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Hawk Chronicles - Intro
Date: 25 July 2001, 7:29 am

SCDB MILARCHIVE/::890:10:001:OP: /ACCESSLVLDB1/SENS118A/RESTR/BATPPERSONLY

INITIATE CODE SCAN PROG/A1
[program rejected]
CODE SUBROUTINE 8B ACCESS
[accessed]
SEARCH HIERARCHY E TERMS: Commander Hawthorne
[searching]
[search completed. displaying results]
RUN FILE SIEVE (FLEERHACK9)
[sifting]
ACCESS PARTITION WILDER
[locate]
RESTRICT TO SECTOR: CREATE
[partition located. accessing]
ENGAGE FILE TROJAN-SEA/EMER/
[ENGAGED]


Unit data/Fleet west/Ground-Special/Irregular/Merc/~SilverHawks~
---------

Identity: Silver Hawks
Affiliation: Mercenary
Origin: Unknown
Operational areas: Any
Assignments: Restricted
Status: Fully operational.
Location: Unknown.


Background

The mercenary group Silver Hawk was founded some time between the twenty-first and twenty-second century. Its place of origin is unknown, as is its original members. Its work first appeared in the notorious Alpha Centauri workers revolt of 2132, later proved to be incited by the work of dissident factions. The team coordinated with local military and peacekeeping authorities, maintaining a defense against the attack, and eventually single-handedly infiltrated the dissident headquarters, disabled the computer system, deactivated the defenses, locked down the exits to all but external access, released a neural gas into the base which rendered 98% of its inhabitants unconscious, and captured the leader of the revolt without harm. They asked not to be named in the press or interplanetary media reports, and "a team of special police" was attributed credit for the takedown.
After the revolt, the group became involved in a series of other actions, spread out through a number of planets, in the employ of SolCore, planetary, and local forces, as well as a number of associations pressed with criminal charges- the Democratic Uprising of Mars is an example, in which the Hawks were rumored to ask no pay of their employers. As their name began to spread and gain notoriety among higher political and military circles, they began to receive more and more sensitive assignments. Occasionally, if and when a Regular Army SpecOps team could not be obtained with suitable rapidity or experience for a task, the Silver Hawk team would be given word, along with (as specified) a presigned contract for a flat amount, and the problem would be resolved. If the team declined a job, there would never be any possibility of reconsideration; they would not be found again. Every attempt to place surveillance or undercover operatives to monitor the Hawk group met with failure, and after a time, the issue was discarded.
In recent years, the Silver Hawk group has become more obscure, its assignments utterly black, granted by the highest authorities and denied by all. There is even rumor that the team was present at the rec--/CENSORED_LVLRESTR_ORDER:ADMIR*NEVSKY/******
****************************************************************
****************************************************************
********************************

ABILITIES

The Silver Hawk mercenary team has a reputation unmatched in all of space. It accepts assignments considered impossible (or recklessly foolish and wasteful) for entire brigades. It retains a flexible, adaptive, whip-crack approach to any task; if a situation changes, they move to accommodate it, and if a plan is rendered invalid, then they restructure and create one on the spot- but with such speed, agility, and talent that they lead most observers to believe it had been considered for weeks. The fact that the team has completed every mission ever assigned to it, with acceptable or favorable outcomes, and without suffering more than minor wounds, is representative of their immense inherent ability to complete any task, regardless the circumstances.
Every member of the group is rated at least Expert-Plus with every infantry weapon commonly utilized, as well as a number of Special Forces, classified, and terrorist weapons. Three members (Macedon, Salvador, Hackenberg) are rated as Dunadin School Masters, and it is rumored that one of the Hawks possesses the legendary Wizard badge for small-arms (it is not known who). All team members are certified demolitions instructors, and all have at least rudimentary piloting, stealth, electronics, and communications skills- most have far more than advanced abilities in these fields.
All are in top physical and mental condition. The team is entirely self-sufficient- it can be dropped in a hostile environment, behind enemy lines, or completely abandoned, and it will be able to survive, contained, for an indefinite period of time. It carries with it all necessary supplies, weapons, replacements, vehicles, and shelter- anything it is not supplied with, can be procured with ease from the enemy. It has the psychological, martial, logistical, and physiological strength to remain, on its own, until the age death of every of its members.
In the process, it will remain able and ready to complete its task.


Member Profiles (abrid.)
All dossiers and information contained within procured through Intelligence Bureau. All data rated Secret. Direct all queries to SCIB. For full personnel files, contact SCIB Filing.

John Banning

Gender: Male
Age: 32
Nationality: Sirius-born.
Position: Commander.

Commander of force. Very little is known, due to widespread classification of record. Graduate of OCS(A) and TCS with honors; duly involved in a number of skirmishes, in which he acquitted himself admirably, and received the Shining Star for excellence in command in the face of danger. Dishonorably discharged, with no charges pressed, due to an incident on Tau Ceti- the Unit clause was invoked, and the matter retains a time-stamped Unreleasable rating, except by administration-level access. He has a mind born to lead; he can grasp all possible permutations of a conflict, effects of action, the lines of influence, morale, and ability. He is flexible, resilient, but retains at all times a view of his ultimate goal.
/editpsychadmin/
Banning seems to prefer to lead battle from the front, seeing with his own eyes everything that transpires; in lieu of this, his preferred choice of weapon is a custom-built auto-rifle he made himself. He is constantly modifying it, but is it known to possess personally-molded fittings, four types of interchangeable or compatible optics, and multiple loads of ammunition. He wears an antique battle harness obtained from Earthbound days. He is quiet and thoughtfully introspective in battle, but while relaxing is known to be on equal terms with his men, with whom he is known as "Birdeye", or merely "Bird".

Correl Hailman

Gender: Male
Age: 29
Nationality: Earth-born
Position: Ground transport, armorer, technical advisor.

"Mechanic". Correl Hailman, known as "Hail" to his familiars, handles and coordinates the maintenance of the squad weapons and equipment. He also services the transport vehicles. His primary role, however, is as a driver and all-around technical guru. He graduated the University of Multi-Sci at L1, Sol, with three degrees in physical engineering, design theory, and his self-devised impromptu design. He served time as a company maintenance officer for the ground forces of Pluto Station 4, where he was personally responsible for saving the station from spontaneous immolation when its Fusion/Fission-Matter/Antimatter (FFMA) reactor malfunctioned, contaminating the control room where it could be switched off. He used a portable computer to hijack the wavelength the positron control computer operated on, and purely through inference, logical deduction, and supposition, scanned a reverse wave feed that disrupted the processor in a manner that caused it to cut its power and deactivate the reactor's operation.
After leaving the Navy, he drifted for some time, taking odd work in various places, and nurturing his life-long hobby- driving. He was picked up by the Hawks while staying on Interstellar Station 22.
While experimenting with a variety of different choices in weapons, it took many years before Hailman struck on his current choice- a standard pulse-assault, modified to the point of unrecognizability, with a short, heavy carbine barrel, lighter frame, and most especially an articulated stock that clips to his forearm and wrist, supporting the weapon, and allowing for one-handed firing while driving.

Raynor Carson

Gender: Male
Age: 30
Nationality: New Alaska
Position: Support rifleman

Raynor Carson is a heavy-support Silver Hawk, and the closest thing to unspecialized in their ranks. He carries the minigun, a squad-serviced chain gun he removed from its base, rebuilt, and now carries freely, due to his massive bulk and iron-hard muscle structure. He participated in a number of paid peacekeeping actions, mostly low-key. He was a participant in the infamous Ridley Robbery string, where a group of sixty armed men streaked across the Sirius system, stealing nearly 80 billion credits from more than sixty banks. When the array was caught and nearly exterminated on S6, he escaped with 100 million credits and leaving a note for the posse. It was his SolCorePol merc contract, authorizing the undercover infiltration of the gang, and ordering his observation and recording of all activities, ending with him leading the group to Sirius Six.
Though lacking any official training, it was said that the famous, aging Jason "Keen-Eye" Dangerson had taken him under his wing for a period of a year and taught him everything he knew. Dangerson died three months after the incident is said to have occurred, so it cannot be confirmed. It might be noted, however, that his body mysteriously disappeared from the possession of the police, who were investigating it for foul play, and ended up inexplicably on Dangerson's home planet of Reachguard, buried in his family plot- and Samuel Richards, the prime suspect in the case of his possible murder, was never seen again.
Carson joined up with the Hawks several years later.

Tal Wilder

Gender: Male
Age: 26
Nationality: Eta Centauri
Position: Computer expert, light support, backup recon

Tal Wilder, the youngest member of the Silver Hawks, handles hacking, breaking, and invading computers, as well as maintaining, servicing, and supporting those closer to home. He was a complete unknown to the galaxy until the day his virus, named the Spoiler and distributed throughout SolCoreNet for a period of months, activated. It was confirmed that almost 85% of active computers in the net were affected. No damage was done, no resources robbed. Instead, every single visual monitor display, be it 2D or three, flipped its axis and turned upside down. The best minds of the InfraNet Security Bureau were unable to fix a single afflicted screen or projection, until midnight (Greenwich Mean Time) struck, at which point every computer righted itself, the virus self-deleted, and the words "Right Shall ALWAYS triumph" flashed across.
A bit self-righteous, a bit flashy, and a bit inexperienced, Wilder is nonetheless one of the most talented computer manipulators currently living in human-inhabited territories. He has been approached numerous times by the military and intelligence services to speak of employment; he refused, even when offered outrageously vast compensation. He stated that he wished only to work free-lance, and continued to do so, until the day that he joined the Hawks for reasons unknown.
In addition to his technological prowess, Wilder- or "Wild"- possesses considerable talent at recon and light infiltration- probably an advantage in his line of work, where often to enter it, a computer must physically be reached. He carries two, very high quality light-bullet pistols in hip holsters. He was given them by a loftily-ranking military acquaintance, who likely owned them as a family heirloom- the innards are modern, but the frames are of an ancient design. On occasion, he wears a scaled-down version in wrist holsters, from which he can draw them in less than a quarter of a second. He also retains a great deal of talent in moving stealthily and acrobatically- he remains the only member of the Hawks who can keep up with Kris Salvador, and they often coordinate in reaching an objective, deep at the heart of an enemy's home.

Munn Hackenberg

Gender: Male
Age: 36
Nationality: Earth-born
Position: Support- Medic, sniper, demolition

Munn Hackenberg- who deeply, deeply prefers to be called "Steve"- is the Hawk's all-around support man. He has a full medical degree, and four years of clinical experience in an Earth hospital, as well as an additional two years as a corpsman during the brief Resurgence War. In addition to medically, Hackenberg provides long-range support- he has been a talented long-rifle shooter since the age of six, when his father showed him how to shoot an old Remington .22. He continued to hone his skill for the rest of his life, attending the prestigious Star-Light Glimmer distance firing school in the mountains of Sirius 4. After a short career in tournament shooting (short, but satisfying- he won three championships, including the Sven), he moved on to freelance support work- hiring out to individual armies, supplementing their sniper teams, and moving on when the need was passed- and eventually ran into John Banning in a bar on CentStat3. Banning made him an offer, and he joined the Silver Hawks on the spot.
Recently, Hackenberg has been taking on the role of a demolitions expert. Although all of the Hawks are fully trained demo experts, after some time they decided that, in the fast-moving world of explosive techniques and materials, there was too much for them all to keep up with. They appointed Hackenberg explosives watcher, and he stays up to date with the most recent developments.

Kris Salvador

Gender: Female
Age: 28
Nationality: New Italy/Earth
Position: Recon, pilot

Kris Salvador, the only female member of the Silver Hawks as well as the second youngest, is an Airborne-trained ex-paratrooper who joined the Hawks after her regiment was all but decimated in the Falkland during the Continental Disaster. She had been an avid member of the 357th Airborne, an elite SolCore Enforcement garrison stationed on Earth. When a fighter attack took out most of her force before they had left their jets, she landed alone in enemy territory and was forced to trek out 140 miles to the nearest friendly position, armed with a broken assault rifle and a knife.
She disappeared then, resurfacing four years later as a different person. She had a fiery temper, ************** /editpsychadmin/, and in the course of her exodus had received a pilot training. Her short fuse got her thrown out of numerous potential mercenary positions. Finally, she found her way to the Hawks, who took her in and focused her tendencies toward more productive purposes.
In addition to piloting and leading fabric and anti-grav para drops, Salvador is the primary recon commander, utilizing an incredible inherent ability to blend in with surroundings, advance virtually soundlessly, and move with unbelievable quickness and unorthodox approach. She moves lightly, penetrating enemy infrastructure without a second thought, and sabotages or collects data in moments before gliding out again. In the course of a heavy battle, she will use an auto-rifle, shotgun, whatever comes to hand, but once she moves into stealth mode, the weapon is immediately ditched. All she carries is a knife- or most likely, a number of knives, but none have ever seen more than one. She is both a connoisseur and a master of blades, and uses them to multiple ends.

Salen Macedon

Gender: Male
Age: 35
Nationality: Unknown
Position: Unknown

Salen Macedon is an enigma. The best of intelligence ef/CENSEXEC/. Even his name is uncertain- conflicting reports indicate that it may in fact be Selene. Little to nothing is known about his history. He appears to have lived a moderate portion of his life on Earth itself, but his place of birth is not known- inexplicably, no record exists of his birth. The only thing he is known for is the creation of Xian Xang, his hand-to-hand combat form. He created the form from studying numerous old Earth combat regimes, although it is not known what he drew from them- his art seems to have no relation to any previous style. He drew brief recognition for the deed, and quickly faded back from the public radar.
Macedon- sometimes called, apparently, "Mace"- is most often armed with a specialized heavy pistol. He is a extremely accurate shot with it, equaling or excelling the accuracy of trained riflemen, but where he learned his talent is not known. There are many gaps in the data on this man, and intelligence is laboring to fill the/CENSEXEC/.
---------

Availability: ON ASSIGNMENT


AUTHOR'S NOTE: Don't flap about the writing, I know it doesn't sound like me. I didn't write it, some flunky in SCIB did. Not very good, is he?

Hawk Chronicles: Prologue
Date: 06 August 2001, 6:17 PM

Chronicles of the ***Silver Hawks***



Prologue

    "Four hundred meters!" bellowed Raynor Carson.
    "I know, damn it! Six seconds!"
    "Three hundred meters!"
    "Shut up, Raynor! Four seconds! There's a fucking lock on the wire!"
    "Ain't gonna matter in much longer, Wild! Two hundred!" He lifted the minigun a bit higher, twitching his finger urgently. Banning gave him a threatening glance.
    "Almost... damn... Got it!" Wilder punched a final key, and the red security lights surrounding the pad faded out. He spun, caught a catch from Hailman, turned again, and jammed a screwdriver into the circuitry. The monitor flicked out, and the massive blast door to their left slid up with a hydraulic hiss.
    The six men leapt inside. Wilder's fingers tapped out a staccato command on the interior keypad, and the door shut.
    Darkness. Pitch black.
    "Torch?"
    "No. Switch to night." Banning pulled his visor down and touched a selector. His vision glowed bright, with a faint bluish tint as he turned and checked the others.
    "Clear."
    "Move."
    Banning walked three feet, then turned and said, "Who's got it?"
    "Me," said Hackenberg, and lifted his wrist. A small darkscreen was strapped to his arm. "Straight ahead."
    "How far, for christ's sake?"
    "Just go. I'll tell you."
    Banning led the group for several minutes, until "Here. Turn left." whispered forth from behind him. He made the turn, and continued walking.
    A rustle sounded, and a black shape dropped in front of him. It stood. "Storm."
    "Banning."
    "It's all set."
    "Okay. Follow me."
    Salvador led them past three more turns, silent as a ghost. They approached a room, still darker than midnight, but in the glow of the nightvision Banning saw several figures collapsed on the floor. Salvador approached a console on the edge of the room, struck keys, and a stormdoor in the wall irised open.
    A small executive atmosphere escape pod was nestled into a dock, hooked onto vertical rails, running up the wall to a second stormdoor. Salvador let that one open.
    Brilliant, golden sunshine.
    "Go," said Banning. They filed into the pod. Macedon has to squeeze in last, looking a bit disgruntled.
    "Ready?"
    "Hit it."
    The pod fired upwards with the explosive force of a bullet, and crested out into the air as the building behind it began to collapse into flames.

Hawk Chronicles: Chapter 1a, Part 1
Date: 06 August 2001, 6:19 PM

Chronicles of the ***Silver Hawks***

Unless you enter the tiger's lair, you cannot get hold of the tiger's cubs.

-The Art of War, Sun Tzu



Part 1- Four years later.
Location: Silver HQ, Quaker Mountains, Halo



    The tiny silver capsule spun.
    Spinning, spinning.
    The smooth, glassy, mercurial shine of the surface glimmered.
    It spun, skipping over the imperfections of its base like an ice dancer, whirling and spinning.
    Spinning.
    Tal Wilder stabbed his finger down, freezing the light bullet in mid-turn. He lifted it up. "Here, Hail. Check it out."
    Hailman caught the thrown silver streak with a bemused glance, then, recognizing it, examined the ball- the size of a small marble- with a critical eye.
    "It's my most recent. I tried that thing you mentioned with the torch, undercharging the field," said Wilder. Hailman held the capsule up to his eye, appreciated the machinated lines, curves, and surfacing of the minuscule, carefully contrived hawk, carved into the photon shell with an artful hand.
    "Not bad," he said. "You have to be careful with your solder torch if you're messing with the power settings, though. Too much and you'll puncture the P-core, getting a melted work bench for your troubles. Too little, and you end up with rounded edges, not clean." He ran his fingernail across. "Like this."
    "I didn't want to burn off any body parts."
    "No doubt."
    The door to the spacious bar opened, and Hackenberg stuck his head in. "It's that time again, boys."
    "Hammer time?" Wilder said hopefully.
    "I don't suppose it's Happy Hour?" probated Hailman.
    "Conference room. Five minutes." Hackenberg retreated, letting the door slip shut.
    The two men looked at each other, sighed, and rose.
    The conference room, a long, square chamber furnished with a rather natty-looking brushed chrome table, swivel chairs mounted on sliding rails just for the hell of it, and a wall-mounted tri-projector, was filling up as Hailman and Wilder arrived. Hackenberg was there, idly twirling a pen, his feet up on his leather binder, in turn resting upon the table. Raynor Carson wandered in as Wilder dropped into a seat, pulling one out on its track for Hailman; he nodded his greetings and dragged over his own seat.
    Macedon drifted into the room, unnoticed, sitting at the end of the table. Kris Salvador followed, rubbing irritatedly at her eyes as if woken from a nap, and glared in response to the barrage of "Hey, Storm" that greeted her.
    Finally, Banning entered through the back door, moving to the head of the table with a stack of papers.
    "Covenant!"
    The room grew instantly silent, as all eyes turned to Banning.
    "Thank you."
    Grins.
    "Steve?"
    Hackenberg, who had closed his eyes and was reclining in his chair, jerked up with a start, leaned forward, and slid the leather file holder down the table, where it gently bumped into the projector controller. Banning picked it up, opened it, and withdrew a single sheet of CC paper.
    "Gentlemen, I hold in my hands your future."
    Carson gave an exaggerated yawn, drawing a few chuckles.
    "If you would give your attention to the viewing screen, please," Banning said, and tapped a control. The tri-projector flickered alive.
    "As you see, my dear friends, this is a mission request sheet. Nothing unusual about that, we get them all the time, for everything from starting a war to guarding the peace. However, as you might expect, things are a bit different under our current... ah, circumstances." He rapped on the table with his knuckles, fixing his gaze upon each member of the group in turn. "We are stranded on an unknown alien artifact, situated somewhere in deep space. There is a blood-thirsty horde of mindless, heartless beings with a desire to annihilate the human race, and their entire fleet happens to occupy, at the same moment, the aforementioned artifact. And, now that we've finished the IA job- which was what brought us here, to the 3rd Fleet and hence to the Pillar of Autumn, and HENCE, to this place- we are somewhat out of a job."
    Banning, stretching out his arm, pressed another control, and the image expanded, bringing the text into readability, but only revealing the header, which detailed a mission supplied by one SolCore Fleet Marine division. "Gentlemen, ladies, a mercenary group without mercenary work is more useless than fuel tanks on a bird. We dealt with the IA corruption business. Fine. The Marine contingent, what's left of them, has underwritten a few problems to us, which we have also handled, naturally. Great. But without regular work, there is nothing for us to do, and no means of support- and regular work, for an Irregular military group which handles irregular tasks, comes from a large population, one that can supply us with plenty of people, all having the problems they'll only have once."
    "Unfortunately, that is no longer possible. The number of possible employers available on the Halo, as they call it, is minimal- and since they're primarily military, their exact numbers are in fact mostly moot, as a military force is merely a unit. The individual members cannot supply us with employment. Without employment, we have no means of supporting ourselves."
    "May I remind you, gentlemen, that we CAN survive in a hostile environment, virtually indefinitely, under normal circumstances- but, as I said, these are hardly normal circumstances. If we are to survive here, we must not only be fed, equipped, and sheltered- we must have adequate ammunition, supplies, and intelligence, as well as knowledge of the actions of the Regular Army and Marine forces here. In other words, we must not only live- we must thrive."
    "I wish you to take this into account, you see, when I tell you what I'm about to."
    Banning flicked his thumb, and the full document appeared on the screen. "This is a mission request, as you can see, proffered by the Pillar's garrison. However, it's not just a request."
    He sighed. "It's a unit attachment contract, annexing us as a paid, subcontracted retainer of the Marines."
    The room broke up into confusion. Cries of protest, mutters of disbelief, and growls of disapproval resounded in a brief cacophony of rebellion. Banning let it go for several moments, then smacked the switch for the room lights.
    He switched them back on just as savagely, and glared into six angry faces. "LISTEN TO ME. We have no choice. If we just remain here, doing nothing, taking the occasional odd job from the Marines, muddling around under attack after attack- we're screwed. We will run out of essential supplies. We will slowly damage our equipment into unusability. Eventually, we will be killed off, one by one."
    "HOWEVER- if we take this, people, we will become part of the army. We will be under their protection, and they will supply us with whatever we need. We will be given enough business to keep us in hot socks for the rest of our lives."
    "And we will have a chance of getting off this god-forsaken spinning disk still living."
    "I know that none of you like the idea of selling out to the army. The majority of you have experienced it, and have no reason to admire the way they work. But, regardless of whether we are terribly fond of them, we CAN work together- and we will."
    "Because working together is the only way we're going to make it through this. And if we do- then humanity might."
    Banning pressed a key, slowly panning the viewer along the document. He slipped it out of the image provider and held it up.
    "This has not been signed. It requires that each and every one of you to do so before it becomes active and binding." He looked at them all again.
    And, taking a print-id pen, he scrawled his signature on the line.
    The paper made its way down the table. Grudgingly, each occupant stared at it, seemed to struggle with inevitability for several moments, and at last, gripped an ident inscriber and signed their names.
    The paper arrived back at Banning. It sported seven signatures branded across the bottom, like a proclamation of their destiny.
    He grinned and filed the contract. Then, he changed the projector view again, displaying a map.
    "Well then, laddies, we've got out first mission. And this is how it's going to go..."
    
    
    
    
    
    * * *
    The trees, a beautiful, verdant green, rustled gently in the wind. Birds chirped, whistled, and sighed, filling the air with their soft trilling song. Grass rustled, small brown mammalian creatures skittered along the ground.
    Hackenberg saw all these things- he would be a poor soldier who did not notice every manifestation, even the slightest, which could contain possible harm. But he did not see them as a wonderful earthy diversion; he saw them as the multifold camouflage of nature which cloaked him.
    He had tried three different places, creeping stealthily from one to the next, each within four hundred meters of the target. Finally, though, he had decided the split tree, grassy knoll, and overgrown patch of shrubbery were all unacceptable.
    He now lay, still as death, covered in an active camo blanket, on the crest of a hill more than 1400 yards from his mark.
    His earpiece spoke gently, resonating crystal-clear through the bone of his mandible.
    "Sword One to Lancer."
    He shifted his jaw, keying the mike. "Lancer."
    "Arrange the formation."
    "Acknowledged." The signals were being processed in a 1232-bit cross-encryption, double-coded, rerouted and bounced four times between the sender and the receiver before it was accepted- but taking chances was a fools business, and anyway, most of them were more used to coded orders than anything else.
    He picked up the lens-amplification binoculars he had been using and lay them aside, reaching to his left. A long, dark bag was there, and he quickly unfastened it and removed a BlackSteel custom weapons case. He placed it in front of him and clamshelled it open.
    Inside, seeming almost to glisten despite the light-capture matte exterior, lay the HLA-3, his sniper rifle. The name, of course, stood for Hackenberg Long Arm, third generation- it was his own creation, and no other name might suit.
    Lifting it gently out of the eggshell padding, he carefully extended the barrel, checked the scope, and examined the stock before, with a touch of a switch, letting the bipod snap down. He inserted the spokes into the soft earth, wrapped his hand around the grip, and placed his eye to the huge viewing port.
    A thin red reticule lay across the massive, brilliantly bright image inside. Numbers ran across the top, bottom, and edges of the picture, informing him of distances, wind speeds, atmosphere densities, load, barrel heat, and other such things.
    A flick of his thumb made a menu pop out, which quickly scrolled down, selecting the words Silent, No Flare, Med-Soft, and Penetrate.
    Finally, he let the sight wander over his target.
    A massive, glimmering structure jutted out of the earth, seeming to defy gravity. Glowing, effervescent towers, spindle thin, surrounded it protectively; spidery trails of energy emitted to the center construction, cleaving the space around the apex into eight sections. A tall, translucent wall enveloped the site, reminiscent of a bubble; a single gatehouse, protruding on each side, linked the two worlds.
    In the front of the gatehouse, three small metal posts were driven into the ground. Watchers.
    And two gracefully hulking Covenant Elites stood within the guardhouse, gazing alertly toward the winding road that approached.
    At this distance, the Covenant were only smudges against glass; the watchers were stubby toothpicks. The optics were good enough to distinguish features, though, and Hackenberg carefully placed the intersecting lines over the ridged forebrain of the first Covenant. He held it as immobile as he could, letting his muscles relax, breathing shallow, and slowing the flow of blood to his palm, fingers, and shoulder.
    He inhaled softly, and-
    "Sword to Lancer. Drop the trick."

Hawk Chronicles: Chapter 1a, Part 2
Date: 06 August 2001, 6:25 PM


    John Banning ducked his head low, keeping his large frame below the grass. Behind him, Macedon and Carson were kneeling so deeply they were virtually prone. Carson wore a flatplate armor vest that dropped to his thighs; but not a single armor jacket in Supply had fit around his bulky arms- as usual- so he had them cut away, and he carried his minigun wandering somewhere around his hip. Macedon was garbed only in his usual BreakShield cloak.
    Banning inched forward slightly, trying to get a view of the two gate guards. They seemed completely aware, as always- no half-asleep sentries sharing a cigarette, around here. He tapped his receiver to change the frequency and bit. "Chariot."
    "Here."
    "Positioned for the pick?"
    "Clear on this end."
    Banning turned, and without a word inquired to the two men. Carson had a savage grin; Macedon, just his usual dark glimmer.
    He whispered into his mike.
    Suddenly, from no apparent source, a perfectly straight, endlessly long line lanced out of nowhere. The tiny, blue-gray-green contrail split the air, whispering like an unsheathed blade.
    It ended, breaking softly through the guardhouse's window with a sound like a cracking icicle, burrowed into the stem of a Covenant brain.
    Barely a second later, a second horizon-line tore past, the smoke of invisible tracers dissipating quickly, and the second Covenant turned just in time for it to lodge in his center lobe.
    "TAG," Banning whispered furiously.
    A moment later, there was a muffled thump; two feet in front of the triple-set of watchers, a cloud of silvery metal burst, filling the air. Banning could see the crackle of energy snik between each charged scrap.
    Another luk, luk and two of the watchers were smashed, their wide round crystal eyes shattered.
    Banning lurched to his feet, was up and sprinting in a moment, as yet another shot was heard and the third mechanical guard lost its cyclopean sensor. He angled toward the guardhouse, hearing the footsteps of Mace and Carson far louder than his own; cracking his jaw, he muttered "LIFT".
    He reached the guardhouse, slapped the door control and swung inside. The two Covenant were most definitely dead. He ran to the back wall, where a door opened into the interior of the complex; fishing into his hip bandoleer, he removed the prearranged breaching charge, activated the magnetic anchors by pulling on a tab, and slapped the fist-sized device onto the wall.
    Turning, he ran back out, past the two others where they had been guarding the entrance. He made his way as fast as possible, running dead-heat.
    A moment later, he heard a revving; mere seconds afterward, the Warthog crested the hill, barreling through the high grass. At the wheel, skillfully maintaining his course on the uneven surface, was Hailman; beside him, Wilder held to his seat desperately.
    They drove directly at Banning, not pausing in their acceleration for a moment.
    Banning tensed, counting silently, and then barked into his earpiece, "Mount!"
    Hailman spun the vehicle in a whirling circle, carving a donut out of the ground; at the same instant, Banning leapt into the air, describing a full flip, and landing in the same spot- occupied, now, by the Jeep. He slipped, gently as a feather save for a small bump, into the back seat, as the Jeep finished its mad circle and continued on its arrow-straight course.
    Carson and Macedon slid noisily into the seat next to him. Both had omitted Banning's rather flashy mid-air somersault, but had landed fine, as they always did in practice.
    They drove in a collision course with the guardhouse. Banning, slumping low into the seat to avoid the whistling wind, reached around to his wristpad and drew a circle.
    A low bump was the only indication of the detonation.
    The next moment, the Jeep barreled into the guardhouse, and the ruined building collapsed with a heave. They hurtled through the debris, knocking aside several scraps too stubborn to smash, and burst out on the other side.
    A wide, open field was the base for the towers. Several pillbox shaped structures jutted from the ground, apparently providing a source of power; a ring-shaped enclosure, surrounded with surging, glowing fields of plasma, contained the entrance to the central tower.
    Banning barely noticed as Wilder slipped from the vehicle noiselessly, rolling to absorb the impact. Hailman reached beside the Jeep's dash with his left hand, wrapped his hand around his rifle, and drew it from the leather sheath. He flipped a switch, and the arm brace folded open, fixing itself to his arm below the elbow.
    Banning considered leaning forward to shout, decided against it, and twitched his jaw instead. He reached up, tapping for the LOS short-range freq. "Hail?"
    "Cap."
    "Let's have a lap."
    "Got it."
    Hailman maneuvered the Jeep one-handed, turning it in a loop around the center tower. Banning watched the ground roll past watchfully.
    They completed the circuit. Banning, satisfied, tapped Hail on the shoulder, and they ground to a halt.
    Banning leaned in, looking at the three others. "Okay. Carson, Hail, you two are going to provide cover; get a perimeter, all directions. I'll have a look at the door to this place. Mace-"
    Banning broke off, seeing the expression on his face. "What's wrong?" he asked sharply.
    It was then that the gentle humming reached his ears. He spun around savagely.
    The smooth ground around them had ruptured. Soil crumbled away from numerous breaks in the earth, and cavities began to open as horizontal blast doors slid apart.
    Rising up from below them, platforms were being pushed up. Piled barricades and combat shields were arrayed, and Covenant were gathered in the center of the lifts.
    How many? A hundred Covenant? A dozen strongpoints?
    "Out!" Banning bellowed. He shoved his door open and slid out, dropping down low. Christ- they were all around. One particular orientation wasn't going to help.
    Mace had rolled out with a sweep of his cloak, looking like some mystical cavalier riding in a storm cloud as he rolled away. Carson just swore; he spun around in the back of the Jeep, swinging up his minigun, and resting it on top. Out of the side of his mouth, he snarled "Ride, Hail!"
    The Warthog spun its tires and fishtailed forward. Carson grunted, hooked his heels to the front of the seat, and began to discharge a fusillade in the direction of the nearest Covenant. Shots peppered against combat shields, reflecting off or being absorbed. A few unlucky grunts took shots that rose high.
    Hailman wheeled the Jeep around again, pointing it at the Covenant. He lifted his rifle up one-handed, tilted it toward them, and began popping flechettes. They burst, causing the Covs to duck instinctively- the next second, they were knocked into the air by a concussion grenade from Carson. He took the opportunity for target practice, riddling them before they reached the ground.
    Hailman kept going at the barricades, crashing into the edges; with a practiced motion, he relaxed his body, tumbling over the windshield and rolling along the hood to the ground. He jammed his gun's brace back, flipped a setting, and began launching flares into the sky.
    Raynor Carson fell down beside him, grumbling, and rubbing his shoulder where it had collided with the driver seat. He racked another belt of bullets into his gun.
    Mace had been crouching, immobile, under a flurry of bullets and energy blasts that were criss-crossing the air over him. He picked a source, watched the plasma surge through the air, hit his count of 500, and leapt to his feet as the stream stopped. He bent his knees and began to run... angling directly at the nearest barricaded platform.
    Shots burst off his long cloak, emitting a rainbow of impact colors. Kinetic energy pummeled him back, but he forced through, pumping his legs, driving into a dead sprint. When he reached a spot thirty meters from the target he suddenly stopped his run. He stood for a moment, motionless.
    Then, as if striking a blow, his hand crossed his body in a blur, he spun, and his gun was out in a flash.
    Four exposed heads of the firing Covenant exploded, each within a second of each other.
    He gave two more shots, lightning-quick, and the fifth Elite saw his needler shot away from him, then holed. It spread its arm, lunging for another, only to see it take three more shots, so fast that they sounded like one.
    Then, it watched, in dire fascination as blow after blow began to rock into the combat barricade directly in front of it. The shots caused no damage, but so furious was their power, that the shield was being knocked back from its anchor to the very earth.
    A final shot, and the shield fell from its mounts, twisted away.
    The Elite felt the burning pain of its ruptured vessel chamber for approximately 1/8 of a second, before the next shot tore its head off.
    Macedon lowered his pistol. Hefting its weight, he tapped out the empty magazine and slapped in another. He moved the gun- and suddenly, it was away, inside his cloak. He began to walk, slowly, almost meandering, to the strongpoint.
    Reaching the site of the carnage, he stepped carefully over the barricades, entering into the protected circle. He checked each, feeling for the tension of the throat sacks, and, satisfied, stepped away. He stood for a moment in the middle, reflecting.
    A rustle sounded behind him.
    And a shot snapped out of the air.
    The grunt fell to the ground, boneless, the gun dropping from its paws.
    Macedon didn't turn. "I saw him," he said, sounding resigned... irritated. His pistol was in his hand.
    Tal Wilder dropped one of his handguns back to its holster. His knee was resting nonchalantly on a heavy density "sandbag." "How was I supposed to know that?"
    "Never mind. Did you see Banning?"
    Wilder dropped his foot, leaned forward, and kicked the plasma weapon from the nerveless digits of the grunt. "Sure did."
    "How is he?"
    Wilder chewed idly on his lip.
    "Screwed."
    Banning tore another gap into the line- no, not the line, the mob- of encroaching Covenant. He was stuck directly in the middle of a group of three of the strongpoints, with no cover, and he was so far outnumbered that they were beginning to venture out from their barricades, charging him directly.
    He slipped out his clip, popped in another, and cradled the weapon to his chest, he began to roll. As he rolled, he jabbed his wrist gauntlet twice, and his energy shield burst out, a teardrop of glowing aquamarine on his arm. He lifted it above his head, continuing to roll, as three glancing plasma bursts cracked against it, flaring cobalt that shivered his arm.
    Stopping suddenly, he rolled twice in the opposite direction, flipped his rifle up, spun it to his shoulder as he came up into a kneel, and blazed a stream of fiery death into the swarm of Covenant. Misting more shots, he pressed a key with his thumb, lit up the target, and flamed a grenade out, low. The next moment, he leapt forward, ran two feet, hit and rolled again, and deflected two more shots with his arm shield. His rifle was up next to it, raking across two Elites with burning penetrators-
    and the grenade exploded with a heavy Ka-wham!, hurtling fragments in every direction. He heard cries of agony. Perfect- as usual, the stubby grunts had been directly in the blast radius, and now the Elites were forced to either help the wounded shock troops, kill them, or trip on them.
    Banning jerked a cylindrical smoke canister from his shoulder sack, let it fall to his hand, and pitched it directly downward as hard as he could. A plume of smoke pyred upward, evolving quickly to an inferno, and he turned and ran hard.
    As he ran, he kicked himself into the comm channel. "Hawks! Status!"
    "Hey, i-"
    The signal snapped away as quickly as it had appeared. He twisted his jaw several times, trying to regain the interlink.
    It remained as it was, silent as death.
    He swore as a fresh volley of glowing fire-flies rocketed past, one within a foot from his face. "Shit!" He felt at his cheeks, touching the burn.
    Whirling, his heightened senses shifted his arm, fast, blocking three more shots. Deducting, in an instant, the futility of it, he let go of his grip on the rifle, dropping it down and shooting his arm up through the sling, as he fell into a hard cartwheel to his left, came up, and twisted as he dropped into a sit, his gun flickering out the last of the magazine into a lunging group of grunts. Swiftly, he brought to bear the barrel on the last, the Elite leading the group, squeezed the trigger, and
    Heard a dead, hollow click as the hammer slammed forward on an empty chamber.
    The elite walked up to him, moving with that jerky, slinking step that seemed to eat up space in moments without looking like moving at all. Banning didn't need to reach for another clip. He already knew what he would find; that his battle harness had slipped from his chest, severed by an errant burst of fire, as he had fought. With it, his spare ammunition, his sidearm, and-
    The Elite extended an arm, letting a burst of light flare as the sword exploded downward. He finished his approach, standing over Banning.
    If that's not a smirk on his face, I'll be dipped in shit, Banning thought.
    "Your death," the Covenant growled with a synthesized voice, "is the will of the gods."
    It leaned close, raising the sword. "And we are their-"
    His body exploded backwards, knocked a half-dozen feet by a dozen simultaneous impacts. Riddled with fire, the Elite crumpled to the ground, seeping blue, effulgent fluids into the dirt.
    Banning's radio crackled. "I want credit on that kill."
    "Like hell! That was me!"
    "Are you people crazy? I had you all beat!"
    Mace's voice spoke through. "Apparently, there are delusions of grandeur at play here. My first shot was more than one half-second ahead of all of you- and my second was a half-second after. So, you see, I hold both-."
    Wilder cut him off. "Mace, I don't care if you can shoot off my belt at a thousand paces, I had that Cov bastard dead to rights. All you people were just window dressing. He was dead as soon as I pulled the trigger."
    "Yeah, that's right. BEFORE you pulled it, actually."
    Banning, bewildered, jerked his head up. "Steve?"
    He could almost hear his grin. "In the flesh, my boy. Couldn't miss out on the fun, could I?"
    Banning looked up. The force-dome surrounding the site was gone. A trace of blue smoke, from as far as the eye could see, was dissipating in the air.
    Wilder's voice came back. "We found the dome controls right beside the wave field jammer. Right on one of those platforms. We were kinda pissed off, you know, that we couldn't talk to you. And had no idea where you were. Fortunately, that Covie-idiot over here, the tall bastard, decided to light his fluorescent pig-sticker, and that was something of a clue."
    The man behind the voice materialized in the smog, with Carson beside him, holding a smoking minigun. He offered a hand to Banning. "Hell of a smoke screen you got here."
    Banning stared at the hand, sighed, and grasped it. He pulled him to his feet.
    "It's the new model. The SM-17s.
    "Remind me the next time I want to pollute a major city."
    The others had turned up. "Where's Hail?" Banning inquired.
    "Giving the Covs on the other side of this monstrous tower a little show. Don't worry, he'll be fine. He has the remote to the dome-field, and he'll bolt when it gets too hot. Bottle them up like so many fish in a barrel. Come on."
    They started walking.
    "Oh, hey- ain't this yours, Bird?"
    Carson flipped Banning's battle harness to him. His eyes lit up.
    "Son of a bitch! Old Bessie. Can't believe I lost her."
    "Yeah, well, maybe now you'll get something at least a little new?"
    "Don't even start."
    Banning stopped, frowning. "Wait- oh, shit. My gauntlet's fried. What's the count?"
    Wilder eyed the smoking device dubiously. "Looks like you blocked a nuke with that. Don't worry. We're perfect as usual. Ten seconds."
    They were in front of the entrance to the tower.
    Wilder yawned. "Two... One..."
    The security fields around the huge doors flicked out, as if swallowed.
    Carson tossed Banning his rifle. "Here."
    They walked inside.









Author's Note: Any of this sound a little familiar?You've only seen the censored version. Pah! Gough! What the hell kind of name- never mind.

Hawk Chronicles: Chapter 1b
Date: 09 August 2001, 9:39 PM

Chronicles of the ***Silver Hawks***




    The passage was dimly lit in natural-light tones. It was an interesting bit of data to add to the old question of Covenant visible spectrums- indeed, if they saw visible light at all. Some captured enemy bases and outposts had sported lighting, like this, but others were completely devoid of any illumination, be it visible, ultraviolet, infrared, or whatnot.
    Banning walked slowly. Information was running through his head like a checklist. Should be another five hundred AR shots. Three more grenades? Gauntlet was irretrievably gone, short of "dry dock"- Hail's shop. The burn on his face was painful, but wouldn't be permanently damaging, not as long as he got it treated immediately upon their return.
    "Hey, Bird. Check this out." He turned.
    Wilder was standing, reading from a display mounted on his left wrist. His right hand was at his side, tickling one of his guns nervously.
    "This is really weird. I've got my backpack antennae" -Wilder had been designated the comms officer for this mission- "set to All Bands. Just in case, you know. Well, I'm getting this funny-looking scan off of one of the unconventional carriers."
    "What?"
    "It's magnetic."
    "Magnetic? Who the hell communicates with magnetic?"
    "A few. Some of the sparser deep-space colonies. Our equipment can swing it, if we want. It uses a sequence of pulsed-"
    "Stop."
    "Right. Anyway, this is really more Hail's field than mine. But like I said, I'm picking up a signal right now. A very odd one."
    Banning leaned against the wall and sighed. "Wilder, what's it say?"
    "Well, that's just the thing. It doesn't say anything. It's just a sort of phased pattern, pumping out cycles, then repeating. Like some sort of recorded message."
    Banning swore. "Jesus Christ. Fine, store it. You can give it to Hail when you see him."
    "No problem."
    How fascinating.
    They continued following the corridor. According to the sub-terrain pidar, there was almost a mile of pure leg-work, just to reach the end of the entrance hall. Bored, Banning activated his comm.
    "Hail?"
    "Cap'an! How ya doing!" The voice sang out cheerfully from the resonating filament.
    He must be having the time of his life.
    "Just dandy. You're the one with the sawed-off army after you, though. How's it going?"
    "What, these guys? Ha! I could drive circles around them in my sleep! Hell, I could take them myself, man! You want me to?" He was shouting. Explosions could be heard through the line.
    "I don't think so."
    "You sure? Hell, I could take 'em with a knife! A fork! A sharp spoon!" A roaring thud echoed through Banning's ears.
    "What was that?"
    "What, that? Five Elite, nine grunts, and a crew-served plasma MG! Why?"
    Banning signed off.
    They trudged on.
    Eventually, they reached the end of the tunnel. There was a large doorway, hermetically sealed, set deeply into the surrounding walls. "Shit," said Banning.
    "What, shit? Put that away," Wilder said. Banning had been reaching for a vibra-breach charge.
    Standing away from the wall, Wilder examined it for a moment. Then, he set his feet, squared his shoulders, and drew his pistols with a yank and a twirl.
    The air snapped and flashed, three times. Banning closed his left eye reflexively. When he opened it again, there were six pock marks all along the metallic walls. Wilder grinned, holstered, walked up, and gave the door a kick.
    The massive, reinforced blast barrier fell over with a smash.
    "Just gotta know how they make 'em, sir."
    Banning was beyond being surprised today. He just shook his head, and walked inside.
    Only to be tackled in the next instant by Macedon.
    He fell to the floor, cracking his teeth together. "Fuck!" Surprise quickly gave way to adrenaline, as he sniffed the burnt oxy, twisted his head, and saw the black pit against the bulkhead where the plasma burst had scarred it.
    He rolled one way, Mace rolled the other. Wilder had been firing the whole time. Clicking dry, he cursed and ducked behind the lip of the door.
    Banning rose up, jamming his cheek to the butt of his gun. The circular wall of the room already had miniature craters where Wilder's shots had burst the plasma turrets, running about halfway around. They were more or less invisible in the dim lighting, but Banning calculated their distance from each other, adjusted for the spacing, and quickly blasted the wall from one half of the exploded turrets where they ought to be. Mace followed suit, handling the other side.
    The last unmanned gun flared blue-green and died. Banning relaxed. Mace's gun disappeared.
    Wilder reentered the room, pistols reloaded and ready. Seeing no threats, he lowered them, wiping his face. "What the hell?"
    Banning stood, popped out his mag and checked it. "They set out a party for us."
    Mace was examining the marks of the destroyed batteries. Wilder groaned. "You know, I was just about to say that this seemed too easy."
    "Next time, say it."
    There was only one other door to the room, nestled among what appeared to be storage cabinets. He checked one. Locked.
    The door, however, slid open to the touch. He turned and beckoned.
    "Come on, guys. Into the breach."


    Within moments of crossing the threshold into the new passage, the lights had become nonexistent. More food for thought. Before anyone could speak, he said, "No torch."
    "I wasn't going to ask."
    "You probably should. We just made enough noise, not to mention emissions, to bring half the Covenant army down on us. Stealth is more or less pointless."
    "Then why not a torch?"
    "I thought that you weren't going to ask."
    Banning produced his eye-HUD. He slipped it over the bridge of his nose, fastened it to his ear, and tapped for artificial illumination. It lit. He added in a decibel meter and a reaction detector, then waved his fist. They kept moving.
    The path they were following had begun to achieve a more and more serpentine quality. In lieu of the characteristically Covenant bulbous, warped, but utilitarian and straight architecture, a more artistic hand was starting to be revealed.
    Banning mentioned it.
    "We're in his fucking house, Bird. They're not producing it by assembly line."
    Banning was about to reply when a flashing indicator caught his attention. On the left side of his HUD, the little scale that was measuring weapons reactions had given a twitch.
    He waved for a halt, staring at it.
    It seemed to be struggling under a load. It rested at 0, forced its way up to 10 micro-PEMS, and then dropped back down to 0. The next time, the indicator made it up to 15, held its own for a moment, and fell like a stone.
    Banning was still frowning at it, mesmerized, when a thrum filled the air, and Macedon gave a cry.
    He spun around.
    Only to be blinded by a surge of powerful light, not from his HUD, but from his uncovered eye. He fell to the ground, blinking desperately. Spots were swimming laps in his eyelids, and all he could see as a commanding shine, surrounding him and enveloping his vision.
    A moment later, there was furious growl, followed by a scream.
    Banning doubled over deliriously, rubbing his eyes. He groped around his webbing. Feeling his water bulb come under his hand, he grasped it, shoved it into his face, and squirted a deluge into his eyes. Knocking his HUD off, he gave another to that eye.
    It helped. Several seconds later, he was able to make out shapes, and he snatched up his rifle angrily, spinning around, looking for a target.
    There was only Wilder, huddled against a wall, the dark form of Macedon on the ground, and a huge, black mass mere feet away.
    In one hand, it held a fiery sword; in the other, a glowing shield.
    Banning turned slowly to Wilder. "What the h-"
    Another noise from behind Banning. Pumped, enraged, he whirled maddened and- realized that his gun was unloaded. The magazine lay on the floor, meters away.
    Wilder gave a cry, and Banning saw him yanking at his pistols.
    Both had been nailed to their holsters by a glimmering blade through the trigger guards.
    Banning turned.
    "Hi, Storm."


    Kris Salvador was standing at the other end of the hall. Another edge, shining in the dim light of the energy weapons, lay prominently in her hand.
    Wilder stopped struggling with holsters, looking up in amazement. "Storm? Holy shit!"
    "Nice to see you too, Tal."
    "Don't fucking call me that."
    Salvador was cloaked in 1/4 visual camouflage, pure black. The skin-tight combat/recon jumpsuit, capped off with an ordinary black watch cap holding in her reckless, wavy blond hair made her appear almost ethereal in the dim light. She had a thin, wraparound rucksack, into which her knife vanished as she approached them.
    Banning rubber his eyes and glared at her half-heartedly. "Dammit, do you have to make these entrances?"
    "Ho ho ho."
    She bent over the collapsed figure on the floor and did something. The glowing sword flickered and died.
    Banning frowned at it. "What the hell happened, anyway? What is that thing?"
    She stood. "Covenant Hunter. Order of the Templar. Third deirgn."
    "Well, what the fuck did he do to me?"
    "Superheated plasma from three inches away. Don't complain, it could have been zero inches and your head."
    "Well, what did you do?"
    She stomped on the Hunters arm. The shield faded away, leaving them in darkness. "I'll tell you someday." She popped a torch. "Incognito is out the fucking window."
    Banning was about to reply when something tugged at his consciousness, and he frowned and turned. Mace was lying on the ground, enshrouded in his cloak.
    Banning ran over and crouched beside him. He turned him over.
    A wide, dark burn mark was slashed across his torso. His cloak had reached the limit of its shield-tension, and the energized material had split, tearing away from the point of stress; now, it sat dead and lifeless. Banning unfastened it carefully, peeling away the fabric half-melted. The energy sword had entered through Macedon's sternum and exited out his left shoulder-bone.
    Feeling his neck, Banning counted the pulse. (x) beats a minute, faint and thready. But the blade looked like it had missed the lung, and his heart was fine. The amazing heat of the blade had cauterized the wound, and the bleeding was almost nonexistent. He looked up.
    "I think he'll be all right. But I'm not sure-"
    Banning broke off, squeezing his eyes shut. Jesus, this job was getting to him. What had he just said?
    More firmly, he spoke again. "We'll leave him here. He should be fine until we come back on the way out. Storm, is this area frequented often?"
    "Almost never. It's way above anywhere that they usually operate in." She shoved the Hunter's corpse on the ground with her foot. "This bastard was sent special for you."
    "Fine. This is beyond my expertise- he needs Steve to look at him. We can carry him up as we return this way." They nodded.
    "Okay, then let's go. We've still got two levels to cover. Storm, lead off."
    She moved off down the corridor. Wilder had finally gotten the knives out of his hip holsters, and he glanced at them uncertainly before stuffing them in his pocket. He followed Salvador.
    Banning stood looking at the figure on the ground for several moments. Then, he bent down and placed Mace's pistol into his hand.
    He stood and left.


    They hugged the shadows, barely daring to move.
    The wide corridor was filled with bustling figures. Alien machinery was hissing and thumping, guttural orders were being cried and obeyed without thought. Two Covenant grunts passed within feet of the corner where the three huddled.
    Salvador's looked at the others and moved her mouth, subvocalizing. Her voice came over the radio. "We need to get to the other side of that chamber. There's a flight of stairs. Then, we're more or less there."
    Banning frowned. He was lousy at subvocalizing, but he put his lips to her ear and said in his deadest whisper, "How did you do it before?"
    She pointed up.
    Above them, a catwalk of wires, lines, and cables interconnected in a wide net, supporting an array of rafters and pulleys. The web ran from one side of the room to the other.
    "I could do it, and maybe Wild. Not you, Bird."
    Banning glared, but it was an accurate evaluation. He cast his eyes about the space.
    The words No Way came to mind.
    "Storm, do you have a bolt hole down there?"
    She turned and stared at him, her green eyes flashing. "Why?"
    "For fuck's sake, tell me."
    "Of course I do."
    "Fine."
    He gave the room one last glance. It looked even worse than before. He turned, gesturing Wilder and Salvador in close.
    "Hell with playing it quiet. I'm going to blast this entire place. We run like shit. Get across, handle the mission, and bug the fuck out of here."
    Glances were exchanged. Then, Wilder leaned in and asked, "Boss, what about Mace?"
    Banning looked down. Seconds passed. Suddenly, Salvador spoke up, too loud. "I'll get him."
    Banning snapped his head up. "Are you nuts?"
    She returned his ardor. "Am I nuts? No, I'm not. I did this before. Having Cov guards swarming all over will just make it more interesting."
    Banning held her gaze.
    Several beats passed.
    Finally, dropping his head again, Banning said, almost too quietly to be heard, "Fine.
    Wilder looked away, muttering.
    Banning said, "You know-"
    "I know," she said.
    He sighed.
    "When you get across here, go down the stairs, turn left, and go in the door. The access terminal's there. Get what you need and activate the sequence. The door to the room is double-strength, field-reinforced triluminum. Locks automatically. When you're done, go to the far wall, tap the lights three times, and smash it in. It's an old one-man service elevator. I don't know why it was there, or why it was walled up. Probably some executive's back door. It'll fit both of you. Goes to the surface automatically ten seconds after you do the lights."
    She fixed her steely eyes on Wilder. "Wild can break the computer. But he better make sure he does it fast. They can override the door, given enough time."
    He nodded.
    They all looked at each other. Banning spoke. "We'll wait at the surface."
    "Not too long. They'll be bringing reinforcements from all over."
    "I know."
    One last time. They exchanged glances.
    Nodded.


    Ten grenades, a compilation of five concussion, three fragmentation, and two incendiaries flew toward the center of the chamber. A few saw them. One Elite even managed to bark a command that no one heard.
    The cavern lit with fire.
    Banning and Wilder sprinted madly, blazing a storm of shots in every direction. Banning smashed the butt of his rifle into the neck of a grunt, tearing its throat sack. Wilder shot two Elite simultaneously, ran at the grunt in the middle, dove and flipped over it, putting a single shot down the center of its body in mid-flight.
    A needle ripped into Banning's shoulder, penetrating flesh and muscle. He yanked it out reflexively and tossed it, not even thinking, until he saw what it had been and his eye widened.
    They reached the stairs. Wilder leapt, hitting the landing and rolling, as Banning dove and slid. They reached the same point, and ran.
    Salvador watched them turn the corner, leading a mob of Covenant. A single grunt ran nearly into her without seeing; she slipped a knife into her hand instinctively and drove it into its neck.
    It was time.
    Moving in a broken dash, she ran at the side wall of the tunnel. Hitting it, she rebounded off, leaping as high as she could, and snagged the lowest wire from the mess above her. She swung up, planted her feet, jumped again, caught another and slung herself up, and landed on a third cable. Good enough. She would wait until the rabble had cleared out, then make her way down and then upwards in the tunnels to Mace.
    A stampede of pounding footsteps.
    She turned and looked down.
    A full dozen Hunters, an entire half-deirgn, had made an entrance to the cavern. They had chased out the others, and were collecting below her, shimmering weapons and shining shields. Her blood ran cold.
    Where the hell had they come from?
    Despite her words to Banning, she knew how impossible it could be to defeat the Hunters in face-to-face combat. The best- in fact, nearly the only- way to slay them, and certainly the most efficacious, was from behind, caught unaware, with a sharp charged blade between the nervous bundle and head.
    Her ruminations were cut off in mid-thought as one of the Hunters looked up.
    She hurled herself off the wire, leaping for another with as much speed as she could muster into her precariously perched feet. Javelins of energy lanced off swords and smashed into the wire where she had been, severing it and bringing down a rafter.
    She spun off a cable, hooked a foot on a pulley and twirled around, then grabbed onto a hanging beam. It tilted over with her weight, she described an arc in the air and hit two wires, grabbing them with both hands.
    She lifted a foot to a wire, stepped, dove for another- and slipped.
    Her toe slid, and she tumbled from the cable, flipping through the air. Huddling into a ball, she whistled through the air, and the ground rose like a fist.
    She rolled a little, taking the impact on her hip and shoulders. She howled in pain as a surge of fire burst in her back. The Covenant, an angry mass, gathered above her.
    Suddenly ceasing her moaning, she spun up, produced three blades, and flung them moonbeam-straight.
    One disappeared into a glowing energy shield. A second was cut from the air with a lightning-quick plasma sword.
    The third shot up, splintered from a wall, then the ceiling, and arrowed directly into the neck of a Hunter- who was no longer there. It had shifted, too quickly to discern, three inches to the left.
    With a flick, a glowing energy sword was at Salvador's throat, and a blow smote her from behind.
    The last thing she remembered was the world exploding.



    Endgame

    Banning looked around desperately.
    "Sir, we've really got to go."
    "Shut up!"
    The pilot subsided with a sigh. Banning frowned, turning to look at the others in the hovering TJA.
    "I've got to... I... Just one more minute."
    He could see the worry on their faces. Hailman came on the freq. "You wanna take the Hog?" The vehicle was hanging from the bottom of the Pelican's "claws", secured by thick metal bands.
    "I'm not going anywhere. I just... need to make sure."
    Banning turned to look at the shield-gate's exit once more.
    "There's only a few minutes left, Bird."
    "I know."
    He walked slowly up to the gate. He could hear through Hail's mike the pilot berating him. "He does realize that there's an entire airborne cavalry division on its way here, right?"
    "What are your orders, Marine?"
    "To give you guys whatever you need."
    "Well, we fucking need you to stay here until the Captain says to fucking leave. Got it?"
    Banning closed his eyes. There was nothing.
    He turned and started to walk away.
    Until a heavy sound came from behind him, and he spun around sharply.
    A tall stack of stone, steel, metal and debris was being lifted and knocked aside by an unseen hand. Massive chunks of dense rock and supporting materials were being pushed, until a breach in the rubble became visible.
    Behind it, stepping through, came a tall, green-suited figure.
    He- was it a he? A she? Something else? He was huge, massively powerful, nothing but green reflexive armor until the helmet, where the blank face of a tinted visor spoke silence.
    From under each arm, Mace and Storm could be seen, carried by the incredible strength of two mechanical arms.
    Banning stared.
    The machine, moving forward, set down the two figures gently. Stepped back.
    They exchanged scrutinies.
    And, with a fiercely strong rap, the cyborg snapped off a salute.
    Banning looked at him.
    The mirror of his face showed nothing but Banning.
    He returned the salute.

Hawk Chronicles: Chapter 2a, Part 1
Date: 15 August 2001, 9:37 PM


Chronicles of the ***Silver Hawks***

Think where man's glory most begins and ends
And say my glory was I had such friends.

-The Municipal Gallery Revisited, W.B. Yeats


Part 2
Location: Silver HQ, Quaker Mountains, Halo


    "Twenty credits."
    "Twenty credits! Not in a freaking million years! You use a damn pistol every day. I haven't shot one since my qualifications."
    "You shot one yesterday."
    "I shot a piece of paper. They don't bleed."
    Wilder glared and picked up the gun, tossing it at Hailman. "Stop whining and shoot it."
    They were at the indoor range. Without fail, every member of the Hawks preferred to practice outdoors when possible, but tossing around unshielded emissions in a hostile area was an invitation for something fast, nasty, and explosive, as Hackenberg had put it.
    Hailman sighed dramatically, eyed the handgun- a standard semi-auto drawn from the stores, to stifle objections from him when Wilder had proposed using one of his own- and flicked the butt into his palm.
    Wilder dialed something he couldn't see into the range keypad, saying, "Heads up."
    He waited... and waited... and waited still more, itching at the finger. Finally, he turned, exasperated. "Wild, did you-"
    Almost immediately, he heard a whir as the target cycled up. He clamped his mouth down on an obscenity and wheeled down the range, sights up.


    Hackenberg was sitting at a heavy bench in the armory. In front of him, piles of wires and connectors were stacked, and he was sorting through them, pulling out a det-switch or surger occasionally and setting it to the side.
    He would kill to be out with his sniper rifle, putting holes in things a mile away. But things had been hot recently, and Banning had put a ban on excursions until patrols and flyovers had settled down.
    Not that any of them went out very often. Just him, Storm, and on occasion Hailman took a spin to stay sharp. Oh, Macedon disappeared every so often, but nobody knew where- he could be outside. But then, he could just a well be hiding in the engine compartment of a tank, or teleported to Beta Centauri, or sucked up into Heaven to help put down rogue angels, or who knew where.
    He plucked up a vibra-filament, holding it to his eye, and threw it into the bin marked "Out." It might be repaired, trashed, or donated to the Marines, so nobody had thought of anything better to name the box.
    His train of thought was derailed as the intercom on the table started beeping. He entertained notions of ignoring it, setting it with a charge of plastique, or dropping it in the "Out" bin- filed the ideas for future reference, reached over and activated the com.
    "Steve?"
    It was Banning. "Here, m'lord."
    "Are you busy?"
    "More than you can imagine."
    "Great. I need you to round up the guys. Conference room."
    "I'll page 'em"
    "No, you won't. Half of them will politely decline to give a damn. And the rest of them are scattered all over. Go find 'em."
    "Screw you too, sir," Hackenberg said cheerfully, and stood up as the com popped off. He wandered out, idly twisting a garrote cord around his finger.


    Carson was an easy catch. He was in the corridor outside, crouched over an access box in the wall.
    "What're you doing, Raynor?"
    He looked up, scowling. Wisps of smoke drifted out from the vent. "Damn power in my room's gone happy. I could give it to Hail, but by the time he gets around to it the war'll be over."
    Hackenberg grinned. "Well, sheath your torch for now. Boss wants ya'll in the conference room."
    Carson sat back, haunch to heel, look irritable. "Not another fucking meeting?"
    "No, there's a buffet."
    He poked the solderer at him, sour.


    Hackenberg drifted down the hall, peering into each room he passed. He passed the practice range, and heard a clamor inside.
    Familiar with the antics of Wilder and Hailman, he didn't enter; instead, he pounded on the wall, shouted "Conference room!", and left before anyone came out.
    Continuing along, he found his way to Storm's room, and raised his hand to knock.
    And held it there, motionless.
    Her door was cracked open. Steam was drifting out of the gap, and through it, he could make out the door to Storm's shower. The tinted glass was fogged up; silhouetted in the translucent pane, he could make out the long, lithe figure of Kris Salvador.
    He stared, mesmerized, as she tossed her hair back, turning. Her form, lacking any definition in the semi-clear door, and filtered as it was through a mist-filled room, nevertheless seemed almost unearthly; as if divinity had descended down to earth, and stood on the Halo, showering. Wavering ethereal, intangible, angelic, he felt that he was at the moment in the presence of something almost deeply powerful.
    Someone cleared their throat behind him.
    Hackenberg turned, startled. Macedon was standing three feet behind him, his hard, chiseled face impassable.
    His mind flying through a stream of possible greetings, excuses, and witticisms, he found refuge in stammering. "I- ah- hey, uh, hi Mace! Uh, heh... Um... I was... I was just..." was just rambling, he thought. Lord, how this must look.
    "Ah, Mace, I was just... uh, coming to... tell Storm..."
    Macedon's eyes were burning holes into him.
    "Uh, there's... there's a meeting..."
    "I'll tell her." His first words.
    "Um... Thanks! Well, okay... I'll just... uh..." Hackenberg, trying not to run, slipped past the imposing form of his dark spectator, and, looking back nervously, fled down the hall.


    Macedon followed Hackenberg with his eyes as he scrambled away. When he vanished, he turned and tapped on the door.
    Banning opened it.
    "Hack was here."
    "Oh. Okay, thanks."
    Mace nodded. "And the door's open."
    Banning looked at it, blinking. "Why, I suppose it is."
    "Don't be long." Macedon turned and paced off down the hall.
    Banning shut the door and went back into the room. He picked up the stylus and pressure pad he had been using and slipped them into a locked case.
    Then, he moved up to the shower, sliding open the door.
    Salvador stood under a spray of water, as a fine sprinkling of shimmering droplets ran down her body, glistening. She turned as cold air rushed in. A smirk parted on her face.
    "Hey, John."
    "Hey, you."
    He couldn't help but to smile. "We should get going."
    She turned off the water. "Hack here?"
    "He was. Mace chased him off."
    "All right."
    She stepped up to him, reached her long arms around his neck, and leaned forward to kiss him on the lips.
  "Let's go."
 

"Oookay! Heads up, ladies and gentlemen!" Banning strolled into the conference room, conveniently missing the glowers that met him. For form's sake, Storm had arrived five minutes earlier.
    "If," said Banning, "you wish to leave... Well, that's understandable."
    A ray of hope pierced the gloom.
    "Therefore, I'll keep my words short."
    The ray brightened into a thick, glorious beam. Carson rubbed his hands together. Wild raised his eyebrows, beseeching.
    "In fact, I have very few words! Thus, I will be handing the ball off to our RA representative for the day, Tailor Felton. People, please welcome him, and... well, his words probably won't be so short."
    The glimmer of happiness terminated inside a waste pit, where it was decomposed and buried under a pile of Tunga roots, surrounded by chanting pigmies, and sacrificed in a ritual to honor the god of bureaucracy.
    Irritated groans and a few murderous looks chased Banning as he sat down, looking smug.
    Felton, who had been seated in an extra chair, now rose and moved to the head of the table. He was of short, with a flare of fire-red hair, strong, chunky arms, and dark skin. He was wearing civilian clothing, save for a black armband which said, inscrutably, EQ.
    "Good afternoon. I've been sent as liaison from the 3rd Fleet Marines, Halo division- well, you know, from the garrison. We've got something of a problem, and if you don't mind, we'd like you to help us with it." Felton glanced down, pulled out a paper from a stack, slipping it into the viewer.
    "This is the sortie roster for the past month. Every mission outside of friendly territory- basically, about a mile around the base, and the immediate grounds of all outposts- is listed here. We have a schedule, prepped by High Command, that we utilize to both hold our land and occupy that of the enemy."
    "Most of these excursions are patrols. Some are hit-and-run phantom raids. There's a few special cases, such as your recent mission."
    "Now, you'll notice, in the past few weeks, something starts to happen." Felton replaced the sheet with another, and a chart appeared in the air. "There's probably some obsequious jargon for it, but I'm not interested in semantics."
    "Our teams are disappearing."
    Hackenberg shifted in his seat. Somebody murmured something.
    "Just that. Gone. Not wiped out, not captured- although all of these are possibilities. They're just gone. Like they were swallowed up into the earth. Um, the Halo."
    "We haven't got anything. Nobody's gotten any reports out- just snap, poof, they're never heard from again. In the past week, the incidents have increased to nearly seventy percent of our forces. Not a trace."
    "Until two days ago."
    Felton reached down and found a CC data disk. "Gentlemen, in another place, another situation, I could probably be court-martialed for showing you this. But it's not like we're on Sirius, with Fleet Command a phone-call away- we're grasping at straws here."
    "And we're the straws?" That was Carson.
    "Damn straight." Felton smiled a little. "Have a look."
    He held the disk up.
    "We received this from Recon Team 7. They had been sent to investigate a communication problem with Firebase Epsilon- three days ago, we stopped receiving transmissions. It was assumed to be an equipment difficulty, and we sent off Recon 7 to check it out."
    "But there was another purpose to this mission too. You see- Recon 7 is our best and brightest, gentlemen. Maybe they're not up to par with you-" he smiled a little, and a chuckle went around, but it was only the truth- "but they're our most elite small-unit team. Half the time they're not even in the field, because we've got their members training the rest of us."
    "Command isn't stupid. They've noticed what's been going on with the teams. To take action, though, they usually need to be prodded into it- either with hard evidence, or something so circumstantial that it kicks 'em in the shins." Banning was starting to like Felton. "So we- or they- or somebody- sent in Recon."
    "They went off. No trouble."
    "But then, about when they were supposed to be reaching Epsilon, we got this."
    The room projector was configured to broadcast audio. Felton found a port and socketed in the disk, then hit a key.
    The voice, scratchy and panicked, lit up over the room speakers.

    "Reco- command. Repeat, Recon 7 to Command. We've reach-
    -requesting backup! We are- all sides... Have lost... Eddings, Samson... Hingis... Our... Almost gone.
    Command, we... more than thirty hours. Cannot- longer. Please...
    URGENT. Com- MUST SEE. VIT- Repeat: VITAL. Pl-
    Command... We cannot... very little. Please... please...

    The voice disappeared with a crack so violent Banning jumped. It sounded like an explosion.
    The room was silent for several minutes, as the each of the Hawks tried to determine in his or her own way the different aspects of the situation. Suddenly, Hailman spoke up, breaking the silence.
    "Hold on. Was that static?"
    Felton looked up, slightly startled, but then nodded. "Yes. It's very strange. Recon 7 carried only the standard communication gear. There shouldn't have been any way a particle feed could get corrupted like that."
    "We turned the tape over to our techs. They analyzed it-" Felton shook his head. "It's a radio signal."
    "Radio?"
    "Yes. We're lost on that."
    Storm butted in, a quizzical look on her face. "Just a moment. You say that the team had no equipment capable of producing a radio signal."
    "That's it. It's hardly standard issue. In fact, the only reason we had a line open at HQ at the time was a combination of a happenstance, fate, and a strange series of events involving our routers. It was a backup, really."
    Storm shook her head. "They didn't have it. Fine. But did the base?"
    Felton looked startled. "My goodness- why, I haven't even thought of that. We- yes, I believe so. All of the firebases could handle radio."
    She nodded thoughtfully and sat back.
    Felton said, "Well, this is already useful. Maybe I should just sit here and let you guys brainstorm the secret to winning the war." He grinned as he pressed a button on the Carbon Combustion disk. It made a strange noise, and Felton swore and threw it into a wastebasket, where a wisp of smoke rose up.
    "Funny," said Banning, "but maybe it would be more constructive to tell us exactly what it is you want from us."
    The man nodded. "Well, it is both simple and complex, precise and quite vague. Let me list the objectives." He ticked them off on his fingers.
    "One: to locate and establish the condition, and if necessary, effect the rescue, of Recon Team 7. This is the primary one, at least officially."
    "Two: To finish what Team 7 started. Find Firebase Epsilon, assess their status, and report to us. Help them with their equipment if necessary."
    "Three. This one is both the most important and the most uncertain. First of all, you heard the message. You can interpret it however you want, but it seems that Recon has found... something. I don't know what yet, we don't know what, it might be nothing, but it ties in with the other thing, which is that we still don't have the foggiest clue what's been happening to our patrols."
    He sighed. "There's a chance that may be what Recon 7 has discovered, at least in part. If there IS a chance, even the slightest, then we need you to discover it, and tell us. We CANNOT afford to fight a war of attrition, gentlemen, not for any length of time- we haven't got the numbers. The Covenant do."
    "Are you asking us to fight your war for you?" asked Banning, a bit peevishly.
    "No, no, no. You are not being commissioned to eliminate the threat- only to, if possible, discover its nature."
    "Are you saying that you think it's something more than just the Covenant attack squads getting restless and your own patrols getting lazy?"
    Felton held his gaze. "Yes."

Hawk Chronicles: Chapter 2a, Part 2
Date: 15 August 2001, 9:41 PM


    The meeting broke up. Individual members drifted off, to organize their gear, make preparations, or as Carson put it, "fuckin' put my prayers in for this shit." He was certainly not religious, but the feeling appeared general.
    Wilder was wandering with the crowd, mumbling something that sounded urgent but that be apparently wasn't bothering to actually say; he mouthed gibberish, hiding in the general commotion. Banning walked up behind him and snagged his collar, dragging him back in mid-step.
    "Hold up, Wild. I need to talk to you."
    Banning made sure he wasn't leaving, then went back to speak with Felton quietly. A few moments later, he returned, grabbed Wilder by the scruff, and walked off.
    "What's up, boss?"
    "Your office."
    "Okay."
    They arrived there several minutes later, and Wilder unlocked the door.
    "Why do you lock that, anyway? You think Hail's gonna break in and steal your porn collection?"
    "You can never, EVER be too careful, cap. Computers are like bathrooms- you never think they're too valuable, until you haven't got one, and it's an awful temptation to use the nearest."
    They stepped into the computer lab. A semi-circle of glowing tri-displays, more than half a dozen, was arranged around a wide, rounded desk; piles of papers, small indecipherable devices, and old disks, drives, and receptors enough to choke an army were stacked all around the room; but the desk itself sparkled clean. Wild slid into the chair, ruffling up his hair and yawning.
    "So, what's the story?"
    Banning looked around. "Are you scrambled?"
    "Fuckin' A. You know better, boss."
    "Good. Now, we're going to do this, then you're going to forget that it ever happened. Completely. For your sake and mine. Got it?"
    "No problem."
    "All right." Banning sat down on the edge of the desk, earned a horrified look from Wilder, and found a chair.
    "Tell me what you think of our friend Felton and that little song-and-dance we just got."
    Wilder looked at him, making sure of his aim. Then, he said, "It wasn't all."
    "Sorry?"
    "That wasn't everything, what he told us."
    "Well, very good, Wild. As it happens, I agree. And I'm certain most of our comrades would agree, except maybe Raynor, who needs a clue to bite him on the ass before he'll get it. Storm's probably shoved Felton in the closet now and is interrogating him with the tip of a knife."
    "So, here's the deal."
    "I want to know more."
    Wilder frowned, nonplused. "More?"
    "You said it yourself. He isn't telling us everything. He seems like a decent bastard, but I'm sure he's getting orders passed down from high up- as in, stratosphere- to feed us shit. What I want to know- for our safety, and the completion of their mission- is what he's hiding from us."
    "That doesn't seem like a very specific request, Bird. You want me to log on and search the data tree for "Big Secret Honchos are Hiding from Hawks?"
    "That's your end. Have you still got that back-door access? The one you used to get your hands on our personnel files?"
    "Sure. As long as no one's snaffed it. No reason to. The old programmer logs are fricking coal mines; digital graveyards. Nobody's sniffed in their for years, and probably won't, unless they go on a cleanup run."
    "Okay, then. Let's do it."
    Wilder turned to the screens, pushed his chair in, and cracked his knuckles ritually.
    "Let's do it."


ACCESS LEVEL 9-CLASS BURROW
[initiated]
ACTIVATE TROJAN-SEA/EMER/
[locate]
FILE PARTITION WILDER
[activating]
[ERROR. level 9 administrator override]


    "What the fuck?" Wilder said, pissed.
    "What?"
    "I- christ, I don't know. One of the system admins has placed a sniffer on the file."
    "One of the guys at the other end?"
    "Yeah. Probably some Marine net tech. My safeguards warned me off from grabbing the trojan, because it'd set off a packet of alarms.
    "Who the hell did this? I thought you said nobody ever goes around there."
    "I did. Something happened."
    "Can you get around it?"
    He sighed. "I'll try."


SEARCH INDEX FILE TROJAN-SEA/EMER/
[specify]
SECURITY TAGS
[searching]
[displaying resu
BREAKBREAKBREAKEMERGENCYSHUTOFFSYSTEM *SILARM*
{-silarm active. system break-}


    "Okay," said Wilder. "I've just activated the silent alarm system. It activates all of the security precautions, but without ringing bells all over people's desks. Since I broke into a data query on a file, the case is still open, but the protection is tighter than a noose."
    "Hold on. You just made the security stronger?"
    "Bird, Bird, Bird. You're thinking in real-world terms. This is cyber-security. The rules are all different."


LIST ACTIVE USERS
[data restricted]
GUEST PROTOCOL
[granted]
LIST ACTIVE USERS

12LEV7 termin
4LEV9 admin
72LEV4 maint
1SYSTOP

BRACKET INCOMING PACKETS- SYSTOP
[restricted]
READ-ONLY
[accessed]


    "All right," Wilder said. "I think I have what I need. I'm pretty sure my trojan is a lost cause; maybe I'll be able to recover it later, but it'll be a bitch. I'm letting it go. Pre-coded back-doors are just conveniences, anyway. Any hacker worth his salt shouldn't need one."
    "The systop is online. That's the head cheese, the mover, the shaker, the guy who basically runs the net. My guess, also the guy who SNAFUed my trojan, but that's another story. I'm going to try to hijack his packet feed; that's his sort of housekeeping train, the constant stream of data that's flowing back and forth between him and the system, keeping tabs on everything, keeping everything straight. It's stepped up because of the alert. I'm playing with fire here- systops are generally not the sort of people you want to mess with. I'll have to dance it pretty fine, to stay in without alerting him."
    "But, hell, I'm Wild the fuckin' Netsaber. If I can't do it..."
    Banning smiled.


DISPLAY PACKET TYPE
[read-only systop]
ACCEPT PACKET
[packet destination false]
ADJUST DELIVERY ADDRESS. DUPLICATE AND REROUTE.
[password]
DRAW FROM PACKET
[accepted. delivering packet]
SYSTEM CODE ENTER. PACKET OVERRIDE.
[specify]
ACCESS DIRECTORY NEIGHBORHOOD
[accessed. change?]


    "Hehe." Wilder grinned. "Poor sucker. I rode in a maintenance packet, slipped in the gate, and then screeched it to a halt. It's sort of along the lines of a janitor going "whoops, I'll have to wax the floor later, this window needs cleaning." It thinks there's something to deal with here, so it's given me priority to the entire directory."
    "I'll give you a ring when I'm twenty again and have an idea what you're saying, Wild. Just break it."
    "Oh, it's broken."


HIDE SYSTEM ACTIVITY
[specify access levels]
0


    "I just cloaked us from prying eyes. Only someone with infinity level access can see us. Which is no one."


FILELIST
[specify]


    "Okay, Bird. Now I have to actually know what I'm looking for."
    "Shit, I don't know. Something dirty. Something high."
    Wilder was the only person Banning knew that could make the word "ponder" apply to him. He pondered for several moments, then literally jumped.
    "Ah!"
    He wheeled and started pounding at keys.


CATEGORIZE SEARCH
[categorize]
SORT BY CLASSIFICATION
[specify]
TOP SECRET- FLEET


    "Okay, what I'm going to do is find the highest-classified file on the entire net. If what you're looking for is what you think it is, then that'll be it. If it's not, well, you probably don't have to worry about it. Since I don't know what that file is, I've inputted a search for a Top Secret- Fleet level stamp. That's the highest possible level. There's no way that anything on the puny little Halo net is a Fleet Secret- we're talking like, the SolCore Grand Council is really composed of fish, here. But what this will do is give me the next highest level, which will be our file. It's like inputting one hundred trillion credits into your credit account to withdraw- it just gives your everything you have."


[search complete. {1} file found. classification: TOP SECRET- FLEET. name: Thor's Hammer]


    "HOLY SHIT!" Wilder jaw dropped.
    "What?"
    "The... FUCK! That search! It actually turned up a file!"
    "Well, great. Let's s-"
    "No, no, no, no, no... You bastard, don't you get it? A file with a Fleet Secret classification stamp.
    "Whoa, whoa, whoa. It found one?"
    "YES. There is precisely one file. Which is NOT surprising, but it's still fucking UNBELIEVABLE that there are any. I mean... Jesus, do you know what we're talking about here? This is the sort of thing that makes or breaks empires."
    "Well... Shit! Bring it up!"
    Wilder was already stamping keys.


ACCESS FILE: Thor's Hammer
[accessing]
[ERRORERRORERROR Level 10 Override! Level 10 Override! System Purge! System Purge! Packet Bog-SWITCH(9)(auto) DROP CARRIERFILESHREDDROPCARRIER]
[carrier dropped]


    "SON of a BITCH!"
    "What the hell happened now?"
    "Son... FUCK!" Wilder was entering commands furiously, fingers flying blur-fast, a constant stream of profanity emitting from his mouth.
    "SHITSHITSHITshitshitSHIT! Those bastards!" Wilder's fingers could no longer be seen. Suddenly, he dove off from his seat, sprinted to the wall, and brought his fist down on a large switch.
    The lights to the room shut off.
    There was a moment of silence, filled only with Wilder panting in the dark. Finally, Banning ventured to say, "Wild?"
    Seconds passed. Then, the thin voice came back. "They burned me."
    "You want to turn the lights back on?"
    "I can't. They made my signal trace. I don't want them to backtrack it. Give the system sixty seconds to cycle."
    Banning started to speak again, then decided that it could wait. He sat in the dark. He could almost hear Wilder brooding.
    Eventually, after an interminable wait, he heard Wilder shuffling around. The lights began to flicker back on, and monitors lit with beeping protestations.
    Wilder stumbled back to his seat, flopping down.
    He looked at Banning.
    "They made me, Bird. I got burned."
    "Wild? Don't do this. There's a very simple, very effective way to relate a story. Start at the beginning, go to the end, and stop."
    He glared. Then: "Fine."
    "I had the file. I was bringing it down. No problem. Like I said, I had access privileges."
    "But... there was something there, Bird. Something on the file. I- it couldn't have been a user. It must have been automated. But..." Banning got the feeling Wilder was sorting this out as much for himself as for him.
    "Some sort of sentry. It was a little bit like the sniffer they dropped on my trojan, but far, far more advanced. The sniffer was put there courtesy of some admin who wandered across it and decided to wall it up until he could get around to dealing with it. This, though... This was hidden. I didn't see it, my system didn't see it, nothing, not until I tried to access the file... and the fucking trap snapped."
    "All kinds of safeguards shot up. Emerguards- basically the system "cops"- were summoned from all over. My fucking carrier was dropped from the net, and banned from access- if I ever want to get back on there, even legitimately, I'm going to have to mask my trace."
    "Oh, and did I mention? The file self-deleted. It shredded itself all to shit. Absolutely no way to recover it."
    Banning leaned back in his chair slowly. He stared at the ceiling.
    "Bird..."
    Wilder was starting to shake ever so slightly.
    "Bird, I've never screwed you around before. You have to trust me on this."
    "There's not half a dozen hackers in the world- any world- who can play me like this. I've never met anyone who can beat me, Bird, and I'm not sure I ever will. But this guy came fucking close. Just the fact that he can run with me- that, even with the advantage of being in a castle, that he could manage to hide a code trap like this that I didn't see- that's fucking serious, Bird. The only operators who can even touch me are scattered all over the colonized territories, and I know every one of them."
    "And NONE of them are Marine net-service flunkies."
    "There's something going on here, John. It's something serious. Something... someone... who knew we would want that file... And knew we would come for it, and knew how to snare us. Do you understand? There's someone on the inside who's fucking around. Someone..."
    He rubbed his face with his hands, as if to scrub away the layers of murk and gloom and uncover the truth.
    "Someone good."

Hawk Chronicles: Chapter 2b
Date: 17 October 2001, 4:50 am

     The cabin was rocking gently from side, swaying peacefully in the airstream. Banning had his eyes closed, leaning back against an equipment bag, dozing, lulled into a sleepy interlude by the rhythmic hum of the engine.
     "Yo! Up in back!" Storm's voice filtered up from the pilot's section. He rolled over grumpily, heard the lowered pitch of the jets, and sat up, feeling like a corpse.
     "Five minutes on the LZ!"
     "All right! Leave me alone."
     "Oh, okay. No problem. Raynor? You feel like carrying him?"
     Carson's answer was lost in the noise, but couldn't have been charitable.
     "Get up, John. The Covenant are ringing, and we wouldn't want them to go away disappointed, would we?"
     "Jesus! Okay, okay, I'm up." Banning swung his feet over the edge of the bench, groping around for his rifle.
     "On yo' shoulder, sir."
     Of course. "I knew that."
     Even Macedon was smiling, deep in his raised collar. Banning scowled.
     "Christ, you guys. It's fucking tiring running around like this. Can't we just retire and grow cotton somewhere?"
     "Oh, ri-"
     The explosion threw the entire cabin of the Pelican to the right, spinning the floor at an insane angle. Banning was tossed into the air, barely managing to roll with it as he was smashed into the ground. He skidded to a halt, looking around desperately for somewhere to grab. He snatched a strip of webbing in a deathgrip. "Storm!"
     "I told you! They're knockin'! There's a grid of Plasma AA laid here!"
     "Crap it. Can we make the LZ?"
     "Oh, damn straight! You remember who you're talking to?"
     Another airburst slammed the walls obliquely. "Hold on!" cried Storm.
     The heavy, ungainly Pelican seemed to transform, agilely sliding laterally. Banning felt the floor slipping away from him and clung to the security of the webbing as the entire interior of the Tilt-Jet Aircraft began to twist in the air. A screaming sound came from outside, as Storm completed a perfect barrel roll and sharply canted the jet to the left.
     "Storm, you'd better tell me that was for more than just showin' off for the Covenant!"
     "We've got a couple of interceptors on our tail!" she shouted back. "I just took us through a pass at the end of the ravine. They weren't so lucky. One of them clipped a wing and crashed against the wall! The other made it."
     Banning shook his head. They couldn't dogfight with a free-air fighter in a fat-bellied transport, no matter how flashy Storm got. "Take us down!"
     "Okay! I'm about to the LZ anyway!"
     "Take us down!"
     "Roger!"
     The nose of the jet pushed over steeply. The aircraft plummeted. Banning felt his stomach float somewhere around his neck, clutching at his grip as he was buffeted into the air sickeningly.
     A whooshing sound came through the walls, then an anticipatory silence, and the jet crunched heavily into the earth. He crumpled to the deck, letting his knees absorb the shock.
     "Contact!'
     "No shit, Storm!" Wilder bellowed back.
     "Out! Out, out, out!" Banning lashed his rifle's sling around his forearm and slapped the butt, pushing the crowd toward the exit, which folded open. They swarmed out, struck by the sun. They were nearly on top of the treeline.
     "Perimeter! Mace, Wild, Hack! Get the rear, Storm!" She had dropped out of the door last, pounding the fuselage with a palm. Immediately, the transport began to rise, translating along the ground and angling up, as the Marine co-pilot took control and slammed the thrusters back, trying to clear the space before the fighter circled back.
     Banning looked idly up at the looping Covenant interceptor. It was small, insubstantial, with pointed angles and sharp edges that looked like they would snap off at the first touch of pressure. It was beginning to reapproach.
     He turned. "So, who wants it?"
     Hackenberg waggled a hand. "I'll give it a try."
     "I can do it," said Carson.
     Banning considered for several moments, scratching the grizzled hair on his neck idly. "You take it, Mace. I don't want to mess this one up. It's a one-shot, one-drop job."
     Macedon looked blank. "Okay."
     The fighter was looming closer. Mace appeared to study it, locking it in his gaze solidly.
     The aircraft shot overhead, the muffled sonic boom nothing but a mild whistle.
     Banning had been watching Macedon do it for years, and it was still a challenge to see anything but a blur. He gave a slight twitch, shifted his shoulder back, and
     the fighter, traveling at several times the speed of sound, made a wild, awkward wheel in the air and plummeted into a mountain-top, trailing smoke and vapors from the gap in between the forward and rear shields.
     Macedon's handgun holstered itself beneath his cloak.
     Wilder had been following the downed flight of the jet with intense eyes. He frowned, perplexed. "Was that the cell?"
     Macedon shook his head slightly. "The transmission box. If I blew the energy cell, it'd be visible for miles."
     Banning grinned. "Nice work. I'd like to do this one without the entire Covenant army on us."
     "I didn't know you could get the trans chamber from the center divide," said Wilder, using the term for the small band of several inches between the protective fields for the front and rear hemispheres, the only vulnerable spot in the shielded Covenant vehicles. He still looked unsure.
     "It's a little bit tricky. You have to work the shot around the cell. The angle is fairly narrow."
     "But-"
     Banning broke in. "Fellows, I'd love to stay here and debate Covenant mechanics all day, but we need to move. They'll have reported this position."
     "We'll hit the treeline. Storm, how close were we to the LZ when we bummed down?"
     "Close. A few miles into the ground cover, east."
     "Okay. Let's get there."
     He lifted his assault rifle and chambered a round with a metallic clunk. They walked into the trees and were swallowed.


     The leafy foliage above them was spread thinly among the wide branches, letting in hot, filtered light and giving the impression of a greenhouse. The air smelled of moist bark, decomposed earth, and an unusual scent that reminded Banning of burn umber; something indigenous, no doubt. The others spread out reflexively, maintaining a loose perimeter and a guard on their flanks. He had to catch Storm's eye and shake his head to keep her from running off to revel in some unnecessary recon.
     He felt a brief pang of worry, which he reassured himself was a commander's prerogative. She probably shouldn't be on this mission; her wound was still fresh. For that matter, neither should Mace?he ought to be recuperating. Hell?he smiled vaguely?neither should he. But, hell, you did what you had to. When it came down to it, they were soldiers in the end, warriors to the blood, and even if they could afford to ground a member of their own every time they got scratched, it would take the Devil himself?plus a hand-picked team of minions, probably with rocket launchers?to keep him or her from coming anyway.
     Which reminded him. He turned and snapped his fingers. Hack moved up the line, heeding the signal; Wilder slipped in behind him unnoticed to fill his position.
     "What's up, boss?" Hackenberg pitched his undertone to carry.
     "You got it?"
     "Oh, yeah. Right here. You want to see?"
     "No, no. But keep it handy. I'm going to want you on demo this time."
     His eyes fell. They had discussed it in the brief, but had left the final option to be made in the field, as they often did. "You sure? I mean, you might-"
     "I'm sure. A sniper is not what is called for here."
     He sighed, melancholy. "Yeah, okay." He dropped back to his spot, mouthing "Demo" at Wilder, who tried to suppress a smile.
     They moved on. Some of the trees seemed to be secreting a kind of soppy, viscous liquid; it was pooling around their bases in hollows that they had to avoid stepping in. Not that they were particularly upset about getting wet?but Banning had discovered, upon stomping in one of the puddles, that the stuff had tendencies remarkably like glue. They had to stop while he yanked the boot free and put it back on.
     Alert though they were, the trek through the forest-cum-jungle became mindlessly dull after only a few minutes. Banning turned his head idly, watching the group plod along. Hailman was stepping heavily, looking a bit winded; he'd pulled the short straw, so to speak, and his pack had gotten the charming addition of the emergency beacon. Mil-spec approved, it wasn't overly heavy, but with the wide dish, the damn thing had to be three feet across. Carson was walking alongside him, getting his jollies by occasionally breaking into a brief run or sprinting in circles around Hail. "The big son of a bitch isn't even sweating," Hailman snapped savagely onto Banning's private channel.
     Steve was meandering along their left flank, looking morose about missing his chances to get some more sniping in. Through the mask, though, his usual cheery grin kept breaking through unbidden. It took a nuclear winter to get him glum?which was not mere conjecture.
     Trailing the pack, and completing the back end of their security, Storm and Mace were walking together. Just behind them, Wilder dogged along. He still looked upset about that hacking business, but he had a watchful eye out nonetheless, as well as a vaguely protective gleam in his eye when his glance came across Storm. Come to think of it, so did Mace... Banning dismissed it. Something for another time.
     They passed the clearing where their original LZ had been without stopping. There was nothing special about the spot, which had been assigned more or less arbitrarily by the Marine clearinghouse for Special Ops.
     Time passed. The trail had begun to thin at about the same speed that the sun was dying. Half an hour into the trudging journey, Banning suddenly froze, lifting his fingers from his gauntlet where he had been fooling with the program.
     He looked up. The forest was quiet.
     Cursing himself, he pressed himself back into motion again. Idiot. "Rattlesnake," he called back softly down the line.
     Raising his hand to the side of his head, he slowly scratched just behind his ear, managing to tap his subdural comm as he did so.
     "You see them?" he muttered without moving his lips.
     "Roger that," Storm whispered.
     "Give me an estimate," he said. "Hail?"
     "Two."
     "Hack?"
     "Just one."
     "Storm? Left."
     "Five."
     "Mace? Right."
     "None."
     "Wild, up? Carefully."
     Banning pictured him adjusting his hat, perusing the treetops as he did so.
     "Oh, shit. I make four, Bird."
     "Okay."
     Banning took five seconds to think, two more to check it, and twitched his jaw. "All right, everyone. Give me a three count, then split open. Napalm drill, here. Move to the treeline like the trail was on fire. Storm and Wild, the flyers are yours. We'll handle the ground-pounders. Suppressing fire, Raynor."
     Heavy breathing answered him.
     "Mark."
     Counting to three was an essential attribute of the experienced soldier of fortune, especially one who wished to live to collect his pension. The cluster of Hawks broke open within a tenth of a second of each other.
     Trusting in his team's training, Banning bent his knees and spun around, leaping towards the overgrowth at the edge of the trail. As he lifted, both of his hands found the quick-release tabs at the ends of his bandoleer, pulled the straps, and decanted dual smoke canisters into his palms. As he hit, rolling, he tucked in his elbows and flung the grenades into the center of the trail.
     Indulging himself with a bit of motherly protectiveness, he noticed contentedly that the wide-cut path was as empty as if it had been abandoned for years.
     Half a second later, the grenades burst, a double whom-whomp! that filled his ears. A heartbeat, two, and the air exploded with reflexive plasma fire as the ambush snapped.
     A line of red-hot needles ran along the ground toward him, too quickly for his eyes to track. He sprinted two feet, jumped for a low-hanging tree branch, looped through the air in a U-shaped arc, and dropped low. Whirling the ballistic nylon sling around the front of his arm, he swung the stock of his rifle around, bringing up his other hand and pinwheeling the butt into his shoulder. Dropping the bipod with a slam, he keyed up the thermal tracker and sited in through the wide, broad-angle crystal plate across the trail.
     Covenant do not exude heat, he heard the Marine armorer say. But in order to survive in an oxygen-breathing atmosphere, they require a small bio-energy pack, which they wear across their chests. Their weapons draw from this, too. That gives off a signature.
     Quite neatly, too, he saw. At least three small plumes of red were bursting hot and vibrant in his scope, and he slipped a HEAP load onto the rack with a touch of his thumb and raked a stream of fire across the largest concentration of them. The explosive med-cal rounds pounded against the sturdy trunks of the trees, smashing off splinters and making a sound like a woodpecker.
     Then he ducked, as a glowing stream of energy flickered above him, close enough to char the air.
     Flipping up the bipod, he rolled, staying below the line of the ground-hugging shrubbery lining the path. More concentrated plasma fire scorched after him, seeking to touch and hold him in its savage grip.
     Fuck this, he thought angrily. He wasn't about to sit here all day, engaging in the jungle equivalent of trench warfare. "Raynor, crank it!"
     The spitting sound of the minigun increased exponentially. Some of the smaller of the hardwoods were actually beginning to collapse. Rocking to his feet, Banning flipped a setting on his rifle, adjusted the feed ramp two notches, and then, body low and legs pumping, sprinted for his life across the trail.
     God looks over fools, drunks, and the Silver Hawks, as those unlucky enough to have come across them were wont to say. He made it unscathed.
     Reaching the opposite side, he turned and began to dive?but caught his foot on a protruding root, instead falling flat on his face. Turning it into a sloppy roll, he brought himself around, dropping supine. He keyed a switch. The rifle began to spit a red, flickering light from one of its modules; in its cone of luminescence, two grunts could be seen, manning a hand-driven portable gun platform, atop which an Elite was pouring a barrage of scathing death across the trail. All three were glowing red.
     If and when Banning ever learned to read the expressions of the faceless aliens, he was sure that he would have seen looks of utter astonishment.
     Dialed up to three times the usual rate of fire, one tracer in five, he dispatched most of the clip at the same rate the Covs fell like chainsawed birches.
     Then, pulling himself into a backward half-somersault, he threw his weight up, flipping to his feet. He dropped into a sarwa, twisting his knees, and caught the belt of webbing from his rifle with his left arm. He pressed the barrel under his arm, pinning it to his abdomen with his elbow.
     Squeezing his muscles rigid, he pressed down on the trigger.
     A wide-spread triangle of fire flared out, emptying the clip behind him. As the final round clicked out, there was a whump, and a grenade thumped away.
     He dove for cover as the concussion wave reverberated past.
     He was reloaded moments later, and rolled out, training the sights downward. Only the crumpled corpses of two more grunts, shattered and bleeding, rose to greet him.
     "Clear!" he bellowed, half through the air, half on his comm.
     "Clear!" "Clear!" "Clear!" The reports came in, carrying crisply in the dry evening.
     "Clear!" Number seven.
     "That's a wrap, people!"
     Not lowering the assault rifle, but relaxing his grip a little, Banning walked out back into the trail warily. The dense smoke was still lingering in the air, but beginning to disperse with the traces of breeze.
     Carson was hunched at one corner of the trail, smoking mini resting on a broken stump. He was grinning. Banning got the distinct impression that the log had not fallen on its own.
     Steve drifted in from one edge, poking his head around a hefty trunk. Apparently, he had decided none of his weapons were sufficiently suited for his task, and had doubled his sniper rifle over as a brutal but particularly effective club. Effervescent blue blood stained the butt.
     Mace was standing in the middle of the trail. Bullet and plasma burst impact craters lay all around him. He flickered a dark, painful almost-smile.
     Swiveling his head around, Banning frowned. Where-
     A moment later, he heard a swooshing, and two heads suddenly dropped into his vision. He snapped his eyes up, startled.
     Storm and Wild were hanging, suspended, from the fragile web of branches in the overhead canopy. Wild had what seemed to be an impromptu sling, consisting of an arm-length tie-down cord, which he had buckled to his ever-present harness and looped over some branches. Storm was merely held by her knees, hooked around a sturdy cross-piece.
     She was holding two knives, soaked to the hilts in blue fluids. Wild stretched a little, unhooking his harness, and Banning could see the pistols in his wrist holsters.
     As he watched, Storm slipped off, fell into a graceful swan dive and airborne flip, and landed with a minimal impact, which she absorbed with her knees. Wild dropped away a moment later, hitting hard and rolling with a PLF*.
     Hail was sitting against a tree, his one-armed rifle over his shoulder. He was picking his teeth nonchalantly with a piece of string, and called out at Banning "That it?"
     "I think so. Nobody saw a stray?"
     Heads shook.
     "Okay. Got everything?"
     Heads nodded.
     He looked around.
     "Then let's go."


     "Hey, O'Neal, move your feet."
     Grady shoved at the man with his heels.
     "My ass, dude. I was here first."
     "Yeah, and I'm bigger than you. This ain't no trial court. Move over."
     Grudgingly, Peter O'Neal bent his legs a little, allowing Grady to stretch out. It was a bitch having only one bunk in the cell, especially considering that even under better circumstances, it probably wouldn't have fit either man. The old springs creaked under their weight as he settled down.
     "Hey! You two!" The pitched whisper drifted across the narrow hall, made thin and crinkly by the filtering of double force-shields.
     Looking over, Grady glared at Blake with an irritated eyebrow. "What the hell now, Ed?"
     The man gestured to the figure that lay on the ground beside him. "Armstrong's leg is getting worse, Hang. I think we're going to have to make our move."
     He shook his head. "Talk to Paul."
     "But-"
     "If he says we go, we'll go."
     Grumbling, Blake was about to call again out again, across to the third cell, when another voice echoed against the walls.
     "SPEAK NOT, LEST YE BE STRICKEN."
     The booming foghorn slammed against Grady's head like a high-pressure stream of water. Shaking himself violently, he tried to clear his senses, feeling overwhelmed as always. "F- Jesus, Blake, did you have to do that?"
     He looked at him darkly. "I'm just trying to save Dan's leg, asshole."
     "But, shit, do it quietly! It's bad enough that those fucking slug things have goddamn built-in amps?but if I have to listen to any more of this jacked-up Shakespeare, I'm going to shoot myself."
     Blake shook his head. He rose to his feet and padded to the entrance of his cell. "Fine, don't get your panties in a wad."
     Leaning as close to the high-power field as he dared, Blake peered out down the corridor, trying to see as far as he could. "It look like ol' wind-bag is gone. Maybe-"
     "Excuse me, Mr. Johnson?"
     "WHOA-"
     Snapping his head around in surprise, Blake crashed his head directly into the charged energy-shield. Voltage surged through his neck and back. He twitched like a drawn fish for several seconds before jerking away convulsively, collapsing to the floor in a limp heap.
     Grady, staring, didn't notice.
     Groaning on the ground, Blake grabbed at his bed, found a loose spring, and managed to haul himself up against the wall, where he propped his weight. Perspiration was running down his face, and his limbs trembled.
     "Son of a-"
     At last, he raised his gaze up, looking out the transparent gate, and saw the man.
     A trench coat? he thought, bewildered.
     Oh- no, it was an anti-personnel fire cloak. He'd seen one of those in a shop on M5. But-
     He was tall, heavily built, but with a graceful lilt to his stance that made him look like a dancer. Blake found himself staring into the man's face, trying to divine something from the hard, dark, expressionless depths. The eyes...
     The eyes-
     The man cleared his throat. "Mr. Johnson?"
     Blake shook himself. "Uh?yeah, Blake?Blake Edward... uh, Edward Johnson. Who- who are you?"
     The man didn't answer. He was looking upward, above the shielded entrance of the cell where the field met the ordinary reinforced duraluminum.
     Blake heard a sizzle, and a little smoke drifted into his view. Suddenly, there was a massive surging of power in the air, and a faint puff of equalizing atmospheres as the entire grid of the shield snapped and disappeared.
     The head, shoulders, and finally torso of a man dropped below the threshold of the newly-opened gap, and a cheery face beamed out at him. "Come on, then."
     The man in black stepped into the cell quickly, moving to Blake's side and helping him up. He bent to take hold of the sleeping?or unconscious, he wasn't sure which?figure of Armstrong on the floor, settled him in his arms, and carried him out.
     As Blake stepped from the cell, he turned and looked up. The head he'd seen, a spritely, blonde-haired, sharp looking man, was... apparently, stuck to the ceiling. He was wearing a dynamic climbing harness with easy familiarity, and through its loops there was the securing hooks of three snap-bolts that were divoted into the hard surface overhead. He was positioned in front of the grid maintenance panel, set into the wall, and various wires were running out of it. Blake caught a whiff of something burnt.
     The man did something to the divots and slid noiselessly from his perch to the ground. He turned down the hall and tossed the item he'd been holding with a gentle lob. "Yo, Hail! It works great! You can do the rest."
     Blake shifted his gaze down the long passageway, lined with prisoner holding cells.
     Three more men were there, guarding the crossway with alert faces enough weapons to level a city.
     And behind him, he heard a hiss, and he turned again to see another field flicker and fade away?and no sooner had it gone then Paul Carpenter, his C/O, stepped out with an alert look and a spark in his eyes. Blake saluted automatically.
     And so did the man in front of the field panel, snapping hand to forehead with crisp precision.
     "Silver Hawks, sir, on mission from Third Fleet Marines."
     "Respectfully relinquishing command to Seventh Recon."


* Author's Note: Parachute Landing Fall

     They pounded down the halls, trading stealth for speed.
     Carson was carrying the comatose Armstrong, loping alongside the others and puffing slightly. Wild, sprinting lightly, gave him a smirk.
     "Wait!"
     Banning, at the head of the line, clattered to a halt. He looked back; Carpenter was standing before a door, one of the many that studded the corridor.
     "Our weapons are in here, Captain."
     Banning looked around uncertainly, then jogged up. It only took him a few seconds to be sure of the obvious:
     "The damn thing's sealed."
     He turned, doubtful. "Are you sure they're in here?"
     "Quite sure, Captain."
     He shook his head. "Not going to work. Not unless we stick around here for a few minutes too long. We need to roll." He dropped his hand to his hip and drew out his pistol. "Here."
     They sorted themselves out. All the Hawks had one backup weapon or another. Soon, each of the conscious Recon members were armed.
     "Are you ready, Captain?" Carpenter asked.
     Banning nodded. "Yeah. Let's-"
     His words were cut off by the ripping slap of Mace's pistol.
     Carpenter was on the ground. Aiming.
     From one frame to the next, Mace twisted, and the shot slid past his face by inches.
     Then, everyone was moving. O'Neal had his shotgun to Wilder's head- he, in turn, was dual-drawn on both O'Neal and Carpenter. Carson's mini was a foot from Blake's face, and Grady had his borrowed subgun looped under the long reach of Storm's blade. The scene was frozen with tension?and then Banning yelled, "Stop!"
     Everybody turned to look at him. He eased his palm from the grip of his rifle.
     And pointed over Carpenter, where the folded form of the grunt was bleeding silently into the ground.
     Nobody spoke. And then Carpenter, rigidly pointing his gun at Mace, let his arm go loose and collapse.
     Everybody relaxed.
     He stood, keeping his gaze fixed on Mace, and approached him. His pure, hard, cobalt blue eyes were glistening.
     Then he extended his hand.
     "Excellent."
     Mace shook it stiffly.
     They both nodded.
     And moved off.
     Carson, watching them pass him, shook his head as they headed out.
     "Cold fucking bunch," he said.


     kreeeeeep! kreeeeeep!
     Blam!
     "I hate these fucking alarms!" Hackenberg bellowed, uncharacteristically enraged. He rushed past another box, pounded a tumbler of shaped Edging on it, and blew a fist-sized hole through the center.
     "Leave it!"
     "Fuck that!"
     "Leave it!"
     Barrrap!
     The two Elites on sentry at the door fell under a hail of fire.
     "Inside!"
     The group streamed past the bulkhead. The last one through, Hailman, slammed the heavy door shut and dogged it.
     "Clear!"
     "Come on!"
     And they burst free into the daylight, bristling with weapons and aiming in all directions, alert and ready to take down-
     The compound was empty.
     Carson did a double take, whipping his head around in surprise. "What the fuck?"
     Banning was scanning the barrel of his rifle back and forth rapidly, searching for a target. "Where-"
     The wide, open grounds of the base was deserted. Not so much as a dog wandered the blank, protected "streets" between the buildings and walls.
     Wilder was whispering out of the side of his mouth to Carson. "Am I the only one who remembers the ass-sized army we had to walk around to get here?"
     Carson looked like he needed something to blow up. "I remember."
     "Whoa-"
     They all turned to look at Hackenberg. He was standing broadly, his hands apart like he was trying to keep his balance.
     "Hack?"
     "Wh?whoa!"
     "YO!"
     "Uh?huh? Oh..."
     Banning glared at him curiously. "What the hell?"
     He had his eyes closed. Knees bent. He licked his lips. "Tremors."
     Looks were exchanged all around. Then: "Tremors?"
     Hackenberg flicked his eyes open. "Tremors. I grew up on Sirius 7, Bird. Quake country. In the mountains, no less. You get a feel for it?you have to know when to?to?" He rocked back suddenly, almost falling over. Hailman caught him, hauling him back to his feet.
     Everyone was swapping varied quizzical expressions, some more concerned than anything.
     Wilder cleared his throat. "Uh, Steve... Are you sure, uh... you're not..."
     "Wait, wait, wait, wait..." The men of the recon team had been hanging back, staying uninvolved; the voice startled everyone.
     Carpenter took looked back, surprised. "O'Neal? You have something to add?"
     The man had a stance similar to Hackenberg- legs cocked, eyebrows furrowed, arms askew.
     "Man.. I remember the Valley on Venus... just like this..."
     He looked up. "Just-"
     RAAHHH


     SCHHHHH
     The immense, thunderous explosion smashed through the surface, pummeling out waves and waves of echoing, punishing force. The ground slammed back/forthbackforthBACKBACK, hurtling them all from their feet as it slanted at an insane angle.
     Banning hit hard, slamming his chin against his rifle butt and splitting his lip. He rolled over immediately, freeing the gun and pivoting it up. As if at the range, he dropped his elbows, pressed stock to shoulder, and pressed his face tight into the rear sites, looking down the length of the base, where there was nothing but empty earth-
     -and it was splitting-
     The ground was screaming, protesting, and... crumbling away in a massive, trembling fissure. Banning watched, awed, as ten, twenty, thirty meters of the earth disappeared into blackness.
     And was filled, by a giant, bellowing monster.
     It was huge, black?shining black?a thick, cleanly cut, swept, flowing monstrosity that held a resemblance to a colossal, articulated, beautiful-
     hammer?
     "What the hell is that?!" bellowed Wilder, a hint of terror entering his voice.
     The words slipped out of Banning's mouth, parched, dry, desperate:
     "Thor's Hammer."
     Then the first blast came, and he snapped back to himself and rolled away.


     Scintillating, humming, moaning, razor-edged but lovingly caressing, the burnt-blue-green-blue beams of haunting destruction lanced out unremittingly, scorching the hard, packed dirt and the dry, moving air.
     The eleven men swarmed, coagulated, burst again, thickened, swarmed once more, trying, desperately, to evade the aching touch of the hammer's blows. The singing ship hovered, spun, drifted and swiveled in the sky like a dancing flight of seagulls, whirling and floating without any apparent means of impetus.
     Banning ran, his mind blank of any thoughts other than of driving his feet, his legs, himself. Splitting left, then left, running hard forward, breaking left hard and looping, a long U, turnSTOP?back to the right, all the speed he could muster. Seeing a wide hump in the ground, he exploded forward and dove six feet, slamming his shoulder, and falling behind it. He brought his rifle up as fast as he could, pounded out random shots onetwothreefour567bambambabababbbb-
and, instinct breaking strong into his mind, scooped up the rifle and kicked off the knoll, rollingrollingrolling as fast as he could?just before a massive, sun-beam thick ray of clarity-yellow and energy-blue cleaved through his cover like a rainbow through a cloud, splitting it like the wind, cutting above his head by impossibly close feet.
     On his feet, Harpy-plagued, he burst into a sprint again, spinning around in a wide, open circle. His mind threw out fifty different routes every second, crossed out half of them, then another half, and five more, then two and one and one until he had it and he executed?always trying to avoid patterns, eschewing the natural tendency of the human character to make logic, pattern, design. He made a mistake once, and the beam that spoke came inches from severing his legs at the hip. A last-instant, vicious breaking flip saved him, realizing his mistake in time?barely.
     His muscles burned. He jinked left twice, twirled, stepped backwards suddenly, and almost ran into Hackenberg. They pushed off each other urgently, but not before Banning slapped at his back urgently, pointing.
     He got the message. They split, ran, and rejoined, Hackenberg skidding forward, as Banning dropped in front of him, in a kneel so long he was almost in a splits. He braced his arm, his elbow, both reinforced, against his chest, as he heard Steve throwing off his pack and yanking out the rocket launcher, raising it t-
     Divinity struck.
     The Wrath of God tore into him with a thousandweight of sheer, impossible force, a mountain driving into a single, hard point the size of a fist. His gauntlet, the droplet of glowing energy, flared fiercely like a star, absorbing the power of a nuclear missile in an instant, overloaded, and transferred the rest to kinetic energy.
     Banning arm cracked backwards like a thrown switch, slapping into the rear of his ribs?in the wrong direction, the arm already broken, but still with enough force to break two ribs. He completed two full rolls backwards, stopping with a lump, splayed out on his stomach, looking at Steve's back, seeing him freeze in mid-fire, stunned, aware that in a moment, he would-
     And it spoke again,
and, like a meteor met with a missile, was erased by a second, angled cut of slanting light. Banning managed to shift his eyes, left, to see Mace standing in a two-handed stance, holding his pistol-
     and Hackenberg awoke, and lifted the launcher to his shoulder, achieving a snap-lock in a half-second, and squeezed.
     A long, streaming finger reached out, so quickly it blurred, blurring, blurring into the side of the monstrous, imposing ship, the hammer, Thor's Hammer...
     Exploded on the side and nothing. Charred metal, almost, no paint to scratch, a few discolorations?the hull untouched, the strength unopposed, the soul left unchallenged. Hackenberg was quicker, this time, the unofficial mercenaries' motto echoing in the air and in his ears-


     and if you shall die, be it yet so
     Shirk not your duties, to taste the blow
     But if it be not time, the end of ye luck
     Watch ye your ass, and when ye hear whis'ling, duck!


     He let himself go boneless, limp and flaccid, falling moments ahead of a spectrum-merging javelin of redemption.
     Well drilled, and quick too. Even as he fell, the reload was in his hand, then in the breech before he hit, and he split his legs wide, tilted back, and fired-
     -As Mace, again, felt the motion of a shot and danced it back, contacting and erasing it from existence twenty feet away, but feeling the heat nonetheless-
     And the rocket streaked forward, and touched, and was rebuffed.
     Hack fell one way, rolling, and Mace fell the other with a cartwheel, both avoiding the shot, but it impacted an arm's-length away from Banning, and he started to worry-
     and well so. For a second later, he was swept up by a thick grasp, and he turned his gaze up wearily to see the crisp face of Paul Carpenter, and they ran for only a second before the spot where he had lain was devastated by a crater.
     The next shot was meant for Mace?so much so that, addled with endorphins, Banning swore he saw his name inscribed on the round?and the impossible angle, aiming at what was essentially a one-dimensional object, might have been considered a simple challenge by Mace normally, but he blundered, and his counter-shot slipped past by a millimeter?but it must have pushed it off-course, or else his last-ditch dive to avoid the shot in less than a heartbeat was successful, or else his cloak diffused the blow enough for him to slide away, partially?but the thunderbolt of power only tore into his shoulder, burning, breaking, but leaving muscle and bone largely intact.
     But he did not cry out, or make any noise at all, and Banning saw why?not to call any attention at all to the figure beneath the ship, behind, and tiny, but undetected in the Hammer's crusade to delete Mace, Hackenberg, and Banning.
     Mace flipped his gun to his left hand, and the next shot ripped apart the blazing beam of sustenance as soon as it left the ship, two hundred feet from him.
     The next shot made Banning cringe?for Mace was reloading, doing so whisper-fast, but it caught him in the middle, charged clip still in his opposite hand-
     and he spun, tumbled, and cast up his cape, swirling it in a cloud of black, and Banning heard the voice slam through his comm piece, "close your eyes!" He clenched them shut, just as the shot impacted among the folds of the reflective, refractive, maze-bending fabric, bounced, and bounced, and bounced, and suddenly split, searing into his eyes with a white light that left an afterimage behind the lids.
     He opened his eyes again, blinking rapidly, and saw Mace on the ground, panting, rising-
     But his attention drew away, to the ship, and below, where he squinted, trying to make out-
     -but then he saw the flare of light gathering, ghost-glimmer quick, and he knew it was coming straight for him-
     An arrow-straight, soaring, crisscrossing grid of streaming red lines, patpatpatting, ricocheting and cracking through the air, filling it with buzzing, hissing, snapping bullets in a thin crimson veil. Behind it, rolling, spinning, diving among the shots, the purple, living streak of driven fury, in a climbing vertical arc that would reach the sun?
     ?but as it crested, pulling even with the terrible, resounded, effulgent gun, the small, compact figure leaning out, holding the pistol, and?
     ?the whirling, blessed ball, piercing through the folds of chance and fate, streaking perfectly in a glance of light, the tiny, metal bullet, carved with the crested, silver bird, a hawk?
     ?breaking, bursting, in a flurry of scattering light and lost power, in the port, the maw, the barrel of the mighty hammer's voice?
     Banning flinched involuntary, but looked back, and watched as the huge, ascendant, omnipotent beast slowly flared, perched on a torch of suspension, then turned translucent, and, heaving, plummeted into the earth.

Afterword

     Limping, bleeding, torn and struck, the eleven men and women drew in. As each arrived, they took stock, seeing to immediate wounds and other concerns, as well as establishing their individual whereabouts during the battle.
     Paul Carpenter had been a locust, never stopping, never ceasing his momentum, worrying at the ship with small-arms and hoping for a lucky hit.
     Hailman, along with Eddie Blake, had been the luckiest of the bunch. The two men had chanced upon an old, sensor-proof bunker at the edge of the compound, and darted inside as soon as they felt they were unwatched. They had spent the rest of the battle trying to contact the others over jammed particle lines and inform them of the safe haven.
     The unconscious David Armstrong had been carried with them. His condition, a combination of wound-exacerbated fever and an open shot wound, had begun to worsen- Wilder called in an emergency medevac, with a full escort.
     Mace had light burning across his entire torso, where the broken beam of the Hammer had retained enough power to sear his unshielded body. He shrugged off help.
     Hackenberg was unharmed, except for superficial cuts and a near-miss from the cannon that had blistered the flesh.
     And when Hanger Grady, Peter O'Neal, Wild and Storm and Carson finally found their way in, Banning looked at them all, but it was Wilder who spoke at last.
     They had, individually or together, stumbled across the same point in the fire-swept killing field- a spot where the ground had fallen away, near the uncovered bay of the Hammer. They had coordinated the attack, with shouted words, quick exchanges, and a final, frustrating wait until the moment when the ship was sufficiently distracted for them to have a chance of success.
     Then Carson, Grady, and O'Neal, along a phalanx of the base's stationary batteries, had sent up a wall of fire that blazed with a heat far, far beyond that of the stolen Covenant flyer, piloted by Storm, manned by Wild, and capable of approaching the height of the main gun and reversing the flow with an implosive light-bullet.
     They sat, stunned, for several moments before Banning hesitated and said, "But- how did you know about the turrets? And the flyer? And-"
     Wild interrupted him. "And the vulnerability of the gun, and the fact that the ship only sees in infrared."
     Banning raised an eyebrow. "Yeah."
     He shook his head and jerked his thumb behind him.
     Banning turned, as did the others, and jumped, seeing the thirteenth man for the first time.
     The cyborg. The cyborg. That damnable cyborg.
     Wild spoke in a low, tight voice, aware that no eyes were on him. "He showed up. Gave us the gun codes. And the flyer. Told us about... everything."
     Unable to find words, Banning was speechless. Carpenter, however, spoke out into the thin air with a clean, smooth, calm tone.
     "Is this true?"
     The cyborg was still, but Banning felt the fathomless gaze shift. Then, a slow nod. Not cautious so much as aware of the wasted effort of extraneous motion.
     "Then we thank you." Carpenter sounded like he was giving an absolution. Or a knighthood, Banning thought.
     The green beast was motionless for a moment. Then, easily, it turned, and began to walk off.
     Only to have Wilder?whose expression had been growing darker and darker?wheel about and sprint after him.
     "Hey!"
     He caught up and slapped him on the helmet with a ringing, gong-like sound that made Banning cringe. Somehow, that seemed so impossible dangerous.
     "Hey! I'm talking to you!"
     The machine ground to a halt, and Wild skidded in front. He jabbed a finger at its chest, inexplicably outraged.
     "You- you..."
     A pause, gathering his fury. Then:
     "It was you, wasn't it?"
     Silence. Wilder narrowed his eyes.
     "You! You booted me out of the HaloNet system! You burned me off of my piggyback!"
     Banning flinched, involuntarily. The voice, deep and sibilant, boomed out, commanding, immobile.
     "Yes."
     Quivering, Wilder just shook. Then, he demanded, "HOW?"
     Steely, resonating, hard. "Old friends."
     "What?"
     Silence again. Then, without a word, he turned and began to walk off.
     Wilder turned and bellowed peevishly at the retreating figure, "Since when did you become a fucking Marine net admin?!"
     Without turning, the voice came back. "I never said I was."
     "That's what your tag said!"
     "Yours," returned the voice, "said you were a level four autotech."
     Stymied, Wilder stopped, his hand hanging at his sides. Finally, the green shape already twenty feet away, the whispering booms of overhead sub-sonic transports echoing in the air, he cried, "Why?"
     The figure, fading into the dusk, said nothing. Until, drifting back, the bone-shaking intonation reached out, quietly touching their ears with a feather's caress.
     "Some things you are not meant to know, this soon in the game..."

     And he was gone.

Hawk Chronicles: Supplemental
Date: 26 October 2001, 12:31 am

Chronicles of the ***Silver Hawks***
SUPPLEMENTAL



And now the matchless deed's achieved,
DETERMINED, DARED, and DONE.

-A Song to David, Christopher Smart





ROUTE {SYSTEMS}

C.O. Third Fleet Marines
General Burmingham (FL)
DISPATCH—PRIORITY

SENDTO

(BRANCH)
Special Ops
(ROOT)
Internal
(NET)
"Silver Hawk HQ, Quaker Mountains"
(ADDRESS)
Captain Banning, C.O.

END ROUTE (DISPATCH)







Captain,


     I'm responding personally to your query, because I think that nothing else would suffice. Rather than pawn you off on some junior officer or aide who doesn't have all the eggs, I feel obligated to answer this myself, in only in some vague hope of redemption.
     Not just because I'm discussing matters so sensitive that if I gave it to my secretary I'd have to jail him for the remainder of the war.
     First off, let me say something that I'll likely be repeating: I'm sorry. On behalf of the Fleet, on behalf of myself, you have my humblest apologies.
     If anything that I say is to make sense, you're going to need the background. And, in this case, most of the background can be summed up with a single sentence:
     We were trying to win the war.
     In one fell swoop. As you know, the home of the Covenant, the centralized base that's home to their communications, control, logistics, and breeding programs, is housed in the downed (or more properly, landed) supercruiser Penitent's Oath. All previous frontal assaults, no matter how enthusiastic, have always met with utter failure when we've tried to take it. Why? Simply due to the space-class shielding, the sort of thing that's impenetrable to all but the most powerful capital ship armament. Our small arms, our artillery, the best of our ground-based forces just break against it like so much water.
     The Mjolnir Project was designed to end all that.
     You see, it was our crown jewel, our ace in the hole. It was going to chop off the head of the Covenant, clean up, and take us home, too, all in one blow. How? By housing the very latest in super-atmospheric weaponry, combined with the best shield-penetrating science our techs could come up with, and dropping it all on a mobile, armored platform large enough to carry it and tough enough to stand anything the Covenant could throw at it, short of pulling in the fleet from orbit and fire-strafing half the Halo.
     It was called Thor's Hammer. We've been working on it since the beginning. Last week, the prototype—which, in this instance, is more or less the full build—went final.
     And the day after that, we lost contact.
     You know the rest, or most of it. We sent in Recon 7, the cream of our SpecOps division, to gather information and see what's what. Partly because one of our dwindling number of firebases had dropped out of touch—but mostly, because that's where we had hangered the Hammer.
     You don't know it, but I just laughed out loud. It wasn't supposed to be black like that, you know. It must have made quite the impression. In truth, it was designed with a full active-camouflage hull. It can be just as easily be pure white. But that feature was never implemented.
     Anyway, when we lost Recon as well, we knew we were in the shit, if you'll pardon my language. Not only were we ninety percent certain that the base had fallen, but the more honest among us realized that we were out of our league. If Recon couldn't handle it, we didn't have anybody who could.
     So we sent for you.
     So much for the facts. Now, you'll want to know—why weren't you told?
     Damn good question, if you ask me.
     It's true that we were technically justified in withholding what we did. Your men and yourself have absurdly high clearances, but a full-bells Fleet Secret badge—well, let's just say that there's only about twenty of them in all of SolCore. So we had the legal right.
     But if we weren't quite so half-assed, it would have clicked that maybe, just maybe, sending you to do our dirty work gave you the need-to-know.
     I've already dismissed a dozen of my cabinet brass over this. Don't shed your tears for them—they didn't know their stars from holes in the ground.
     Okay, let's get down to brass tacks. You raised some specific points in your letter, and I'll endeavor to answer them.
     First and foremost: To our credit, no, we were not aware that the Hammer was active. As far as we were aware, the keycodes were still encrypted, the hidden hanger was still—well, hidden—and the warm-up sequence couldn't be initiated by anybody beside me, my XO, the base's commander, or the lost ship's AI, Cortana.
     But it was. We still don't know how.
     And as it happens, the matter is mostly academic.
     You destroyed it.
     It's gone.
     Continuing: The ship was, indeed, intended to have a full suite of sensors and pickups—but, again, at the time of its testing, the only frequency active was infrared. And here too, I don't know anybody who was aware of this fact but myself, my lead tech, and the destroyed AI.
     The weapon you were inquiring about: It's something, isn't it? We called it Lightwind. You make the fifteenth person ever to have seen it fire, including your team. Truly beautiful. One thousand megajoules delivered, coherent and nondrifting over a period of one second. Not lightspeed, but damn close.
     The development team is going to have a shit when I tell them about your man's trick, though. We knew it could be broken relatively easily... but to disperse it, all the way to the component white light, so far down the spectrum as to be harmless, with a simple fire cloak? Amazing. Absolutely amazing.
     As for... well... Let's just say you found the ship's one weakness. We never thought it was a liability—a phased light charge, directly down the muzzle, at the very instant of amelioration? It was always POSSIBLE, but it was considered more likely that the ship would be sucked into a spontaneous black hole at the moment of its launch. No joke.
     David Armstrong is recovering, from the jungle bug and from blood loss. All of the Recon team sends their regards. Lieutenant Carpenter says to say that he looks forward to working with you in the future.
     Said it rather ironically, too, and irony's scarce in that boy. What'd you do to him?
     Your polite request that we revamp security in our intranet has been taken into consideration, and the sarcasm that accompanied it, duly ignored.
     The unexplained disappearances of our field teams has dropped down to one half of one percent, the usual "accepted" number for such things. I don't know where they get these numbers, but I'll go with it.
     Your special circumstances fee has been transferred, with a bonus, to your account. I'd give you a busload of medals as well, but that can wait until we're off of this spinning wagon wheel.
     In any case, Captain, I want to thank you again, and to wish you the best of luck. I hope that we'll be able to collaborate again in the future. I'll try to make sure you're kept up to date on the most recent news from the front—you keep me attuned to the readiness of your force. Rest up.
     And never forget what you've done.

Sincerely,

    General Sorenson Burmingham, Fleet Grade, *5*, Third Marines.

Hawk Chronicles: Chapter 3a
Date: 5 November 2001, 1:58 am

Chronicles of the ***Silver Hawks***

Can't you see...
It's not me you're dying for

-Brick, Ben Folds Five



Part 3
Location: Silver HQ, Quaker Mountains, Halo


     Slap.
     Slap.
     BAM.
     "Oh, shit."
     Raynor Carson hit the floor hard, banging the back of his head against the thick matting. He groaned, shook himself, then took the offered hand and pulled himself to his feet.
     "Hey, nice one!"
     "Shut up, asshole."
     "Bigger they are, harder they fall, Raynor?"
     "Go fuck yourself," he said succinctly, then stalked out of the ring, rubbing his neck.
     "Hey, you wanna go, Storm?" Wilder nudged her with his foot. She looked up.
     "Huh? Oh. Um... Yeah, why not." Rising, she stepped out onto the floor.
     Macedon waited impassively. He was wearing a loose white robe, wrapped wrists, and without any padding, looked like some mystical warrior-priest off to do battle. He breathed easily.
     Storm approached him, shaking herself loose, then extended a hand, which he shook. They squared off, taking their respective stances-—her, a casual, relaxed semblance of preparedness that would fool any but the most astute of observers, him, a semi-formal, guarded high stance with his hands close. They stared each other down, neither moving a muscle.
     Then a subliminal blink, and they both leapt.
     She moved first, slipping in behind his guard with a quicksilver jilt. Spinning agilely, she twisted, grabbed at his shoulders, and spun, throwing him over her hip.
     Their audience watched, rapt and grinning, most knowing what would happen.
     Mace allowed himself to go limp, flung around, and slapped to the ground. Storm was already stepping away, triumphant, when she noticed something, looked down, and say his feet entwined with hers.
     He jerked, and she flipped backwards.
     She managed to turn the motion into a roll, slamming her shoulder nonetheless, and came up into a kneel. Mace, back on his feet, feinted at her three times in seizure-inducing stream, lunged, and snapped a kick at her head, fast.
     Ducking desperately, she fell under it, then lithely twisted, whirled around, and swept him with both feet. But he was there, and with his other leg still in the air, jumped, cleared the sweep, and landed on the other side of her.
     Reacting instinctively, she rolled back, kicking hard with her left foot. The foot blurred directly toward his face—and he twisted, letting it cleave past, spun around, hooked her other leg, and heaved her to the ground again.
     This time, she fell, and didn't get up. Moaning, she stared at the ceiling morosely as Mace approached and offered a hand.
     She took it.
     —wrapped her arms around it, planted a foot on his chest, and fell backwards, hurtling him through the air—
     —except her hadn't relinquished his grip. Maintaining his hold, he hit, kept the momentum, tumbled, and in turn sent Storm flying whip-crack fast. She curled and managed to avoid hitting Hackenberg, only to bowl over Hailman and jab Wilder with a knee.
     The groaning heap of Hawks pushed apart from each other. Storm stayed where she was, Hailman limped away, and Wilder fell into a chair, rubbing at his stomach.
     The quiet, picturesque scene remained unmoving until the silence was shattered by the whining klaxon of the alarm.


     BEEP
     BEEP
     Banning's voice cut in sharply over the loudspeaker, the sound reverberating against the walls of the exercise room.
     "Move, move, move, everybody, now. We have a Code Four. That's Code Four—move your asses. Drop what you're doing and move."
     They were scrambling. The voice came back on.
     "Hit the armory, people, grab your shit, suit up, and be at the hanger in six minutes. I'll brief you in-flight."
     Already running down the halls, it took them less then a minute to reach the door of the equipment room and blow in. Banning was there, throwing on his gear. "Hurry up."
     They found their respective racks, palmed them open, and began vesting.
     "Wait," he said.
     They looked up. He was shaking his head.
     "Storm, Mace, and Steve—the three of you aren't going."
     Incredulous. "What the f-"
     "We don't need all seven for this. You two are wounded. Stay here, sit your asses down, and play solitaire or something. Steve, keep an eye on them."
     "But-"
     Banning grabbed his rifle and pounded in a clip. "That's it."
     "Where are you going?"
     The four of them were already filing through the exit into the hanger bay. Last in the line, Banning turned.
     "The Marine base is under attack."



     <Our plans ripen>
     <Yes>


     The whirring sound of the jet faded away. Storm slumped down into the chair.
     "Oh, stop it, Storm." Hackenberg was walking past. "Me, I'm glad for the break. Let them handle whatever the brush fire is this time. They'll be fine."
     "Screw."
     He grinned. "Well, I'll leave you to brood." The door shut.
     

     <It is ready?>
     <Verily so>
     <Let us bring forth the end of turmoil>
     <The end is near>
     <Make it thus>


     Yawning, Hackenberg reclined his chair another notch, then dialed up the volume on the tri-d viewer.
     "Now, you'll notice that the crust is already starting to turn a little brown. That's okay—it's going to be even darker."
     Beneath his hands, the components of an unassembled M-37 grenade launcher were arranged.
     "Baste it—so. Isn't that a nice color?"
     A buzzer sounded. Immediately, he grabbed the first piece, slotted it into the action, and locked it.
     "Don't be bashful with the cognac!"
     Sliding up the rear end of the dual-bolt, he inserted the trigger mechanism. Locked.
     "Be sure you reduce it to just a simmer—any more, it could crystallize."
     The quick-attach barrel turned, turned, locked. He ran the sights up the notch, then twisted and slapped at the timer.
     Twenty seconds. Not bad.
     He was starting to take it down again when he noticed the light on the alarm panel flashing.


     <It begins>


     "Storm! Mace! Heads up!" The frantic voice over the intercom sounded high and strained.
     She jerked her head up, eyes alert.
     "Early-warning sensors are showing a approaching enemy force! Here! Company sized, more surfacing every second! I'm going to hit the tower—lock yourself down in one of the defense rooms. The C3 is open."
     Running down the corridor, Hackenberg jumped, grabbed at the ladder, and began to climb. The long, heavy sniper rifle slung across his back swung from side to side.
     Fifteen meters. Arms aching, he pulled himself over the top and clambered to his feet.
     The watch tower had been built from a design he'd made himself, utilizing a high angle and multiple open-face ports to their best advantage. Ignoring the observation equipment and mounted weapons, he pushed himself to the nearest shielded firing slit and opened it.
     Stretching out on the cushioned surface, he unpacked the rifle and settled it onto the bipod. He activated the scope and, both eyes open, peered through.
     Hundreds.
     The site for the base had been chosen specifically by Banning for its position, and there were only two approaches that would be taken from the ground. Air routes were open, but so vulnerable from every conceivable direction that it was futile to all but the strongest of forces.
     Both ground paths, winding up through the mountains, were flooded with the moving forms of Covenant Elites.
     Elites. Not a grunt among them. Worse: in the sharp focus of his scope, panning across the pass, he could see dozens of Hunters, leading the group in an orderly surge.
     He nodded to himself, shut off the mental warnings that were hounding him, unloaded his anti-personnel clip, and reached for the Shield-Piercers.


     The door slammed shut with a click as Storm dashed into the Control center. Paying no attention to the winking alarm lights and scrolling sensor readings, she slid into a chair, pulling a command board from a slot. She tapped in the frequency with three fingers, grabbed a headset, and hit the access key.
     "Hawk Lead, this is Nest."
     She kept her hand on the switch, listening. "Nest to Hawk Lead, come in."
     Only the unfettered silence of the particle feed greeted her.
     Annoyed, she doubled her signal gain and punched the key again. "Hawk Lead! This is God! Respond!"
     "Dammit, John! Answer—"
     She broke off when she saw the indicator on the comm unit blinking red.
     Full-frequency jamming active


     A thudding, humming buzz banged out of the barrel exhausts. Another shot slammed down through the ravine.
     An Elite fell dead, his hoverbike twisting out of control, three others diving out of the way.
     Ramming back the bolt, Hackenberg chambered the next round, keeping his eye to the scope. He turned, reacquired a target—a second Elite, standing tall—and squeezed.
     The gyroing, charged bullet lanced out, cut through the neckbone of the creature, and buried itself in another that was standing behind.
     He chambered another.
     Ammo was precious.
     Ah—a Hunter, foolishly uncovered. Darwinian, it was. Poetic justice.
     Fire, fly, strike. Hundreds of pounds of force blew the Covenant back twenty feet, bringing his shields down to a soap-bubble's strength. It stood teetering on the brink of the cliff edge, then barely managed to recover its balance, only to have Hackenberg's second shot blast him over, dead before he hit the ground.
     The clip, able to hold only four of the massive SP rounds, ran dry—he slipped it out and replaced it in one fluid motion.
     Slow and plodding as they were, the attacking force was beginning to realize they were under attack. Guttural orders were barked back and forth, and the pace of the party sped up, Hunters holding their shields up in protective one-man phalanxes.
     On the narrow path, though, they couldn't scatter. He put another shot through one, two, three Elites, finally terminating it in the unshielded divide of a gliding strafer.
     Seeing an opportunity, he trained his plain-X crosshairs higher.
     Fired and missed. Unbelievable. It was barely a mile.
     Again, fire, and this time, as if to redeem himself, it flew so true that only one shot was required—the massive, looming boulder that had been imposing itself over the path broke away cleanly, fell thirty feet, and crushed a Hunter-commanded tank.


     <There is resistance>
     <Have no mercy>


     Punching in a command, Storm logged herself onto the defense station. Instantly, a whirring sound emitted from the headset, and a flawless tridimensional display sprang up an inch from her eyes.
     Without hesitation, she grasped the double-yoke handles and squeezed. A long, flaming arc of cannon fire leapt out of her sight.
     She turned it downwards, and began to work.


     Quickly reloading, Hackenberg grabbed at the pile of ammunition beside him and replaced his clip. He'd gone through more than ten of them already—and the attacking force, though beginning to look slightly anemic, was still as powerful as ever.
     Another volley from the base's batteries took down a swath of Elites and a tank. "Good old Storm." He saw a Hunter turn—idiot—and uncover himself, and he blew off its head.
     But they were growing closer.
     He cracked a shot off. Sank it into an Elite's left eye.
     A flare, on the edge of his vision—quickly, he panned left, and saw a tank's inclined barrel, pointing at—
     He fired reflexively, and the tank exploded in a massive, incendiary design of destruction. A group of Covenant fell away, burning.
     It was complemented by yet another cannonade from the base.
     But they were getting closer.


     <We will take their kin and make mockery of their gods>


     Sweating, Hackenberg dropped out the magazine and reached for another. The last.
The tide had reached them.
     He rolled over and grabbed at the nearest intercom. "Storm!" he bellowed.
     A moment, then a crackling. "What?" She sounded strained.
     "They're fucking on top of us! They've reached the gates! Lock down the base and smash the controls!"
     Hissing. "I got it."
     "Roger." He pulled himself to his feet and sprinted back to the tower hatch. As he reached it, it suddenly gave out an electric whine and slammed shut.
     He found the emergency axe in the wall and destroyed the hinge mechanism with two blows.
     Then he returned to the wall, to spend his last four rounds dearly.


     OVERRIDE—FULL LOCKDOWN
     Storm executed the command, then slid the data board off her lap and stepped away. She turned, bent down, and pulled the chair off its track.
     Then she lifted it and broke the board in two. She ruined all four consoles and the main command box before letting the chair fall.
     She crossed the room and sat down in the last unscathed station, a Data/Scan terminal with no access privileges. She keyed up a camera view of the front entrance.
     In the hazy, clean image of the viewer, the tremendous, reinforced triluminum door was shaking.


     Rattle.
     Rattle.
     groan
     Macedon shook his head and looked down. Lifting his hand, he touched the side of his head. "Storm?"
     There was a pause. Then: "Mace? Where the fuck are you?"
     The hatch swelled perceptibly, bending inward.
     "I'm by the entrance."
     "The entrance? Are you crazy?! That fucking thing's going to go any second! Get out of there!"
     "I'm going to take them."
     In the instant's silence while she was collecting her wrath, he shut off the comm, and, discerning a change in the molecular mesh of the steel, stepped back and around the corner.
     Then it exploded, blowing inward with a fathomless wail of ruined strength.


     <Nearness>
     <Yes>


     He counted to two, then stepped around the corner and fired low.
     An Elite, holding a massive, kinetic-energy breacher, took the round in its chest and flipped over.
     He blinked left, right, and moved ten feet forward in one flowing motion. The pistol in his hand spoke one, two, threefourfivesix times, so quickly it sounded as one—then fell with him as he dropped as fast as gravity allowed, only a heartbeat ahead of a volley of lethal plasma fire.
     Whipping his legs around, he spun himself to his feet, sent his last five shots out in a linear stream, and bent behind his cloak to deflect and absorb a ball of glowing energy.
     Then he stepped back, ducked behind the corner, and reloaded.


     Storm sat, hearing the sounds of gunfire, and was afraid.


     He poked his head out around the corner, pulled it back quickly, saw the mass of white-hot power slam past, then leapt sideways deathly-fast and rolled. Now, he fired so quickly, the magazine was empty before he stopped moving, and when he came up from the roll, he had another out and in, slapping the slide forward before the eleven bodies of the Elites had hit the ground.
     He hit the ground too, falling forward prone and casting the cloak around himself in a murky shroud. The gun was forward, and spoke again as another Elite tried to pitch a grenade—the bullet rang off the edge of it, and although too stable to detonate prematurely, the explosive slanted back and buried itself in the Elite's stomach.
     Too surprised to move. It burst, taking out its unwilling host and a score of others who had grown too bold.
     Behind the wall again, angles and trajectories running through his head, Mace pointed the gun, froze, and fired. The shot whanged off the corridor wall, sprang away at a tangent and cut through an unsuspecting Hunter, unguarded and unaware.
     Then he walked out from his cover purposefully, assumed a rigid, two-handed stance, and commenced firing.


     <Can it be he?>
     <No>


     Storm covered her face, trying not to listen as the hail of fire continued, just outside the door.


     Bowing his head forward, Mace knelt down and loaded his final clip.
     Then he kissed the side of his gun and stepped forward.

     The TJA landed on the outdoor pad. That was standard procedure for a possibly compromised location.
     They could see the devastation for miles.
     They dismissed the pilot, then the four men walked slowly to the main entrance. The smell of cordite and burnt ozone hung in the air.
     The gate was gone.
     Wordlessly, they moved inside. Hundreds of bodies, Covenant bodies, Elites, Hunters, all tough and hardened, all riddled with holes or charred with flame.
     They stepped over them, and found Mace.
     He was lying, entombed in a halo of his dark cloak. A metallic, glinting light reflected from around him; the ground was covered with spent shell casings.
     In his hand, his pistol, locked open on an empty chamber.
     His chest, stomach, and right arm had bandages on them, the arm also surrounded by an inflatable splint. They checked his pulse, found it relatively strong, and moved on.
     They reached the door to the Command center, and found it broken down.
     Hackenberg was inside.
     "It's all over. They left about twenty minutes ago."
     Banning stepped forward. Steve, unflappable Steve, was looking furiously angry.
     "I looked at Mace. He'll be fine. Broken ribs, fractured arm, and a ruptured kidney. I gave him Prophyl."
     Frowning, Banning took the seat in front of him. "Steve," he said. "What happened?"
     He threw the tape at him with a snarl.
     Banning looked at him, then found the only undamaged terminal in the room and socketed in the recording.
     Storm's voice, frantic and reedy, played over the speakers.


     He got them, you know. Every last one. A company, or a platoon, or whatever the hell they are. But they had reinforcements. A whole, untouched force. Not even he could take them.
     He got them. But they weren't going to leave without somebody. They needed a prisoner. I can take that better than Mace can.
     So I went.
     Don't come after me. I'll handle it myself. See to Mace. I made sure he was alive.
     Good luck.


     There was a snik, and her voice cut off.
     Hailman was looking at the door. It had been broken open from the inside.
     Banning closed his eyes.

Hawk Chronicles: Chapter 3b
Date: 20 February 2002, 4:35 AM

     Tapping the edge of the tape against his desk, surrounded by the unlit gloom of his office, Banning grieved silently.
     Silently and quickly. He was a soldier.
     And it was only ten minutes before he straightened himself up, rubbed at his face, and inserted the particle recording into his workstation.
     He brought up the input screen, hastily belaying the automatic replay. He'd heard it enough times to recite it in his sleep.
     But that wouldn't be all, of course.
     Using the locational micrograph, he instructed the reader head to look between the second and fifth rep line in the optical chip. Second and Fifth. Her address, back on Earth.
     Suddenly, a password prompt jumped up onto the screen. He could do this blind; but he took special care to type in the letters correctly.

     "loved I not honor more. . ."

     There was a beep, and the recording disengaged.

     John, I know that you're going to come out here after me. There's nothing I can say to stop you, so I won't try. I'm just going to try to remind you of the obvious.
     You're an officer, dammit. Think like one. If you ignore what you're feeling right now and be logical for a second, you'll realize there's not a half-baked chance in hell that one tired old man can penetrate wherever they're going to put me, and escape alive. Take somebody. Take the team. Maybe they'll even keep you out of trouble—although I doubt it.

     A loud noise reported in the distance on the playback. There was a pause, then her voice came back. She was talking faster.

     Just remember your training, John. Logic before emotion. Reason before action. You're not an idiot. Don't act like one.

     The noise was getting louder, a clambering, bustling cacophony. Her voice faded, then, as if from far off, returned for one last line.

     And—

     Silence.

     Goodbye, John.

     A pause, so long he thought she had forgotten to switch off the mic, then a click.
     He sat in the darkness, motionless and alone.
     It was two hours before he finally stood and moved brokenly to the door. Before he stepped out, he stopped and turned, holding the frame with one hand as if for stability. He looked back into the room.
     "Sorry."


     "What are you talking about?"
     "I'm going."
     "Alone?"
     "You're sure not coming."
     "Why the fuck not?"
     Curling his fingers together and rapping them hard against the table, Banning exhaled slowly. A tight smile stretched across his face.
     "I'll tell you some day."
     "Look, enough of this shit," Carson barked, annoyed. "What the hell are you going to do?"
     "I'm going to go find her and bring her back. That's all."
     "That's all? You don't even know where she is!"
     "I said I'll find her."
     "Where? Covie HQ?"
     Making a conscience effort to relax his shoulders, Banning pressed his palms against the desk, flat. "If necessary," he growled.
     "How the fuck—"
     "Look," he hissed. "I am not asking for opinions. The last I checked, I was in charge of this team. I am informing you of my decision for your sake."
     He looked around as if daring them to challenge him. "I'm leaving tomorrow. If anybody follows me, I'll gun them down. That's all."
     Lifting himself out of his seat deliberately, he rose.
     "DISMISSED."


     Black. Rotting darkness and a taste of murk in the mouth.
     
     Light and airy, the fluting voice cleaved through the mists. It was followed soon by its ever-present companion, the heavy, pummeling, rumbling thunder.
     
     
     The sky split apart and, again, a bolt of pain blistered through. Nerve endings seared and died.
     Blackness once more, the voice calling hauntingly after.
     


     Three, four, five grenades. He lined them up, taped, along his ammunition strap.
     Unceremoniously, his hand grasped the heavy launcher on the table and gave it a spin. It pivoted on the safety catch and the stock came about to face him. He snapped the double breech open and shut, quickly, checking it, then slipped it smoothly into the sheath on his left shoulder.
     The right already sported the shortened revolver shotgun, daisy-configured with the semi-homing static rounds, and tightly strapped down.
     Three pistols. Duloc Featherweights. Each hip, and an ankle. They found their niches among the magazines of heavy assault ammunition. His long, tanto-bladed stiletto, titanium-edged and Sirius-gripped, went into the slim pocket on the back of his armor.
     A noise behind him as the door to the armory slid open, nearly soundless on its tracks. He froze, facing the vesting table, back to the entrance.
     Too many years. They had the feeling, the connection—the dance—zanshin, they called it, and no matter what. . .
     It couldn't be avoided.
     "Mace," Banning said slowly, still facing away.
     "Yes."
     A pause, lingering. If he reached between them, Banning felt he could touch the silence, break it off in a long icicle, shatter it against the table into a million golden shards. . .
     "I'm coming," Macedon said simply.
     Weighted and powerful. That was the voice of command. But it was casual, calmly that he spoke, and equally simple: "No."
     Silence again. Unseen, Banning closed his eyes, muscles locked.
     He had fought terrible enemies before.
     Seconds drew into minutes, as the moment tautened and stretched.
     "Yes."
     The door drew softly shut in his wake as, like a softly washing wave, he slipped out.

     Banning opened his eyes and swore.


     But, three hours later, as the sun was rising mournfully on the green-spackled Halo, it was the two-man DJA that Banning prepped with practiced motions in the air bay.
     He jabbed the needle of a fuel spray into the tank, piercing the covering. He dialed a mixture, slapped the catch, and started the plasma-laced fluid flowing.
     Quietly, and without turning, he parted his lips and spoke. "Get the capsules."
     Mace, behind him, opened the storage cabinet and removed the two large round pods without speaking. He moved forward and stowed them in the tiny jet.
     The high-speed dump finished, the canister beeped. Banning slid out the needle, wiped it, and slipped it back into its sleeve.
     He walked to the disposable jet and reached to the loading pallet beside it to pick up the helmet he hadn't worn in years. He brushed at it with his finger tips, clearing a path in the thin layer of dust to reveal the design.
     Swooping, diving, claws unsheathed for the kill, long and unwary, hard face narrow and merciless, a raised, embossed, silver-shrouded hawk.


     The speakers popped and spoke as the canopy sealed shut.
     "I'd like to register my objections to this."
     Hackenberg.
     "Thank you, Steve."
     "Mace isn't ready for this. You can do whatever the fuck you want, Bird, but he's bleeding."
     "Thank you, Steve."
     A pause, and a weary sigh. "Look—Mace, are you there?"
     "Yes."
     "Will you just make sure to take the shot? Your current dose will only last another three hours. If you don't get that, and you end up in combat. . . Well, your heart might stop, but that's if you're lucky."
     He inhaled deeply, purging his body of toxins, flooding oxygen into his veins. From his position in the back seat, he began ticking items from the take-off checklist.
     "You have my word."
     A moment of silence, then, uncertainly: "Uh—well, okay. That's all, I guess. Um. . . Good. . . Good luck.
     "And—"
     Banning broke in, interrupting him. "And yes. We're coming back."
     The engines began to whine. The diminutive jet slowly angled upwards on its mounting beams. The dome above them split open, revealing a ray of brilliant sunshine.
     Barely able to be heard over the engines, Steve's voice crackled once more, dim and faint.
     "Alive?"
     Banning slammed back the throttle as the rails aligned on the track. The pod hurtled upwards and rocketed into the sky.


     The roar and throb of the single massive in-line booster murmured through his bones, as Banning hit 10,000 feet and set a tentative course across Covenant lines.
     He looked down, searching for the comms panel, then realized Mace's station had priority. It was the old two-man distribution—helm front, weapons and comms back. But he had no weapons. He clicked the inter-helmet vox link on. "Mace, transfer communications to my console."
     Two seconds, and the screen lit.
     He had committed the information to memory the previous night, and the nine-digit frequency number ran from his fingers to the touch-monitor without falter. He waited, then at the prompt, typed in the five-digit access key.
     A moment for the military net to bridge into the phone systems, and then he heard ringing.
     It was only another second until it picked up. A gruff, no-nonsense voice emitted from his headset. "Hello?"
     "General?"
     A pause, and then, "Who is this?"
     "John Banning. Hawks."
     More silence. Until finally, Fleet General Burmingham let out a very unofficerly squeak and said, "Oh! Of the Hawks! Good morning, Captain. I apologize—it's been a hectic week."
     Banning felt an absurd sense of relief. He'd almost expected the man to deny his existence. "Thank you, sir."
     "What can I help you with? I should thank you again for your assistance during the attack; your men definitely turned the trick there. I'm sorry to hear about the sneak on your base. I'd have sent somebody to cover it, but we pretty much figured it was secure."
     "So did we."
     An awkward silence. Burmingham cleared his throat. "So what do you need, Captain?"
     "I need to know where they took my man."
     "Your—" he broke off. "Just a moment please, Captain." Banning heard him somebody talking in the background.
     He returned, sounding annoyed. "Captain, I'm getting reports from particle surveillance of an unauthorized air intrusion over our territory. Vectors from your base. Are you airborne, Mr. Banning?"
     Hissing in impatience, he snapped back, "Yes, General. I am."
     "You aren't cleared."
     "Very sharp, sir."
     Burmingham growled, sounding remarkably bear-like. "Would you like me to shoot you down, Mr. Banning?"
     "If you like."
     Quiet again, and a chattering. At last, he returned. He sounded tired, and resigned.
     "If this were anyone else, Banning, you'd be dodging heavy cannon fire by now."
     "Your restraint does you credit, sir."
     "Fuck you."
     "If it pleases the General."
     Pausing, he chuckled softly. When he spoke again, he sounded more amiable, if resigned. "What do you want, you old bastard?"
     "I need to find my pilot."
     "Oh, right. They captured one of your men, didn't they?"
     "Almost."
     "They almost captured them?"
     "Almost a man."
     He laughed. "Two days ago?"
     "Day and a half. But yes. Satellite intel would be nice."
     He laughed again. "It most certainly would. You got a couple milspec sats up your sleeve?"
     "Not the last I checked."
     "Me neither. As a matter of fact, at the moment there is currently one operational high-flier, a junky old P-90 Brick Toaster that had twenty to one odds of us ever pulling a usable shot off of it. A couple sage armsmasters got very rich when we launched her, but it's a Pyrrhic victory if I've ever seen one—some of those images look like my grandkid's kindergarten doodles. You want to place bets on whether it happened to have an overflight at the exact time of your attack? This doughnut is thin, but it's sure as hell long."
     "What about supra-atmospheric sub-orbitals?"
     "We only put up suborbs in special circumstances. They're almost as scarce as the sats."
     "The attack wasn't a special circumstance?"
     Pause again. "Good point. Give me a minute here."
     They flew through the sky at twice the speed of sound, unmolested, and alone in their thoughts. Mace stayed silent.
     The general returned. "You lucked out, pal."
     "Oh?"
     "We put up three of our five currently functioning suborbs during the attack, to supply us with immediate area intel, warn us of incomings, that sort of thing. One was geosync—should I say "Halo-sync"?—aimed the site of the attack. Here, I mean. One was on a looping, highly eccentric orbit—about as eccentric as they can get in-atmosphere— keeping an eye on some other bits and pieces the recon kids wanted to watch.
     "But the third was just doing random scan, making sure there wasn't anything sneaking up on us in dark corners. We snagged a couple shots of what looks like your retreating attack force. Seems a bit small, though."
     Dry: "They were. Afterwards."
     "I'm not surprised. We saw equipment trains for most of an entire land-based division. Anyway, one of the images isn't any help—they're just in the middle of navigating out of your mountains, they could be headed anywhere. But the second was shot right before we pulled down the flyer, and the convoy is well underway. Tracks confirm they were pretty much dead-set on the course."
     "Where?"
     He sighed unhappily. "We ran the projection. There's only one thing out that way.
     "The crater. The crash site of the Penitent's Oath."
     Harshly: "The headquarters."
     Burmingham didn't speak for several seconds.
     "Yes."
     The next instant, the computer squawked indignantly, as the fuel meter dropped to halfway and they passed the point of no return.
     They flew over the bleak, barren landscape, sealed in their fate.


     
     
     
     
     
     Long gleaming sensors protruded from holes in the surrounding glass. A metallic "finger" tapped wryly against her forehead. Immobile, she gave a feral snap of her jaws and head and snarled at it malignantly.
     
     An instant's warning, a flash of whiteburnlightheat, and—pain.


     After an hour of ultrasonic flight, cleaving through the rarefied air in the upper reaches of the Halo, they began closing on their drop zone. Banning had assigned it arbitrarily while en route, drawing on his years of strategic experience, but without any planning or intelligence whatsoever—he trusted in luck, or fate, that it would be a suitable landing spot and not within spitting range of an enemy encampment.
     He didn't have much choice one way or the other.
     As the approach-indicator lights began their sequenced flashes, he started to touch keys.


     Fleet General Birmingham shifted restlessly in his seat, staring worriedly at the large wall-mounted screen that dominated one wall of the CCC.
     The view from the suborbital's camera was crystal clear, and the weather patterns flawless. There was nothing to obscure his view as he watched the stubby, bullet-shaped jet streak across the foliage and overgrowth.
     The assorted technicians and duty officers in the command center all pretended not to be paying attention; but Birmingham noticed doggedly that there was a distinct slowdown of typing and vox-commands as the flight grew closer and closer to the areas marked on the field maps in a bright, scarlet red.
     There was a sudden disturbance in the room. A cry that someone was unable to restrain bubbled out, "Sir!"
     He turned, slow and obdurate. "Yes?"
     Obviously regretting speaking, the duty officer nevertheless shook his head and pounded out a series of commands. The view of the main tri-d screen changed and blew up. "Energy flare in coordinates two, two, three, five, niner. . . mark three, sir!"
     The screen continued unfolding closer, as the technician at the optics station kept adding pixel after pixel of data and zoomed farther. The energy supervisor spoke again.
     "That's confirmed, sir. Missile launch."
     The Covenant-tech operator crooked an eye at his board and entered a quick staccato of filters and algorithms. It only took a few seconds.
     "Looks like a standard plasma A/G fast-mover, sir. Case number C-72."
     Without looking—a skill he had acquired thirty years ago as an armory mech—Birmingham scrabbled down the number on a pad. He knew that he'd want to look it up later.
     "Aw, cra—that's a second energy bloom, sir! Same signature, sector 24469!"
     "I read vectors at twelve negative one and climbing, sir. They'll probably light up the second stage i—"
     With a soundless flare, the speck that was the first missile detonated its second stage. A heartbeat later, the second missile fired as well. Their speed doubled, tripled, quadrupled before the segmented plasma burn-chambers overloaded and fell away.
     The overflight optical tech adjusted the field of vision again, setting the camera to automatically follow the projectiles. He split the screen. A separate view calmly observed the DJA, still locked straight as an arrow onto its course.
     The watch officers and techs had long since abandoned any pretense of working. All eyes stared uneasily at the screen.
     In less than ten seconds, the missiles had cut the distance to the jet in half. Impossibly fast, they screamed forward, eating up the gap a thousand feet at a time.
     Birmingham leaned forward, enraptured, and—
     Stopped.
     He frowned, and sat back in his chair.
     With two taps of his command pad, he overlaid a large reticle on the map where Banning had said they would LZ.
     It was twenty miles behind the jet.
     "Lieutenant Kaminski, are you recording?"
     Startled out of his reverie, the optical controller quickly turned his gaze to him. "Of course, sir."
     "Please rewind the playback by thirty seconds."
     "Bu—sir!"
     "Now, please, Lieutenant."
     Looking desperately once more at the closing rockets, Kaminski reverted the view as fast as he could, and snapped on the playback.
     Birmingham leaned forward again.
     "Now, if you would slow us down... oh, 3x? And zoom in a bit as well."
     The view dropped in, slowing to molasses. The squat figure of the gray pod oozed across the tri-d.
     Wrinkle lines appearing around his eyes, Birmingham tilted his head. The red marks of the LZ reticle crept past the screen.
     And, barely visible, two tiny figures emerged from the pod-jet and were swept away.
     He drew back in surprise. "Slow that down again, mister. Double the increment.
     "Replay."
     This time, it was unmistakable. From the bottom of the jet, two figures slipped out of the underbelly and dropped into the windstream. They fell, pinwheeling like motes of dust, and were gone by the next frame. Half a second later, first one missile then the other lanced across the viewscreen.
     He tried to suppress a grin, failed, and sat back once again into his seat. He waved. "Go back to the live feed, Lieutenant."
     Reappearing on the screen for scarcely three seconds, the jet blinked once more into existence—then was obliterated by the pursuing missiles. The first tore it apart, and a fraction of a second later, the second vaporized the particles. There would be no evidence for a Covenant search team to find.
     A moment's hesitation, and the room burst into a cheer.
     Birmingham smiled slightly and reclined his chair.


     Falling in the wind, silent as a dropped knife, Banning streamlined his body and arrowed toward the trees.
     They had perhaps a full minute before a random sensor sweep would be likely to detect their approach. With any luck at all, they would be on the ground by then, below the arc of the airborne scan buoys the Covenant employed.
     It was a gamble—the random sweeps were just that, random, and completely unpredictable. But in an area like this, there simply wasn't enough equipment to spare to truly saturate every air route, and he was betting on that.
     He slashed down in the morning sky, his battlesuit's outer layers folding the air around him over and over in the multitudes of its surface area, until when it finally emerged it was both noiseless and emission-free.
     But an active-scan sweep would soak him with heavy gammas and hard-rays in an instant. He held his body rigid, praying for every unit of speed he could muster. His helmet flashed a warning as he began to approach the limits of what he could survive stopping.
     He kept accelerating.
     Twenty seconds. The dark expanse of trees, beginning to be lit by the rays of golden sunlight, drew closer.
     Ten seconds. They were too far.
     He didn't stop.
     Five.
     He slammed through the upper canopy of leaves, and at the same time, wrenched his arm around to grasp the control manipulator for his jump pod.
     It was five feet to the ground when, gasping, he crushed his palm down on the key.

     ". . . no, not often. Only in special cases, really."
     "But how did it work?"
     "Well. . . are you sure your father said I should tell you this?"
     "Of course!"
     "Well. . . all right. It involved several people, of course—that was the only way. You see, you'd have two horses (there were other methods, but this was the most common.) Strong ones. There were special harnesses made, and you'd anchor them to the poor sap who's getting it—one on top, one on bottom. Of his body, that is. Arms and legs."
     "Wow. . ."
     ". . . and of course the victim would be allowed to say a prayer or two, or have last rites spoken over him depending on the circumstances, but when all was said and done, the end result was always the same: they'd give the horses a mighty whack, and they would ride for all they were worth in opposite directions.
     "The fellow in between, of course, tended to get torn in two."
     "That's awesome!"
     "John, are you sure your father said this was okay?"

     After almost a minute of uninterrupted freefall, Banning was moving fast enough to break every bone in his body, were he to come instantly to a full stop.
     As it happened, he did not stop instantly; he stopped in one second.
     The full-body, eight-point, mesh- and gel-fitted harness smashed into him with sufficient force to splinter a tree. He went from close to 100 miles-an-hour to approximately one, in the distance of four feet—and with only the padded torso-straps of his pod to restrain him, felt like a man being run over by a train.
     The next moment he fell the last ungraceful foot to the ground and felt the earth reach up and slap him.


     "Captain."
     The irritatingly bright sky refused to go away.
     Banning wondered if he could shoot it.
     Probably. But that would involve moving.
     Never, ever, ever. . .
     The hand shook him again. He groaned, then forced out:
     "Whoever's doing that better hope he's got a guardian angel."
     He cracked one eye.
     It was Mace.
     He swore.

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