling as his guns pivoted up and saw the two jets, smelled blood, and leapt forward like starving bloodhound. One, three, five shots missed, but then a shot took one in the wing and the next drilled through his wingmate's fuel port, just as one pistol clicked dryly and the other felt his beck and call and tracered the next shot, sheathing it in green flame that arced through the air, lighting the fog unexpectedly as he turned and was once again running. He cleared the edge of his mini-smokescreen, found himself fifty feet from the lines and the enemy already there. His pistols reloaded. Had he done that? No matter, because they were working again, back and forth, following in a brace of grenades as they blew a hole in the horde and broke the siege on his pit; swept through as his pistols gave up the ghost and drew his sword from where it stood glowing in the earth, decapitated a templar elite that stood over Michaels' prone form with a rather neat swing-and-tuck, and collapsing to the cover of the dirt wall with a creak of the armor.
He gasped once, twice, took a deep one, let it out, and rolled over carefully. Michaels was sitting, stunned, at the opposite edge of the pit. Falcone affected a cheerful, bored, rather nonchalant smile that he knew was wasted against his helmets tint, and said, "How's it going?
Michaels stared at him as the council of executives might see the Cirque du Soleil wander into its boardroom for coffee.
"The battle, Kaz. How's the battle?"
Stare.
"The battle, Jerry! How's it going?"
Michaels blinked, slowly. He seemed to be attempting to speak, made several false starts, began and ended at the same time, and finally just shook his head.
Falcone levered his head over the edge of the hole, letting a line of visor two inches high peek over the top.
The battlefield was swept with devastation. It looked like it had been in a frontal collision. Debris, wreckage, shattered vehicles lay everywhere; bodies both suited and unsuited, human and alien, lay in a denser sprinkling, interposed among the heavier pieces. Clouds of black smoke, leaking steam, sporadic kinetic and energy fire, screams of pain and pleasure from throats comely and horrific all filled the air, painting a dark and evil portrait of torment and distress. A thick, malevolent cloud of pounding Covenant stood still at the edge of the arena, waiting for their chance, pouring onto the mosaic of horror to add their own atrocities and suffering to the mix.
He sank back with a start, turned-
Freebachi
Specialist Stuart Freebachi, Feeb, the kid. Twenty-two damn years old. Transferred from embassy duty because he wanted to travel more. Satiny blond hair and outrageous blue eyes that had never seen a day of combat.
He lay, disturbingly bloodless, with a fist-sized cauterized hole in his helmet.
The back of his helmet.
His hand had never reached a weapon.
His hand-
Gleaming-
Yes, it was time.
He picked up his sword.
TO BE CONTINUED
Halo Story Part III
Date: 08 May 2001, 3:30 am
Jerry Michaels sat in his foxhole, dumbfounded, as the Falcon came and went.
Rifleman Roger "Hawkeye" McClellan and Private Al Winters lay low in the mud, pressing their bodies against the form of the Halo as one would embrace a lover. It was not passion that drove them, though, but the Covenant bombardment that had reduced their berm to a ditch.
Corpsman Alex Bordeaux fired his last three rounds into the face of the Templar that held him, grabbed for his knife, and had first his arm, then his head severed.
COMEONTAKEITTAKEITTAKEITYOULIKETHATHUHYOUSONSOF
BITCHESCOMEONCOMEONCOMEONYEAHYOUBASTARDSTHISIS
WHATHUMANSTASTELIKEI
Warrant Officer Jim Trebour Poirot rigged the last cord, drove the light tank a last dozen feet, whispered a final goodbye, and exploded in holy flame.
Time after time after time, baptismal cannon fire exploded around PFC Corchev's hole. He was beginning to think they were just playing with him, when it hit him.
Corporal Shiguru Tinaka managed to get out his last words into his personal data correspondent, just before his body, spirit, and mind reached a parting of the ways. The words were sent out from his suit and picked up as part of a routine information transfer by HQ. "BECAUSE WE ARE MARINES."
The words of Corporal Satherin might have been considered a sequel. "Those poor bastards/bastards/they haven't got a chance."
Private Winters crawled the dozen feet to Michael's hole, arriving miraculously unscathed. Michaels had roused himself and was laying down his last futile gesture of defiance with the shotgun he procured, apologetically, from the body next to him. He and Winters chatted for awhile, and, right before the trench was targeted by a Covenant STM, accidentally broadcast a final salute over the comm-net: "... and that son of a bitch still has my gun..."
Somewhere, high above it all, a computer felt the hundredfold paths of probability shift.
And, rising throughout the battlefields tumultuous roar of death and pain and ending, a thin bugle cry echoed.
With a powerful, thickly roar, the eyes of every member of the battle turned upward, seeking out the source of the sound.
Falcone blew again, sending a shrill but piercing note of gloom and hope spinning through the convoluted depths of the trumpets brassy curves.
And the 77th, 81st, and 102nd Marines, each and every one mounted on electric steeds, swept forward and charged.
And in the lead, armor marred and rent, helmet missing, and a gruesome, slashing scar checking across his left cheek, sword held high, etched steel and fire at the forefront of the storm, rode the Falcon, eyes like a thousand furies, and parting the tides of darkness like the horizon.
The sergeant, blinkering on the edge of unconsciousness, saw the sight, and marshaled his strength for one last transmission.
"Thank you, Mr. Falcon. If you'll take the helm?"
And then blackness.
Halo Story - Finale
Date: 25 May 2001, 3:48 am
The field was swept with the torment of agony.
A lone figure stood, high and heavy above the strewn debris, the blood and tears, the dark, silent mass of oblivion.
He was silent for many moments, letting the wind whistle around his armor, the fading light shoot in streams around his hunched shoulders. A second figure approached him.
"Sir?"
He raised his head, slowly. Sir. A lieutenant addressed him. No matter. It was always sir, lord, my liege. Thank ye thank ye thank ye.
"We're ready to go, sir. Whenever you're ready."
He looked down. "Just a second."
"Sure. Take all the time you need."
Presently, the man left.
And Falcone, sighing, bent down and lifted the object at his feet.
A feryncite cube, gleaming with a crystal lattice, and reinforced with inch-thick bands, which shifted ever so slightly to expose a seam as he beamed the combination. He pulled at the break, folded it away, and reached inside the container to withdraw the tiny implant chip within.
He held it in his palm, staring, for several moments, then resigned himself to his duty.
He gently socketed the plug into the slot behind his ear.
Instantly, the dour old voice was there.
[Took you long enough. Slowing down, old man?]
He closed his eyes. "You okay?"
[I function without error. As always. Of you humans, though, I am unsure.]
Three seconds in and he was already regretting it. "That's not what I-"
[You fool-]
"Shut up, Duran-idiot. Damage. Are you damaged?"
[Nothing can damage me. Durandal Durandum Beowulf Gilgamesh-]
"Shut- UP! You are not invincible. Immortality does not prevent you from damage. For either of us. Now- ARE YOU DAMAGED?"
There was a prolonged silence. Yeah, chew on that, you son of a bitch. This isn't the Marathon anymore. I'm the one in charge.
Finally: [Only some small data corruption from particle effects. Backup and rerouting prevented any loss.]
And then, peevishly: [I liked you much better as Wiglif.]
"So did I. At least that time you died before I did. I'm tired of you outliving me. Okay, back in your hole. We'll reactivate you when we reach the base. Hopefully, without me around. Christ, I hope this was worth it."
[The Covenant seem to have thought so. I'm looking forward to sparring with their comptroller.]
[Goodbye, dearie.]
Falcone pulled out the socket with a jerk, replaced it with a dust-plug, and dropped the chip unceremoniously back in the cube. He locked it, tucked it under his arm, and trotted back to the column of Marines- found the baggage car and tossed it aboard, enjoying the sound it made. He bellowed to start moving and found a place at the front.
As he began to walk, he could not help smiling a little.
Here we go again.
Five miles overhead, in the Covenant overwatch ship skimming the atmosphere, an Elite was blurring down the halls and corridors of the twisted ship. Sprinting at full speed into the control room, it waved a portable AI terminal desperately as it smashed into the commander. It gasped.
"IT'S HIM."
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