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The Ark by Charlie Froese
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The Ark, Part 1: New Alliances
Date: 8 August 2005, 6:44 pm
September 17th, 2553/Aboard Phantom Dropship near Delta Halo 05
"Open your ears, brother!" shouted the Arbiter, pounding his fist on the bulkhead. "Our Prophets have lied to us!" The menacing figure marched over to Half-Jaw, his face inches from the mangled visage of the white-clad warrior.
"This is heresy!" replied Half-Jaw, his gruff voice quaking with anger. "How could you utter such lies?" He pointed to the human standing next to the Arbiter. "And how could you even fathom taking sides with that…that filth?"
"Now listen, boy," growled the human, a lit cigar protruding from his lips. "Don't even try it. I'll kick your ass so hard you'll doubt your ability to sit!"
"This is not your fight, Sergeant Johnson," said the Arbiter forcefully. "I must convince him of the Prophets' lies."
"Do not say such things!" exclaimed Half-Jaw, his remaining mandibles contorting in rage. "If the Prophets heard you spouting these lies they would surely murder you!"
"No, my friend!" said the Arbiter. "The Prophets have broken the Covenant. They created the illusion of the Great Journey long ago to prevent us from seeing the truth!" He sighed, his shoulders sinking. "They only wish to preserve themselves! The humans were never our enemy! And now Truth has brainwashed the Brutes! Why can't you accept it?
"Because our Prophets would never do such a thing!" he shouted.
"Listen, brother!" the Arbiter bellowed. "They turned the Brutes against us! Tartarus told me he was acting on Truth's orders. It was Truth who betrayed the Elites! It was Truth who murdered the Councilors! He used the Brutes as weapons in order to destroy all opposition!"
"How could you trust Tartarus!" Half-Jaw said. "That savage beast would have gladly killed you, whether it was on Truth's orders or not! He is a deceiver; a liar!"
"You know how devoted the Brutes are to the Prophets!" the Arbiter said. "Tartarus would not have lied. He was ordered to kill me! You would have been next! Do you know what the true purpose of Halo is?"
"Yes, of course!" Half-Jaw said. "It is the start of the Great Journey!"
"No, brother!" the Arbiter said. "Halo is a weapon!"
"What?" he replied. "Who told you this?"
"The Oracle!" the Arbiter said. "You know now that this is true, for not even you would doubt the Oracle."
The Spec-Ops Commander stumbled backwards, shaking his head. The Arbiter saw the light enter his eyes. "Yes," he whispered, hanging his head in defeat. "You are right, brother. It is clear to me now."
"I know it is painful, my dear brother," the Arbiter said, "to realize that everything the Covenant has believed in for thousands of lifetimes is false." He helped the Commander to his feet. "But we will fight back. Elite warships are currently on their way to Earth to help the humans fight off Truth and his horde."
"Earth?" Half-Jaw asked. "Truth is going to Earth?"
"Yes," said the Arbiter. "He is going to the Ark in order to activate the rings and kill us all." He looked over at Johnson. "We are going to stop him." The Arbiter angled his mandibles in a smile. "With the help of the Master Chief."
"What?" exclaimed Half-Jaw. "The Demon?"
"Yes," replied the Arbiter. "We shall help him kill Truth and the remaining Brutes. I'm not sure how warmly he will greet us." He paused. "But we will repair the damage we have caused." He walked to the cockpit of the Phantom and instructed the Elite pilot to take them to Suffering Triumph, one of the few friendly warships left in the vicinity of High Charity and Delta Halo.
The Arbiter gazed through the port viewscreen at the beauty of Halo and remembered the thousands of human worlds he had destroyed needlessly. His fist curled into a ball as he remembered the countless lives he had taken.
"May the gods forgive me," he whispered. Then he remembered—there were no gods. The Arbiter sighed. He exited the cockpit and headed back to the cargo hold where Half-Jaw and Johnson stood.
"Forgive me, brother," said Half-Jaw. "I was out of place. I had no right to cause such an uproar."
"It's quite all right, my friend," replied the Arbiter. "Soon we will head to Earth aboard the Triumph and stop Truth." He looked at Johnson. "This will not mean much, but I formally apologize for what we have done to your race."
"It's not your fault, I guess," he muttered, avoiding the Arbiter's gaze. "That bastard with the floaty chair should be the one apologizing."
"Yes," the Arbiter said grimly. "He will."
The Phantom cruised through space towards a bulbous Covenant cruiser situated close to the magnificent city of High Charity. As it neared the immense ship a quartet of Seraph fighters appeared from nowhere and flanked the bulky purple ship.
"State your business," announced a gruff voice over the Phantom's communications equipment. "Answer quickly or you will be eliminated."
"I have the Arbiter and the Spec-Ops Commander," said the pilot of the Phantom. "They request an audience with the commander of Suffering Triumph."
"Present your clearance codes," the voice said. The pilot complied and the Seraphs veered away. The pilot sighed in relief and continued on towards one of the most formidable ships in the Covenant fleet.
September 17, 2553/Aboard Suffering Triumph/Delta Halo 05
"Commander," said the pilot. "We've arrived." Half-Jaw grunted in acknowledgement and turned to the Arbiter.
"Come." He stepped on the grav lift podium and disappeared, the Arbiter right behind him with Johnson bringing up the rear. The three soldiers descended to the deck. Four black-armored Elites stood in front of them, energy swords in hand.
"Welcome, Commander," said one of the Elites. All four promptly bowed their heads. "It is good to see you alive." Half-Jaw nodded and motioned to the Arbiter. He stepped forward and addressed the four Spec-Ops commandos.
"We need to speak with this ship's Commander," he said. "I have vital information that will be useful in the assault against the Prophet of Truth." The Elites growled in anger at the mention of Truth's name.
"Follow us," said the Elite that seemed to be in charge. "We will take you to Ona 'Fortumee." The Elites turned and headed off across the launch bay towards a large door. The Arbiter, Half-Jaw, and Johnson followed them through the door and down several corridors until they reached the entrance to the ship's bridge.
The four commandos crossed the threshold and made their way past a group of Engineers working on a damaged bulkhead. The squid-like aliens chirped amongst themselves as they bustled to fix the damage.
The lead commando stopped and pointed to a raised section in the middle of the bridge.
"There, Commander," he said. Atop the elevated section stood an Elite in shiny gold armor and a small group of terrified Grunts. The gold-plated Elite seemed to be shouting at the Grunts as they squealed in terror.
"What happened?" asked Johnson as he observed the small aliens.
"Those incompetent creatures held a contest to decide who could accurately fire a fuel rod cannon," said one of the commandos. "They blew a hole in the wall over there." He pointed to the damaged bulkhead and shook his head. "They're lucky they didn't rupture the atmospheric tanks. The penalty for that atrocity would be death."
"Arbiter?" a voice said. "Is that you?" Ona 'Fortumee jumped down from the raised section as the four commandos led the Grunts away.
"Yes, brother," the Arbiter replied. "I must speak with you as soon as possible. There is an urgent matter to attend to."
"Follow me to my private quarters," 'Fortumee said, his gold armor sharply contrasting the gray of the Arbiter's. "We can discuss what you wish there." He led them through another labyrinth of corridors until they reached a door guarded by two Spec-Ops Elites carrying dual plasma rifles. The guards nodded towards the quartet as 'Fortumee headed through the door, the Arbiter, Half-Jaw, and Johnson in tow.
The inside of the room was lavishly decorated, its walls covered in ornate tapestries and large, winding plants. Sculptures placed around the room depicted numerous scenes. One of the sculptures featured a small group of Elites holding their own against a large wave of Flood warriors. Another sculpture depicted an Arbiter knee-deep in Grunt bodies. One last sculpture, larger than the rest, showed Ona 'Fortumee holding an energy sword in one hand and a headless human in the other.
The Arbiter heard Johnson make a small noise of contempt as he noticed the gruesome scene. 'Fortumee pretended not to notice and sat down in one of the chairs lining the room. He motioned for the others to do the same. Half-Jaw and the Arbiter sat.
"I'll stand," Johnson said coldly. He fumbled around in his pocket and produced his small cigar stub. He placed it between his lips without bothering to light it and then stared fixedly at the gold-plated Elite.
"Commander," said the Arbiter, looking over at 'Fortumee. "As you know, Truth is on his way to Earth. I believe that his plan is to activate the Halos and destroy everything but himself."
"That's impossible, brother," said 'Fortumee, a quizzical expression on his face. "I was under the impression that they can only be activated on Halo itself."
"That is true, Commander," the Arbiter said. "But hidden on Earth is a place called the 'Ark'. It is possible to remote-activate the Halos from there."
"Who told you this?" 'Fortumee cried, a look of terror on his face.
"343 Guilty Spark," the Arbiter replied, quoting the small blue orb. "The Monitor of Installation 04. The Oracle, as we used to call it."
"But if Truth activates the rings, we will all die!" 'Fortumee stood up in alarm, his voice echoing off the walls.
"I'm glad you understand the severity of this," the Arbiter said calmly. "We must take Suffering Triumph to Earth. This ship is the largest and most powerful of our cruisers. It is imperative that we help the humans defend their planet."
"I agree," Johnson said, walking over to the three Elites. "I've grown awful fond of Earth over the years. It's time for us to work together and forget our differences." He stuck out his hand. 'Fortumee grasped it hesitantly. Apparently, he was unaccustomed to the human ritual of hand shaking. He angled his mandibles and a smile and turned to Half-Jaw.
"Organize your troops, Commander," 'Fortumee said. "I want three thousand warriors ready by the time we reach Earth." He turned to the Arbiter and Johnson. "You two will lead a group of our best Hunters and Elites. The weight of this burden rests on your shoulders, brother."
"Yes, Commander," the Arbiter said, bowing his head. "Come, Johnson. We will need time to prepare."
September 18th, 2553/Aboard Cairo Station orbiting Earth
"Sir!" announced Alex Harrison, his eyes glued to the screen in front of him. "Two Covenant destroyers just broke through our defenses! They're headed straight for Earth!" An hour ago two hundred Covenant ships randomly appeared around Earth and began assaulting the orbital MAC stations.
"Shit," muttered Lord Hood. "Hit them with the MAC gun."
"Yes, sir," Harrison replied. The rest of Cairo Station's crew sat bent over their computer consoles, their fingers typing out rapid commands. "Done." Hood watched the front viewscreen and saw the leading destroyer take both rounds in its nose. The ship veered away, its engines dead. The second destroyer plummeted through the first ship's wreckage and continued towards Earth.
"Damn it!" Hood shouted. He looked on helplessly as another ship destroyed two human cruisers.
"Sir," Harrison said, his eyes growing wide. "We've got a new contact. Unknown classification." He brought up a hologram of a large pyramidal shaped ship.
"It isn't one of ours," Hood said, scrutinizing the ship. "Take it out." The words were barely out of his mouth, however, when he heard a transmission from the ship.
"This is Spartan 117," said a grainy voice over the loudspeaker. "Can anyone here me? Over." Hood turned to Harrison.
"Isolate that signal," Hood said sharply. "Master Chief? You mind telling me what you're doing on that ship?"
"Sir," said the voice. "Finishing this fight."
September 18th, 2553/Aboard Suffering Triumph in Slipspace
"So tell me," Johnson said as he inspected his battle rifle. "What's with all this Arbiter nonsense?" He looked up, his cigar between his lips.
"The title of Arbiter was a coveted honor," the Arbiter said. The two soldiers stood in the ship's armory selecting weapons. "Every time there was a great disturbance in the Covenant, an Arbiter was called by the Hierarchs to deal with it." He paused and examined a rack of plasma rifles. "The Grunt Rebellion, for instance, was a period of unrest when an Arbiter was required. He managed to bring the Grunts back to us, but in the process he lost his life.
"That is the curse of the Arbiter," he said. "Each one must do the Prophets' bidding until death consumes him. I was called to deal with the Heretic threat." His eyes narrowed. "But now I see that the Heretics were right all along."
"Sounds like a dumb job to me," Johnson muttered. He took off his cap and scratched his scalp.
"You do not understand," the Arbiter said. "Before the breaking of the Covenant and the betrayal of my people it was the greatest honor imaginable to be the Arbiter. The idea of serving the Holy Ones would cause any being to feel the utmost satisfaction." He sighed. "But now the Covenant no longer exists. The Arbiter is meaningless, and therefore I have no further purpose but to destroy Truth and the Brutes."
The door slid open and Half-Jaw stepped in, accompanied by two Spec-Ops commandos. Half-Jaw nodded to the Arbiter and Johnson.
"Thank you, brothers," he said to the commandos as they left the armory. Half-Jaw turned and presented the Arbiter with a large case.
"Commander 'Fortumee wishes to return this to you," he said as the Arbiter took it. "He didn't say what it was, but he feels that you deserve it."
Puzzled, the Arbiter opened the case to reveal a set of highly polished gold armor. The Arbiter lifted his helmet off and replaced it with the gold equivalent.
"It's a perfect fit," murmured the Arbiter. "This was the armor I wore before I became the Arbiter, back when I was Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Particular Justice." He paused. "When my name was Orna 'Fulsamee." He cast off his other armor and replaced it with the gold set. Johnson whistled.
"They should use you as a Christmas decoration," he said. The door to the armory opened again and a blue-armored Elite stepped in. He bowed and turned to 'Fulsamee.
"We've just joined up with the rest of our fleet," the Elite said. "We shall reach Earth shortly.
'Fulsamee stood up and looked over at Half-Jaw.
"When we reach Earth," he said softly, "let no Brute stand in my way."
September 18th, 2553/Cairo Station/Earth
"This is a direct order, Chief," Lord Hood said, his eyes fixed on the hologram of the strange pyramidal ship. The Chief had just told him about his mission. "You will land that ship and capture the Prophet."
"Yes, sir," said the Master Chief over the radio. "I won't fail."
"I know you won't, son," Hood replied. "You've never failed me before." He suddenly felt an extreme sense of foreboding. "Just be careful, Chief."
"I will," said the Master Chief. "Spartan 117 out." The transmission died and the channel was filled with static.
"Good luck," Hood whispered to himself.
"Sir!" yelled Harrison. "We've got 70 more contacts exiting Slipspace."
"What are they?" Hood asked, his voice tightening.
"Sir, they're—oh, shit," Harrison whispered. "They're more Covenant cruisers, sir."
"Goddamn it!" Hood said, slamming his fist onto the wall. "Where in the hell are they getting these ships?"
"Wait a minute, sir," Harrison said, his eyes scanning the readout. "They're transmitting something. It's a message."
"Put it on the loudspeaker," Hood said. "Hurry up."
"Yes, sir," Harrison said. His fingers were a blur as he typed rapid commands. "Done, sir." The bridge crew paused for a moment as the radio crackled. Then a loud, booming voice came through loud and clear.
"Humanity," said the voice. "We are the Elites, the once mighty warriors of the Covenant. We ask you for forgiveness."
"What the hell?" Hood said.
"It's got to be a trap," Harrison said. "The Covenant would never ask for peace. Permission to engage?"
"No," Hood replied. "Wait a minute." The first of the new arrivals glowed white-hot as its turrets charged.
"Damn it!" Harrison exclaimed. "They're firing on us!"
"No, they're not," Hood whispered, barely believing his eyes. Plasma erupted from the cruiser and arced towards a smaller destroyer. The small ship melted as the plasma washed over its hull.
"I don't believe it," Harrison murmured, his eyes fixed on the unbelievable scene. "It just fired on its own ship."
"We mean you no harm," the voice said over the loudspeaker. "We have come to help you turn the tide against the Prophet of Truth and his Brutes." More of the new arrivals fired plasma at the attacking Covenant ships.
"And why should we trust you?" Hood asked.
"Because Sergeant A.J. Johnson wants you to," replied a new voice. "It's a long story, Lord Hood. Let's just say that we've got a bunch of new friends."
"Johnson!" Hood barked. "What the hell is going on?"
"Let's kill these Brute bastards first, sir," Johnson said. "Then we'll have all the time in the world to talk."
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