Halo: Common Denominator/Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE EQUILIBRIUM CONSTANT

For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? -Matthew 16:26

The current day – Nine months after the end of the Human-Covenant War

DECEMBER 2553 SANGHELIOS, URS SYSTEM

Sanghelios. Fifth planetary body in the Urs System. 1.375G gravitational force. 0.9 atm atmospheric pressure. 8.132 billion inhabitants. Technological Tier Two.

Home. Home to eight billion Sangheili. The birth cradle of Sangheili civilization. The nestling mother whose womb brought forth the Elite race.

Death. The world that brought forth the race that killed the galaxy, burned a thousand human worlds, killed a trillion humans.

And our stage. The stage of our galactic drama.

The star of Urs Prime rose over Sanghelios, bringing forth its patron rays that tenderly caressed and illuminated the planet. The chariot of the sun raced over the crust of the world, its horses swiftly beckoning forward, bringing forth the light.

A new day began.

In a heavily-guarded UNSC Central Command communications center, a general awoke to the insistence of an aide and his eyes unwilling met the bloody litany of five thousand seventy-two names.

In an ornate UNSC State Department embassy, an ambassador awoke to the urgent overtones of an artificial intelligence and rose to peruse a thousand pages of circumventing language and deceit.

In an electronically-shielded UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence post, a director awoke to the electronic reproaches of a chronometer and with the care of an artist, machined plans of sin, and of victory.

At a public forum, a gilded politician feverously cried the poisoning words that powered the hatred of a trillion Sangheili and called for the eclipsing of mankind.

In a militant hideout, an insurgent warrior-priest-king awoke to the chants of his acolytes, and from his lips ushered words of social injustice, and called for change – by the resolve of arms and on shed blood.

In a finely-crafted Sangheili estate, a politician awoke to the streaming light of morning and in his heart, resolved to take a galactic government by force.

In a camouflaged UNSC Naval Special Warfare barrack, a commando awoke to the sound of marching boots and moved to take his weapon and kit.

In a UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence high-containment biological warfare facility, two academicians casually discuss the artificial extinction of a whole species.

In an undercover UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence substation, a shadow awoke to the sweet, seductive taste of power in the air.

At a manned UNSC checkpoint, a Sangheili patriot lit off pyrotechnics that slew him and nine UNSC Marines.

A new day began.

7 – 7 – 7

UNSC MARINE CORPS OPERATIONS CENTER OFFICE OF THE THEATER COMMANDER

The stars rise in the sky, climbing to their zenith, to their ascension—to noon. Their ascetic, withering light illuminates the rising spires and ominous domes of a newly-erected structures set in Sanghelios’s hallowed ground—the UNSC Marine Corps Operations Center, code-named “SANCTUARY”.

It was a bastion of human thought and military force projection in the center of an alien homeworld, the birth cradle of the Sangheili race. SANCTUARY was replete with intercontinental ballistic thermonuclear warheads and their suborbital launch assemblies, landing pads for UNSC Pelican and Albatross assault dropships, a docking berth enough to encompass a whole UNSC attack frigate, organized phalanxes of M808B Scorpion Main Battle Tanks and M12 Warthog reconnaissance vehicles, monolithic parabolas that captured all local-space electromagnetic radiation, chatter, and tight-beamed transmissions—

It was a massive fortress, and more than that—an emblem of UNSC progress even after a decimating thirty-year galactic war against an alliance of ruthless alien species.

And in the central building, the gilded Office of the Theater Commander, a worn, weathered figure was positioned, hunched over a simple stenographic recorder. His face was drawn tight, terse over decaying cheekbones, his eyes sapped of intensity. This was not the same General Woodbury, UNSC Marine Corps, that had left Earth nine months ago with the 5th Marine Expeditionary Force on a triumphant mission to defend the UNSC embassy on Sanghelios, in the depths of Covenant territory, the first Marines to ever land on the alien homeworld.

Things had happened here.

He was different now.

The situation had reached its climax, and had taken its toll on Woodbury. Inexorable pressures had been generated, bringing about inconsolable stresses. There was no conclusion possible.

With a broken heart, Woodbury began the diction of his heavy monologue.

“Computer, confirm voice activation.”

A soft, carefully-dictioned feminine voice returned, “Activation commenced. Submit voiceprint sample for security purposes.”

He draws himself to his full height, recites his full title and office, yet his words are weak, sapped by fear. “General Woodbury, UNSC Marine Corps, Sanghelios Theater Command.”

She noted the pitch and amplitude of his syllables, and confirmed that the gaunt, skeletal, speaking figure was indeed who he was. “Voice-print confirmed as: General Woodbury, UNSC Marine Corps, Sanghelios Theater Command. Identification confirmed.”

“Open secure transmission.”

“Transmission opened”, petulantly intoned the ‘dumb’ AI, Woodbury’s personal multi-billion-credit secretary.

Woodbury hesitated. A moment later, his resolve shone through. There was only one way out of this damned hell.

“Addressed to: Fleet Admiral Lord Terrence Hood, UNSC Fleet Command, Director of Naval Operations, Chairman of the UNSC Security Committee.”

The AI carefully noted the status of the recipient—she compiled her recordings of Woodbury’s catastrophically sullen and morose past week, and came to the electronic realization too that this was the general’s only possible escape, his only option. Then, remembering her custodial duties, she replied, “Recipient identified. Ready at your command, sir.”

“Open body”, said Woodbury simply.

“Body opened”, she reciprocated.

Woodbury took a breath, then momentarily closed his eyes. This was it.

His eyelids opened. He began.

“Dear Admiral—My transmission to you today is to request a clarification of our intent on Sanghelios.”

Solid words, the AI thought. Forthright.

“The war has ended nine months ago. Open hostilities have ceased. The UNSC is at peace. We have constructed an embassy on Sanghelios, the Elite”—Woodbury caught himself adroitly and corrected his faux pas—“the Sangheili homeworld, to negotiate a permanent truce.”

“I was assigned, along with the 281st Infantry, to Sanghelios to protect the embassy and also to aid the Sanghelios Defense Force in any of their military operations, in order to foster trust between our two militaries. I write to you today to ask a clarification of my orders on Sanghelios, because the circumstances that existed when I first came to Sanghelios have changed.”

Woodbury paused, licked his lips. This was it.

“The war has ended ten months ago”, he began lightly. His tone then darkened. “Hostilities are continuing. My men are dying. This is not the peace that it was supposed to be.”

His pulse quickened, his tongue continued, “The 281st is under attack from the Elite population. We are being treated as invaders. The Sangheili are relentless—they bomb our checkpoints, they lay roadside improvised explosives to destroy our Warthogs—“

“This is not peace. This is war.”

Woodbury said furiously, voice inflamed with self-righteous indignance, “This is not only a war, but a war in which my men are not authorized to defend themselves. When we left Earth, we were issued orders not to kill even in self-defense, that the death of a single Sangheili could and would result in political retribution from their government, and jeopardize the stability of the truce we are negotiating.”

His ire rose, and the cadence of his voice canted higher. “Now, tell me, sir, can you stand behind our previous orders? Can you buy a truce with the Sangheili with the blood of a thousand men and women, all killed during this ‘peace’?”

“ I can’t, and that is why I am requesting that our situation be reviewed, and our orders revised. I hope you understand this delicate situation, Admiral, because God knows, I don’t. Woodbury over and out.”

He let loose a long-repressed breath. The pent-up toxins and plagues were released. He was ventilated…vindicated. It was now in Hood’s hands. The blood of five thousand soldiers was cleansed from his poisoned, sinful soul.

Woodbury turned to the AI. “Close body.”

“Body closed”, she replied succinctly.

“Encrypt, encryption key RAINBOW.”

“Transmission encrypted.”

“Upload transmission to Slipspace COM launcher. Report on Shaw-Fujikawa generator status.”

“Transmission compressed and uploaded to Slipspace COM launcher”, affirmed the AI. “Shaw-Fujikawa generator reports superconductance achieved and launch readiness.”

“Ready the COM launcher for immediate launch. Authorization code is five kilo three foxtrot uniform one. Destination: Earth.”

“Capsule ready. Launcher ready. Inducing asymmetric asymptotic heteropolarity in Shaw-Fujikawa generator. Slipspace rift generation in three—two—one—“

Deep within SANCTUARY’s bowels, a perfect sphere of alternate reality is summoned, tears the fabric of the spacetime continuum, and a message pod lands neatly within the netherworldly rift.

“Message capsule away. Destination: Earth.”

STOIC ENCAMPMENT

Within gilded halls, a voice calls the faithful. They know the steadied tones of their leader – king, warrior, priest, and visionary. His words ring true – he is a harbinger of the truth to Sanghelios and the rest of the Sangheili race. If others did not accept and repent, his acolytes would bring the primordial Faith to them.

“From time immemorial, we have been oppressed!” insists the king-priest-visionary, his amphibian eyes shining with a dappled fury. “Brothers, it was not always this way! Before the San’Shyuum deceivers met us and poisoned our hearts, we were equal!”

A collective roar is loosed from the crowd. They have heard this litany before.

“The San’Shyuum lorded over us, implemented fractures in our society to enslave us! Their finger puppets became the  Lord Caste, their hands of control over us. Under them was the Warrior Caste, the minions they used to fight their battles!”

The crowd raises their weapons in acknowledgement of the Faith. Their armors are threadbare, scorched by off-target radioactive mortars. Their harnesses are the color of dusk, charred by plasma. Their weapons are plasma pistols and spikers – well-oiled, suffusing a viridian glow from their warmed plasma charges. They have maintained their weapons better than their skeletal own bodies, their flesh greyed from malnutrion.

Precise footsteps click against the worn metal.

The leader continues, his voice tinged with righteous fire, “And below their puppets, they put us! The Servant Caste, to cater to their needs! Are we the lowest?”

Weapons raise into their air, and unified as one, the Faithful call in a single voice, “No!”

“No, we were the greatest! We saw through the San’Shyuum deception, refused to submit to their rule! And for that, we were banished to the farthest colonies from Sanghelios herself, sent to do the physical labor of the Unggoy and Kig-Yar!”

Screams of inchoate rage raised to the glyph-imprinted walls, and even the monastery reverberated, in sonorous agreement.

“And now that the War is done, when we were loosed from the tyranny of the San’Shyuum, another hand moves to rule over us!”

The cathedral echoed with the words of the Faithful. “Who?”

“The Sangheili Council”, spat the leader. His beady eyes are already chrysanthemum, swollen with fury and blood. “The Lord and Warrior Castes refuse to accept us back into the New Covenant! Again, we are subjected to be trod on the boots of what were our equals!”

Sporadic weapons fire broke out in agreement. The crowd swayed as one, hearts and minds pooled into a syncitium of consummate fury.

A quiet voice intones behind the podium of the warrior-king.

“Excellency.”

The voice is unique in its forgettability, its anonymity – its cadence is quiet, lacking of any accent that would identify it. It is concise, crisp.

The warrior-king turns, his swollen ceremonial headdress prominent against his cranial vault.

For standing before him is an Infidel. An Ape. A Human.

The Infidel is clad in an assassin’s garb – black, angular, its cut military in nature. An enameled golden stripe is pinned to the chest. Set in his unhelmeted head, two eyes stare piercingly outwards, smouldering with an intensity. Every abbreviated movement and word of the Infidel has a purpose. He has an economy of motions and actions, as if he was conserving speech.

The warrior-king acknowledges him – high treason for a Sangheili. The Apes had brought fire and death to the Sangheili race, slaughtered billions during a twenty-eight year War. Over Joyous Exaltation, the Apes had brought nuclear flame that had eclipsed two hundred Sangheili warships and had rendered two whole worlds carnaged.

Let us examine this Ape.

His family name is Wakes. His CSV has no first name recorded. His affiliation is the UNSC Defense Force, specifically the UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence. His rank is Lieutenant Commander (O-4), his title, the Regional Deputy Director of Operations, Sangheilios Sector. He is thirty-seven, with twelve years of his life spent in ONI. He has no family, no children, no friends, not even acquaintances. Wakes knows only three kinds of people: Commanding Officers, Assets, and Enemies. His purpose in life is to listen to Commanding Officers. He was born to do that. Assets are pawns to be used. In this case, the warrior-king-visionary. Enemies are people that he kills, preferably through Assets, although Wakes sometimes does it himself. And here he is, in a terrorist encampment, committing a capital crime, a hanging crime, against the Covenant, meeting and conspiring with the leader of a terrorist group so infamous that he has six Sangheili Special Operations hunter-killer teams trying to find him.

Let us examine this warrior-king.

His name is ‘Rradee. He has a bounty on his head, enough money to purchase a Scarab assault walker. Half a dozen assassin teams from the Sangheili Special Operations Group are trying to kill him. He is the mastermind of a hundred nefarious, cowardly terrorist attacks against the Sangheili Council and the Covenant as a whole. He has hijacked a Sanghelios Defense Force CCS-class battle cruiser and sent it flying into a sun, killing five thousand onboard, he has bombed a whole residential complex, killing ten thousand civilians, and he has destroyed a tritium refining facility, laying waste to a whole capital city. ‘Rradee, and anyone who has associated with him in the past or present, is classified as a terrorist, and is automatically charged with crimes against existence.

What he needs are guns. Weapons to continue his fight against the Sangheili Council. He needs to be able to kill more Sangheili, faster, and more brutally.

Wakes speaks quietly. “Five thousand units. Two thousand BR55HB SR Battle Rifles. Two thousand MA5K Assault Rifles with integral suppressors. Five hundred M41 SSR SAM Rocket Launchers. Four hundred SRS99D S2 AM Sniper Rifles. Fifty LAU-65D/SGM-151 Missile Pods. Fifty M6 GNNR Spartan Lasers. Ten vacuum-stabilized HORNET deep space nuclear mines. Five atmospheric FENRIS nuclear warheads.”

The warrior-king nods evenly. “How much more down the line?”

“Ten thousand more for the next month. In half a year, I project I can ramp that up to twenty thousand units per month.”

The terrorist thinly smiles with a flex of his blood-lined gums. “How much for all of this?”

“None”, evenly says Wakes. “The only payment I expect will be Sangheilios Defense Force blood.”

“You have a target?”

Wakes passes a manila file folder of labeled orbital satellite reconnaissance photos, thermal scans, polygraphs. “SDF prison at Absolution Rock. It’s a vulnerable target. You’ll be able to take it easily.”

“In one week, I want a report that every single SDF soldier in that prison is dead.”

Footsteps click against the metal, and the shadow fades into ashen darkness as dark as his heart.

ONI DEEP COVER “MEDUSA” STAGED RESEARCH FACILITY

There were two of them—Cereberus, custodians of the haunted path that linked the realm of the living to the necropolis of the death. More accurately, a pair of ODSTs in full N/B/C containment armor, with M7 submachine guns with integral suppressors, red dot scopes, and 9mm armor-piercing ammunition. They stand sentinel over the ONI Deep Cover on Sanghelios—the subterranean citadel that contains ONI Section Three’s most sensitive activities on Sanghelios.

The Marine commandoes are silent, foreboding, and the dim light rolls off of their swollen gas masks and their bulbous goggled eyes. Behind polarized visors are inhuman faces in the clothing of a demon. They radiate an alert malice. Wakes approaches the unmarked curved obsidian wall. Neither of the shock troopers salutes nor turn their helmets to acknowledge him. Instead, he is greeted by a small screen that seamlessly protrudes from the wall. UNSC OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE, SECTION III IMPRINT MILITARY IDENTIFICATION ON MAGNETIC STRIPE READER YOU ARE ON STEP ONE OF SIX TO GAIN SECURE ACCESS TO THIS FACILITY

Wakes wordlessly presses his ONI secure pass onto the reader. It is one of the most coveted symbols of status in the UNSC, aside from the identifications of flag officers that offer access into the Security Committee meetings and FLEETCOM op centers. The ONI pass is utilitarian, modest—it is a glossy white plate of plastic with a picture of the individual, the bearer’s full name, and the simple words “UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence”. On its reverse side is a black stripe that is a polarized magnetic strip. Yet, it is this pass that can grant ONI officers jurisdiction of officers of other armored forces, that can secure access into the most sensitive facilities, and can allow the bearer to read classified documents. It can also be used to impress the trouser off of girls and can even be used to have the Fleet Command switchboard page ONI officers on dates.

Wakes has used his pass card for the former purposes only, not the latter. He will never have any need for the latter.

The ODSTs ignore him as he clearly enunciates the word “Madagascar”, as a miniaturized probe collects a microscopic sample of hair follicle, solubilizes its cells, and performs small-nucleotide polymorphism analysis to confirm his genetic chromatin identity. Other probes check the convolutions on the surface of his retina and also the whorls on his right index finger. The last test is simple enough—Wakes is missing all of his fingers. His combat actions last year on the Ark led to his capture and torture by the Jiralhanae—they cut off all of his fingers. All of Wakes’s current fingers are recently-transplanted flash-cloned fingers. They have not had the time yet to mature and develop fingerprint whorls.

A viridian LED flares on. The wall parted and revealed a realm of brilliant white—

He steps through the parted barricade, and it irises close behind him. Wakes is within an existence of perfect white, with aseptic high-power white lights dazzlingly illuminating sterile corridors that seem to travel for an infinity. There is perfect, uniform white in every direction.

He was promptly greeted by an assistant—a young petty officer. She is used to this gaunt man’s morbid, flaccid features. Wakes is a regular visitor to the deep cover installation on Sanghelios. While eyeing her with an oppressive, superior stare, he briskly retrieves his sidearm, safes it, removes its installed cartridge, and hands it to the attaché.

Wakes is a familiar face to Deep Cover—he deftly uses his status as a double-edged sword, being careful to conceal the particulars of his identity to mainstream ONI personnel, but not hesitating to use his exceptional credentials and pedigree to bludgeon whoever he needs into complete submission. However, even mainstream ONI officers have hushed whispers about him—they may not know his name, but they know of his reputation. They know that he was Ackerson’s executor, and have heard tales of the people whose careers he crushed and discarded without regard.

As the attaché guides him along unfamiliar, anonymous corridors deeper into Deep Cover’s nexus, Wakes stiffens, his eyes become piercing. He has never before visited the Department of Biological Warfare—this perhaps is his first and last chance, and his eyes are transformed into recorders. As they pass by rooms, he picks out sterile laminar flow tissue culture hoods, high-throughput screening platforms, lentivirus incubators, negative pressure seals, UV sterilizers, air locks…

He is quiet to the point of sharp awkwardness as the attaché continues down the hallways, withering under his intense stare.

At last they reach their terminus. The aide scurries away, her duty fulfilled, unwilling to spend any more time with the ghoulish man-like figure she has accompanied for the past five minutes.

Upon an etched-glass door is a placard.

MELANIE FORGE, COMMANDER DEPARTMENT OF BIOLOGICAL WARFARE UNSC OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE SECTION THREE

A new name for him. Wakes knows her only as a set of statistics and performance reviews—the product of his brief overview of her profile when she requested this meeting. He knows what her commanding officers think of her, what psychologists think of her, her achievements, her security clearances…perhaps the only curious vacancy in her record is her current project.

Without knocking, the shadow carelessly opens the door, leaves it open, and enters.

The room is the archetypical stereotypic white, but the walls are punctuated with framed journals—issues of Nature, Science, and Nature Biotechnology—and diplomas—degrees from Harvard University and Harvard Graduate School. In the back of the room is a monolithic bookshelf, extensively filled by books. Her desk is in the center of the room, with futuristic metal office furnishments. Commander Forge is unaware of the shadow’s entrance, consumed by her desktop display and a half-dozen floating holographic images projected around her panoramically.

He has his first look of her in person besides her on-file identification photographs—he exactingly characterizes her. Her features are crisp, young, her expression earnest. Her build is athletic and her figure trim, suggesting regular exercise. The silver oak leaf insignia of a Commander is upon her lapel.

She looks up at her unannounced visitor and the open door behind him. The brilliant light from above catches her strong jaw, her wide glasses over faint grey eyes. Wakes takes a seat by himself, and she blankly stares at him and the door he has deliberately left open to her office.

“You’re Wakes?”

The shadow bides his time in a more meaningful fashion, confirming his mental profile of her from the ornaments on her desk and the wall. The bachelor’s from Harvard on Earth, and then her graduate degree from Harvard Graduate School in the Department of Molecular and Cellular Biology. A first-author publication in Cell as an undergraduate, multiple publications as a graduate student, including two publications in Nature, and then an extremely successful postdoctoral fellowship before being appointed a principal investigator and assistant professor at Harvard, again. Her academic credentials marked her as an extremely ambitious up-and-coming biologist.

Keeping her eyes on him, she walks up, seals the door behind him, staring blankly at him. He perpetuates the awkward atmosphere, his wintery eyes flicking back and forth, as if dissecting apart the room with his focused gaze.

Once seated again at her desk, she let loose an exasperated sigh. “Lieutenant Commander Wakes, right? Deputy Director of Regional Operations?” The light being shed overhead illuminates her lustrous black hair as she cocks her head in mute irksomeness.

The shadow doesn’t say a word, remains mute.

“Alright, so the word around here is that you’re the local expert in field ops.” She pauses for a moment, and then continues awkwardly, “That’s why I’ve asked you for this meeting today.”

Wakes in his mind takes a mental note. These academicians in Biological Warfare still hadn’t realized his significance—that his rank as a Lieutenant Commander was artificially low by design, that he wasn’t some petty drone to waste time with bureaucratic irascibilities. Making an example of this Forge would be useful and efficient.

“You don’t talk too much, do you, Wakes?” she off-handedly inquires.

Before he opens his too-pale lips to utter an exacting and demeaning reprimand, she forestalls him by breaking the ice and asking a question. “So, Wakes, what’s the best way to send a covert signal on the battlefield?”

He angles his head infinitesimally. An interesting question from an academician in biological warfare. Perhaps by answering her question, he gets more benefit by uncovering the conspicuous purged black hole in her CSV regarding her current project in Section Three.

He speaks for the first time. She is struck by its frostiness, its sharpness. It is withering, meant to intimidate. “A spread-spectrum transmission.”

Now this time, it is her that angles her head in interest. She leans forward, her European features sharpened by a sudden interest. “Explain”.

“A spread spectrum transmission allows one to send a coded transmission below the background noise, a signal that is still detectable by an encoded receiver, despite the fact it’s under the noise. The signal sent is a code—it’s mathematically integrated with an imprinted code on the receiver, and if the two signals match, the signal is counted as received, no matter how low amplitude the signal is.”

Her prim vixen features harden, and her eyes glint now. Wakes recognizes the change, catalogs it. He knows what words he said triggered the response—…an encoded receiver.

She says quietly, after a moment of consideration, “Alright”.

His eyes cautiously follow her facial movements, attempting to discern her thoughts.

She is taken aback by his intense stare, suddenly uncomfortable and defensive.

The shadow is oblivious, examining the decorations and campaign medals on her service uniform—the Athena Shield emblem for the defense of Earth, the Cerberus decoration for the resistance on Tantalus—

Commander Forge meets Wakes’s inspecting stare with frost in her own eyes. “I think that’s enough, Lieutenant Commander.”

The shadow is already integrating discrete quanta of information within his mind, processing them through cognitive subroutines into a coherent realization.

“You were with the resistance on Tantalus”, he says softly, half a declarative statement, half a confirming query.

“Yes.”

The shadow is remembering—remembering an operation eleven years ago under the umbrella of UNSC Naval Special Warfare—he recalls something from the ether—his voice is sharp.

“Section Three operated a biomanufacturing facility on Tantalus. Colonel Ackerson was using the facility to synthesize a small-molecule mutagen. You were there, using it to construct something, and when the Covenant hit Tantalus after Reach, you were caught on the planet and fought with the resistance…”

The shadow pauses for effect, then continues. “You and Section Three Biological Warfare are planning to field-deploy a biological WMD—you were making it on Tantalus. Now, you’re having me to consult on the field deployment issue.”

Her face ripples slightly, and her eyebrows part fractionally, and Wakes senses he has indeed struck a chord within this woman. Her eyes dance with hostility at how he had pieced this together, yet her grey irises are mired with a subtle admiration…

“Say, Wakes, could I catch you for lunch sometime?” she asks innocently.

Wakes stares at her evaluatingly for a moment, and then rises and walks out the door.