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      Maine followed Harrigan around the loose girders and the cracks and gaping holes in the dusty floor and, reaching the south window, they scanned the streets below. Darkly-clad human forms skirted the feet of the buildings, crouched over their weapons, and then a Warthog TCV rolled into veiw.

      "Medusa here, we have a visual of your progress," said the Private.

      "Good to hear it," replied Sergeant Baker. "The Covies are right on our heels, guys. I had to split half the retreat up the street to the west to speed things up."

      Automatic weapons fire echoed up from the snipers' right. Its source, and the path the other marines were following, was obscured by more buildings.

      Maine stared at her partner. "I'll look after the others. Don't take any chances, all right?"

      "One shot, one kill," he replied with a grin. He unslung his SRS99c-S2 AM.

      She slapped his shoulder. "You too." She ran her fingers across his stubbly chin then turned towards the staircase.

      The ground-level door was blocked, however the rubble sloped against the side of the building up to a wide, empty window, which was how they had got in. She slid down then checked the ATVs hidden beneath some bent sheet metal to one side.

      The growl of the other two Warthogs' engines filtered over from the next street. As Maine crouched and ran across to a narrow alley, her partner's weapon began sounding from above. She headed for the alley's mouth where it joined the contested street, found a door in the wall on her left, and kicked it in. Making her way through the first few rooms, she found the stairwell, but not before passing a dozen bodies of the hapless colonists, blackened and crumpled.

      She gritted her teeth and ascended to the top floor, carefully letting her anger coalesce, molding it and kneeding it within, readying it for the task ahead. It reminded her of the first time she had really felt the sensation - it always did - as one of the lucky ones to have fled Beta Lalande IV. As the other children whimpered around her in the passenger ship's excessively cramped hold, Arcadia Maine, barely more than a child herself, imagined the atmosphere and oceans of her beautiful world violently geysering into orbit and beyond, the very crust splintering as the Covenant's hellfire pierced into its hot, living heart. Her tears had stopped and she had clenched her slender hands into tight fists as she resolved right there to enlist on her eighteenth birthday. And she would be ready for it. There might be limits to the female body's strength, but at least she had a good pair of eyes.

      The stairs led all the way to the roof in this building, exiting through a low door. Maine noted a few decent vantage points, then took her rifle off her back and assumed a prone position at the corner. She flipped down the bipod and sighted on the street below.

      The lead TCV 'Hog was already powering towards her, a marine running on either side, rifles ready. "Corporal Rostrevor, I see you now," she reported.

      The driver flashed the vehicles lights and said, "Any signs, Maine?"

      "I've got a feeling they're there. Keep an eye on your motion sensors."

      The second Warthog rolled into the street. There was sudden movement in the top corner of Maine's scopeview, and a glowing blue object sailed down onto the vehicle's nose.

      The Grunt foolishly craned its head to watch the results of its grenade attack, and for a moment it was connected to the flaming muzzle of Maine's weapon by a ghostly thread of vapour. Bright blue gore expanded outwards from the decapitated body.

      But the 'Hog exploded, the plasma grenade cracking its engine apart in a plume of fire, and the soldiers' cries crackled over the radio. Four of the marines jumped or fell out of the back and helped each-other begin to stumble down the street. The other occupants were either obscurred by wreckage or unmoving.

      "Fall back!" Rostrevor called.

      At that moment, two of the captured Ghosts sailed around the corner backwards with their plasma cannons firing on full auto. Dense streams of bright enemy fire lanced back at the farthest vehicle; the marine pilot was hurled violently from it as it burst apart in a cloud of blue energy and mangled armour plates.

      The remaining Ghost pilot spotted the struggling marines. He glided over to them as the first of the alien infantry entered the top of the street. Together they retreated rapidly, returning fire without trying to conserve ammo. The first 'Hog had also parked, and its squads had planted themselves amongst the chunks of a collapsed wall over fifty metres down from their comrades.

      Maine capped three Grunts in quick succession - enough to strike momentary panic into the others in the immediate vicinity. She saw a Jackal begin to over-charge its plasma weapon. That much energy would wipe out the marine's Ghost, and those survivors would be screwed without its cover. A second Jackal right beside the first angled its shield for a second to take a step forward; Maine aimed and fired, knocking her target off its hooves. The projectile ricocheted into the first Jackal's pistol at hyper-velocity and hit something important as it exploded in a thick, blinding green cloud of plasma. Half of the visible troops were either stunned or killed.

      "Shot, Maine!"

      She reached beneath her backplate for another cartridge. Slotting it in and cycling in a round, she said, "Don't start decorating, Corporal, their air-support will be here any second."

      "Just keep us covered," he replied. "We'll move as soon as these fast bastards are down. We'll have a minute or two before the main force gets here. Jackhammers! Full spread! Teach 'em our language!"

      More slowly advancing Jackals had entered the street to join a few remaining Grunts. Dozens of plasma bolts hit the thick rubble of the marines' position, some spots glowing hot and starting to fizz and drip. Five or six assault rifles answered as cover for the three men who kneeled side-by-side, M19s held steady. Three 102mm self-propelled high explosive shells whooshed away at half-second intervals. A well-aimed shot by a Jackal took one of the marines down with a groan, but the rockets found their marks and sent screaming, burning and less-than-intact Covenant flailing into the air.

      "Owned!" "Fuckin' die, fuckers!" "Shit, they got Rizzarelli." "... His was the best shot."

      9.6mm MM55 shots cleaned up the hapless survivors. Through the black smoke, Maine spied more aliens rounding onto the street: four blue-armoured Elites riding in Ghosts. Two presented clear targets: the sniper drilled her fin-stabilised sub-projectiles through the crowns of their helmets.

      "More contacts!" she yelled. "Recommend immediate retreat."

      The other Elites wavered, then zoomed back behind cover.

      "Where'd they go?" a soldier below wondered, peering down his battle rifle's scope.

      From above came a faint rushing howl and Maine's skin crawled as she realised her peril.

      "Banshees incoming!" With practiced haste she unclipped her short steel rappel line and jammed the hook into a half-way decent crevase. She did not dare risk a second to see how close the Covenant flyers were. Before she could sling her sniper rifle the deafening detonation of a fuel rod projectile knocked the wind out of her and flung her with a yelp from the roof's edge. She arced out over the street then fell, the cable tautening six metres from the foot of the building as her armoured back slammed against the wall.

      She tried to focus her eyes. A marine stopped beneath her, shouting, "Quickly! I've got you!" She hit the release on her belt with a blood-smeared hand and tried not to tumble. The man was strong and kept her from hitting the pavement; she regained her footing and straightened her helmet.

      She half-heard radioed orders: "Too much debris for the 'Hog, leave it, man! Grab those ammo sacks."

      "I'm running low already!"

      More soldiers ran past, backstepping and firing in short bursts, and more Covenant could be seen in the direction they came from. Plasma seared the air overhead, and Banshee fire tore at the street and buildings, raining shards of hot concrete. The marine, who might have been Delta team's Private Descalzo under all the soot on his face, pulled Maine along.

      "My rifle!.." she croaked, still getting her breath back.

      "Here," he replied and unslung an MM55 from his shoulder. "I just picked it up - haven't had time to check its ammo."

      The indicator read twenty-nine rounds, but the ejector was jammed. Descalzo lay covering fire as Maine argued with the mechanism behind him, both marines retreating as fast as they could. Corporal Rostrevor's voice spoke, "Stick to the walls and don't stop for anything except the wounded! More grenades!"

      From behind them a soldier spun and crouched, triggering a couple of M9s and hurling them with an exultant, "Take two of these and if pain persists, good!" The explosives landed in the path of a dashing Ghost, its pilot bellowing in frustration before they detonated and it was consumed in flame and shrapnel.

      Maine convinced her new weapon to work, chambered a round and shouldered the stock as Descalzo switched places with her. She sighted up the corpse-strewn street on several advancing Jackals, taking their weapon-weilding claws off through their shield notches with individual shots rather than expending twice or three times the ammo on their shields. More Ghosts were trying to catch up to the marines at the rear of the retreat; Maine tracked the first vehicle, sighted on the pilot's head as it leaned to steer around some flaming rubble and fired a three-round burst, the third going through its shield and out the back of its skull.

      She felt the heat of Descalzo's rifle muzzle on the back of her head as he fired over her shoulder. The sniper blew another Elite out of its Ghost, and he remarked, "You're a god-damned artist with that thing."

      There was a roaring explosion a block away on the left. All at once, Maine felt a knot in her guts; with dread, she keyed her partner's frequency. "Harrigan, sound off."

      Static.

      "Come in, Private."

      Plasma fizzled past, splashing against Descalzo's armour and partly ablating. He grunted, returned fire and picked up the pace, tugging insistently at Maine's collar.

      "Staggered covering fire by threes," Rostrevor ordered. "Keep up! Nobody fall behind!"

      With a shuddering breath, Maine squeezed the anguish over losing her partner into a tight ball and added it to the furnace of determined hate already blazing within: fuel for killing Covies.

      "You're all gonna fucking die," she whispered to her enemy. Her ammo counter hit zero as she topped a sprinting Grunt, punctuating her promise. She turned with Descalzo and the witty Grenadeer, and retreated.

      Master Sergeant Lloyd led his team down a short flight of steps to where his HUD's nav marker overlaid a heavy door. He checked his motion sensor - nothing - and stood aside while Hutt went to work on the lock. For a few seconds, the Spartan allowed his mind to relax, flexed his fingers and toes with his own muscles rather than through the MJOLNIR interface.

      He looked at his marines. Doubet was tense, peering back up the corridor with his MA5B held ready. Sterling had her weapon trained on the door, perspiration beading off her face. She glanced back at Lloyd and nodded.

      "Your order, sir," Hutt spoke, looking back. The marine looked alert and none the worse for wear. Lloyd did not know what Dr Halsey or the rest of ONI might have said about it, but he thought, with a certain pride, that all these people would have made fine Spartan material.

      "Let's get outta here, private."

      The door cracked and sighed open. Wind swirled in. A landing extended out around four metres from the sheer wall, and Lloyd stepped out with Sterling.

      "What's that noise?" she asked him.

      He checked the walls and paused. As Doubet and Hutt exited, he pointed and whispered, "You ever seen that?"

      To either side of the doorway, curled in to a gently breathing ball, slept a Grunt. One of the creatures snored loudly and shifted its bulk. Private Hutt went over to it and caved its skull in under the butt of his rifle. He looked back at his team and asked, "I'll kill the other one, unless anyone wants it."

      Lloyd flipped his M90 into his hand and blasted the second alien into wet, blue mince. "Thanks," he replied. "Let's move."

      The soldiers skirted the wall to the first steep step-ladder. Looking down, Lloyd counted six or seven of them above the level of the surrounding roofs. They were only about halfway up the trunk of the arcology, the top of the structural control, power management and admin levels, but the Spartan could clearly see the hills they had passed to the south and the Covenant wreck sitting in the bay. The overhang of the residential levels blocked half the sky and seemed to lean constantly to the side as dense clouds raced over and above.

      He looked back down the the surrounding town as he reached another landing. There were several hot zones: two squads and their TCV were making their way up the street Lloyd himself had used, and were less than a minute from the plaza, a few degrees further anti-clockwise around the arcology. They were handling the sparse pursuing Covenant well, and making poor targets of themselves for the Banshees. Sergeant Nolte had kept the plaza secure, and where Covenant scouts were trying to take positions to the west a Warthog was parked, its LAAG doing its best to persuade them otherwise.

      Between these areas, and a bit too far into the city for comfort, flashes of heavy fire exchange could be seen beneath a squadron of circling Banshees. The embattled marines were retreating in the plaza's general direction but at their current rate they would be surrounded in minutes.

      "Sergeant Nolte," Lloyd called, restarting his ladder descent.

      "Sir. How's it looking?"

      "Send two marines in a 'Hog south-west ASAP, some of our teams are going to be cut off very soon and need ground support and evac of wounded now."

      "Yes sir!"

      Down at ground level, Nolte jerked his head towards the nearby vehicle. "Tapscott! Gomez! You going for a ride."

      "Put me down!"

      It was getting bad. The remaining half of second squad was barely keeping ahead of the Covenant, who were getting steadily more numerous, like hyenas on the scent of a wounded antelope. The closed-in environment of the street dictated a narrow field of fire that made evasion practically impossible for the marines. Taking a few seconds from outright running to return fire, seconds off their lead they could hardly afford, was nearly a suicidial proposition.

      "Put me the hell down!" Private Denton reiterated.

      "Shut up god damn it or I'll put you down right here!" Descalzo shouted back at the bloodied soldier on his shoulder.

      Maine sprinted up to him from the tail end of the retreat, shouting, "Come on, private! Faster! That's the last corner right up there!" She brought her MM55 up and pivoted, still running, to loose four rounds. Forty metres away, two Grunts and a Jackal slumped, disappearing immediately under their comrades' hooves. She could feel it now; the sniper was tired and her vision slightly blurry. Two marines overtook her. One yelled in encouragement. She squeezed a bit more speed from her protesting legs, then crouched and almost fell as dense plasma fire practically sheeted over the retreating humans.

      Before she could regain her balance a diving Banshee put a sizzling fuel rod into the building's wall across from her, and she blacked out. The adrenalin in her system maintained a strong, conscious sense of urgency, however, and she opened her heavy eyes to peer through the dust and pain. The explosion still echoed down the street. Random plasma fire left glowing lines of burning dust particles.

      She rolled to her feet, trying to shake off her disorientation. Her rifle hung off her arm and she grabbed it tightly. A figure moved in the haze. Tall, human-shaped. "Get down!" she yelled.

      It crouched. "'at 'ou, 'Aing?" It came into view and Maine saw a blood-covered face and corporal's stripes. "'Ee Ngotta Kee' 'Ooving!" Rostrevor gripped her sleeve and began running. She realised that she did not know if it was the right direction. She shook her head again.

      "'Ot angy Gyenages?" he asked without looking back.

      "What? Yeah. One."

      "'Hrowit!"

      They emerged from the thick dust as Maine detached her last M9 and did her best to hurl it back behind them. She faced forward and saw the end of the street where it emptied onto the arterial. From there, just two hundred metres to the safety of the plaza under heavy covering fire.

      Also ahead were ten running marines, several burdened with wounded, all that was left of Fireteams Charlie, Delta and Hotel. The leading man reached the the next street, stumbled, and collapsed under plasma fire.

      A phalanx of Jackals rounded the corner and began advancing, a menacing Elite right behind them. Maine tried to aim her gun, to zoom in on their shield notches, to stop tripping over her own feet, but hope, and ability, was fast slipping away. The marines were trying to find cover while looking desperately over their shoulders for the reappearence of their pursuers. Corporal Rostrevor started swearing unintelligibly, firing haphazardly and trying to charge faster at the line of aliens, without loosening his grip on Maine. She followed, using what strength she had left just to keep from falling over all together, and expecting death any second.

      They drew closer and closer. Rostrevor screamed at their enemy. Maine's eyes tried to close again. Plasma sizzled past everywhere, and still they were not taken down. Barely twenty metres separated the two forces. The sniper willed her eyes up and saw the Elite turn abruptly and howl as an M12 LRV rode its near-side wheels around the corner and cleaned it up in a mist of purple blood. The driver threw the wheel hard right and managed to crush three of the screeching Jackals with the last of the 'Hogs momentum; the gunner proceeded with the 12.7x99mm cleaning job on the rest, shredding the terrified aliens to bits. The marines cheered.

      "Get your wounded aboard, Corporal!" Tapscott shouted. "More infantry are-- Jesus Christ!"

      Corporal Rostrevor leaned heavily against the vehicle and finally let Maine's arm go. Then she saw what Tapscott had seen: beneath the dirt and blood, up one side of Rostrevor's face from the corner of his mouth his cheek was gashed open and hung free, bleeding and exposing his teeth. He noticed the expressions of the marines around him, put a hand to his face and flinched. "Huck!" he tried to say. "No 'undah 'ay tee'h are col'!"

      "You wanna ride in the front, Ross?"

      "'Hey ngot 'ay hace, not 'ay yegs!"

      "Well, okay."

      The remaining combat effective men began heaving their comrades into the passenger seat and the rear tray around the gun mount. "Here," Gomez said, pulling at a small tarp and revealing two M19 Jackhammers. "Move these first."

      Descalzo hauled a launcher out with one hand, and all but tossed the groaning Private Denton into the spare space. He looked back over at Maine. "You want one? Got a scope, y'know."

      She was taking a moment, leaning against the side armour of the Warthog. A smile cracked through her expression of relieved fatigue. "I quite like this one, actually." She swung the MM55 battle rifle around and weighted it, then checked the scope alignment. "I might need a few more clips."

      "In that strong box under that guy," said Gomez.

      Sergeant Nolte's voice crackled in their helmets. "Be advised, you have incoming, they'll be all over you within a minute."

      The injured were all loaded in and Rostrevor tried to announce, "Move out people! Save the rockets for vehicles! Don't lag behind, we ain't stopping again!" His speech now sounded even less intelligible, but the marines got the general idea and escorted the Warthog onto the street to begin the final run.

      Bolts of plasma fizzled on the accelerating 'Hog's bumper and the road surface. The soldiers twisted to return fire as they kept pace. Covenant infantry seemed to be swarming up the arterial, an alien horde of maybe hundreds. The brief rest had made the difference for Maine, who killed or incapacitated the Grunts and Jackals to either side of where Gomez concentrated the LAAG. A steady stream of grenades, full automatic MA5B and MA2B fire and liberally placed rockets were brought to bear. But the Covenant kept appearing, refilling the street and not letting the humans open an appreciable lead.

      "Don't give up, marines!" It was Sergeant Nolte's voice suddenly in Maine's helmet, promptly followed by the distinctive zip of S2 AM sub-projectiles overhead. She looked ahead, saw the edge of the plaza, close now, and put on a last burst of speed.

      Then the sky cracked.

      Lloyd gripped the rails and halted his rapid descent. Hutt swore behind him and Sterling cried, "What the hell was that!?"

      "Sonic boom?" the Spartan wondered, looking up, past the arcology, to the broiling grey clouds.

      There was a small, green inverted triangle hanging in the air. Lloyd blinked and realised it was imposed on his HUD, along with a number: 111.

      He keyed the automatically assigned freq. "...Sophia?"

      "Ah, there you are... Master Sergeant Lloyd, eh?" she replied, switching her tactical display to high-res thermal. The rapidly expanding conglomerations of blue and green shapes the computer tagged as Hamilton city was dotted with yellows and whites, tiny oranges with UNMC numbers following them around and an aggregating mass of hot and cold signatures that was the bulk of the Covenant force. "Get your people indoors, Sergeant. We're bringing smoke. Over."

      She closed the radio. "Gillian, load starboard gun, single light round. Synchronise port AG compensator."

      "Aye, skip."

      "Inside! NOW!" bellowed Nolte, hauling an injured soldier from the still decelerating 'Hog. "Evac just arrived, and they're about t'kick some ass!"

      Maine pushed her fellow marines before her, making sure no more were left behind. The safety of the access hall beckoned.

      "Standby."

      Sophia nudged the aerofoils, skimming the craft between the dark clouds. Then they parted, and the expanse of the day's battle was laid before her. She took a split second to check: the marine IDs were huddled within the arcology trunk.

      "Fire!"

      The fuselage thundered and the ship bucked slightly. A line of pure white fire, the iron shell imperceivable at its tip, lanced to the ground, impacting the cityscape at over ten kilometres per second. The horde of Covenant, and the buildings and city foundations within a half kilometre diameter were vapourised, the surrounding structural concrete flying apart into dust and much of the metal melting. The sound of the explosion itself balked human comprehension.

      The arcology, built at a time that saw a far less hospitable environment on Formalhaut I, stood fast. Within the insulated, titanium-A plated walls, marines ducked and covered, protected the wounded, and clapped hands to their ears to keep out the unbearable cacophony of destruction.

      "Je-sus!" screamed Doubet, and he still went unheard. The Master Sergeant watched his troops with his back against the access door they had scrambled through. Through the MJOLNIR's ablative shell, reactive gel layers and insulation, Lloyd could feel the heat outside. The subsonic concussions rattled his teeth.

      His brow furrowed briefly in contemplation. Then, as the din finally lessened, he exclaimed to Private Sterling, "Know what that was!?"

      She leaned in with her hands still clapped over her ears. "...They wouldn't've nuked us!"

      "Had to be a MAC!"

      The private just stared at him.

      "Using MACs for airstrikes," he continued, "Wish I thought of that."

SECTION 3 of 4

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