On The Hunt

“C’mon, Stray, can’t we talk this through?”

Simon-G294 brought his assault rifle to bear, the sensors in his helmet pinpointing the source of the noise. His quarry’s voice bounced off the storage crates that lined the shipyard, its playfully mocking tones seeming to come from every direction at once. The Spartan—former Spartan—advanced down the storage bay, wary of the crates that rose up on either side. The helmet sensors pulsed faintly by his head as they worked to locate the voice. A light flashed on Simon’s Heads Up Display: the voice had come from a corner to his left.

Aiming low, Simon sprayed a burst at the crate. The bullets punched through the thin plating with ease; there was a yelp from the other side, followed by the sound of pounding feet against the concrete. Keeping his rifle at the ready, Simon dashed around the corner in time to see the edge of a faded brown overcoat vanish down another row of shipping crates.

“Hey, come on now Stray,” the quarry’s voice protested over the wall of crates. “That could have seriously hurt somebody.”

Simon had been trained from an early age to stay calm and focused even in the most brutal combat conditions. He liked to think that he’d kept his training sharp, even after he’d fled the UNSC. His instincts and skills had kept him alive through countless war zones and deadly situations. But this particular quarry was seriously starting to get on his nerves.

“Make this easy on yourself, Dunn,” he called back, running over to the nearest crate and preparing a small device clipped to his rifle. “Give it up and I won’t have to shoot you in the legs.”

“That’s Captain Dunn to you.” Gavin Dunn sounded genuinely offended. “I’ve still got a ship, no matter what the Syndicate says.”

Simon adjusted the device and thumbed its activation switch. A grappling cable shot upwards and embedded itself in an upper crate. Clipping the rifle to the combat webbing that looped around his armored chest, Simon gripped the cable and pulled himself up the side of the wall. Muscles and bones enhanced by the Spartan program’s bio-augmentations propelled him swiftly upwards, armor, weapons and all. “You won’t have a ship for long if the Syndicate has anything to say about it,” he shot back. Unprofessional? Definitely. Immature? Maybe. But this smuggler was seriously beginning to get on his nerves.

“Me, lose my ship?” Dunn laughed. “That’ll be the day.”

Climbing up atop the stack of crates, Simon tugged the grappling piton out of the metal and reeled the cord back into the launcher. He unclipped his rifle again and advanced across the upper stacks, careful to keep his armored feet from slapping against the ridged metal. “Hey, at least you won’t crash this one.” His helmet projected his voice and bounced it off the crates just as Gavin had done. The captain didn’t have a helmet to drown out the echoes; the noise would disorient him, make him panic.

“Okay, well that was just mean.” Gavin did not sound panicked or disoriented in the slightest. “I’ll have you know that none of those accidents were my fault.”

Simon’s helmet honed in on the voice again: the smuggler was just ahead of him. Dunn might have chosen the right location to throw off Simon’s thermal scanners, but no amount of carbon-shielded storage containers could hide sound waves. The former Spartan kept his rifle ready as he stalked forwards. No mistakes this time. The Spartan—former Spartan, there it was again—had seen more than his share of troubles in his sixteen years. He’d survived battles against the Covenant during the Great War and then against the UNSC when the military had betrayed him on Mamore. He’d dodged ONI assassins, shot up Insurrectionist hit squads, even taken on Covenant raiding parties in the time since he had deserted the UNSC. In the endless struggle to survive he’d taken jobs from anyone willing to pay for his skills, fighting in gang wars, hunting down pirates, guarding black market shipments; if it kept him fed and armed, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

He’d dealt with every military force and criminal organization the galaxy had to offer, yet he’d never encountered anyone as infuriatingly resourceful as the man he was chasing now. It had been a long, embarrassing chase: one former Spartan, with years of training and combat experience behind him, against a lone smuggler with nothing but the clothes on his back and a rusty, outdated freighter.

But Gavin was no stranger to combat either, Simon knew that all too well…

He shook his head and kept advancing. No point in dwelling on that now. It was high time he wrapped up this nonsense and collected the reward the Syndicate had posted on Dunn’s hide.

He reached the last stack of crates and sidled over to the edge, scanning the ground below with his rifle. Gavin was on the move again. Simon had a better view of “Captain” Dunn now, a lanky man in a patchy brown overcoat and a faded, threadbare cap. The smuggler had found a maintenance ladder and was busy scrambling up to the top of the crates. About time he made things easy on Simon. Simon had come within a hair’s breadth of bagging Dunn too many times to take chances now. He batted an eye at a scanner inside his helmet’s broad visor. His battered suit of Semi Powered Infiltration armor, the same suit he’d been issued back on Onyx and the same suit he had carried through the war and his desertion, faded away, its photo-reactive panels blending in to the grey and brick hues of the crates and storage facility around him. The rifle still at the ready, Simon crept over the crates and closed in on his target.

Dunn had paused at the top of the crate. Crouching down, the smuggler withdrew a handheld computer from his overcoat and hastily tapped in a series of commands. After a moment spent contemplating the screen in front of him, Dunn rose up again and anxiously glanced about the facility. Simon slowed his pace but kept advancing. The SPI’s camo systems were designed to fool the eyes of the keenest Covenant warriors. As long as he didn’t make any sudden movements, Dunn wouldn’t know how close he was until it was too late.

One step, then another. Simon’s body quivered with anticipation. He began to lower his rifle as he moved closer. He wouldn’t even need to waste any more bullets on this chase. Once he was within arm’s reach, all it would take was a blow from one of his gauntlets to knock Dunn out cold.

The smuggler took a step back, giving the facility another look. His eyes darted to the left, then to the right, and then settled directly on Simon.

The former Spartan froze. It’s alright, he can’t see me, I’m camouflaged, he can’t see me…

The smuggler blinked, cocking his head to one side. It always works, I’m fine, there’s no way he sees me…

Gavin Dunn raised a hand, his face twisting into a nervous grin. “Hi, Stray.”

The hairs on the back of Simon’s neck stood on end. A quick glance downwards revealed his worst fear: the battered surface of his armor was visible for all to see. The camouflage system had cut out.

There was no time to reflect on the equipment failure. Simon whipped the assault rifle back up and trained it on Dunn’s chest as he rose up again. “Don’t move,” he ordered tersely, hoping his helmet concealed the shock of losing the camouflage. Dunn obediently froze in place, one hand raised in an ironic greeting while the other dangled at his side, still grasping the handheld computer. “Damn,” the smuggler said. “Guess you’ve really got me this time, haven’t you?”

“Like I said,” Simon reminded him. “Make this easy and I won’t have to hurt you.”

He considered all the time and effort he’d put into chasing Gavin down. “Much,” he amended.

Dunn took a small step back, then blanched and froze again when he realized he was at the edge of the crate. Another step would send him toppling a good ten meters to the concrete below. He raised both hands placatingly. “Don’t worry, Stray, not like I could give you much of a fight anyway. Let’s both just calm down and maybe point the gun someplace else? Preferably away from me?”

Simon kept the rifle aimed at Dunn’s center of mass. “On your knees. I had enough of your funny business back in Mindoro.”

The smuggler obligingly got down on his knees, both hands raised now. The computer’s glow cast a faint light over his scruffy features. “Don’t worry, Stray, I don’t have anything left to pull. You got me.”

“I’m not taking that for granted until I’ve turned you in and collected my fee,” Simon retorted. He had a tranquilizer serum in one of the pouches clipped to his combat webbing. He might as well sedate Dunn now. It was a better option than simply bludgeoning the smuggler into unconsciousness.

Dunn gave him another strained smile. “Sure you can’t let this whole bounty thing drop? You know, for old time’s sake?”

Simon felt the urge to club Dunn right then and there, but he restrained himself. The tranquilizer. He’d use the tranquilizer. It was for the best, no need to let Dunn get under his skin any more than he’d already done.

“Don’t go there,” he warned Dunn, stepping in closer. “The Insurrection’s done. You should’ve just paid the Syndicate when you had the chance.”

“Ah, so I skipped out on a few licensing fees, so what? It’s not like the CAA and the UN don’t fleece me enough already, how’s an honest spacer supposed to make a living these days?” Dunn gave him a nervous grin, his eyes flicking from the SPI visor to the rifle and back again. “C’mon, Stray, cut me a break here. We’ve all gotta eat.”

“Yeah. We’ve all gotta eat.” The scruffy bastard was getting to him again, damn it. Simon seized the guilty pangs the smuggler was throwing his way and shoved them down deep, burying them underneath a mound of ruthless pragmatism. He seemed to be doing that with more and more jobs these days. It wasn’t a good sign. “They’re paying me six thousand credits to bring you in and money doesn’t exactly grown on trees around here.”

“Six thousand? I’m only worth six thousand? I’m a ten thousand mark, at the very least,” Dunn quipped, but his smile faded as he looked down the barrel of Simon’s rifle. “But really, Stray. You’ve been chasing me for what, three months now? Don’t you have better things to do than help the Syndicate kick around guys like me?”

Simon faltered for half a second. His barrel dipped as he grimaced behind his visor. The smuggler that knelt before him looked up questioningly, his eyes boring through the visor and past the HUD. Most people never got past the faceless mask, but Gavin’s look cut right through to Simon’s eyes.

He forced himself back into focus. Dunn was just playing for time, slowing things down with banter like he always did. There was nothing to think about but the mission at hand. Do the job, collect the money, repeat.

“We’ve all gotta eat,” he repeated, hating himself for feeling so guilty. “You’re coming in.”

Dunn let out a sigh of regret. “Worth a shot. Sorry, Simon.”

Simon reached for the tranquilizer, but as his gaze dipped he saw Dunn’s fingers twitch. Too late, he realized that he’d forgotten to make the smuggler drop his computer.

“Son of a bitch--!”

He made a swipe for the computer, but Dunn dropped low against the crate, tucking his head in defensively. Simon reached down to grab the smuggler by his coat when something big and heavy struck him hard in the side.

A moment of weightlessness, followed by another thunderclapping impact. The rifle was torn out of Simon’s hands as he slammed into a row of crates a good fifty yards away. The ground rushed up to meet him and he barely had time to roll into the fall. He came up on his knees, ears ringing and head spinning inside his helmet. Something creaked behind him and he threw himself flat as the entire row of containers came crashing down on top of him.

The world went black. Simon’s entire body felt like one big bruise inside his armor. His muscles ached and he wanted nothing more than to go limp, but Chief Petty Officer Mendez’s snarling face loomed out of the darkness and glowered down at him. ''Pathetic, Trainee G294, absolutely pathetic. Another failure, congratulations. Half rations for your entire team again tonight, and they’ve got you to thank for it. I hope your satisfied that—''

“Shut the hell up, you son of a bitch,” he growled, thrusting his arms outwards. Mendez’s face shrank away as the light returned. Simon pushed his throbbing body out from under the avalanche of crates, regaining his bearings in time to see Dunn race out into the sunlight beyond the storage bay’s half-open doors. The loading crane he had hacked to send Simon flying hung mockingly overhead.

“Damn it!” Simon knew what was coming. Not again, I had him this time…

He struggled free of the containers and grabbed his rifle from where it had fallen a few feet away. He could already hear a distant roaring noise growing louder outside, but if he hurried he could still get to Dunn before…

He sprinted after the smuggler, ignoring his aching legs and tangled combat webbing. He cleared the hangar doors just in time to see Dunn clambering aboard the boarding ramp of a grungy, pockmarked freighter. He must have flown it in remotely while we were still inside, damn, damn, damn…

Simon pushed himself to move even faster, but it was already too late. The Chancer III lifted higher off the ground, its captain pulling himself to safety as the freighter’s ramp began to ease close. Dunn glanced down at his pursuer and gave him a jaunty wave. His mouth moved, and though Simon couldn’t hear him over the roar of the engines he could read the man’s lips just fine. Not that he needed to, the bastard had used the same line plenty of times before.

“Nice try, Stray! Better luck next time!”

The Chancer hovered just above the storage facility, its engines fighting to gain altitude. Simon activated his helmet’s com systems. This wasn’t over yet. He still had a trump card.

“Diana!” he barked into the com channel. “Tap into the orbital grid, get them to stop the Chancer III from breaking atmosphere!”

“Hm?” The artificial intelligence’s voice sounded distant in Simon’s ear, as if he’d just woke her up from a nap. It was all a show of course. She’d known what he was doing, had probably even monitored the pursuit through his armor and a dozen local surveillance systems. “I really thought you had him. How’d he get you this time?”

“There’s no time!” The Chancer was moving away now, its engines kicking into full drive as Dunn undoubtedly got to work in the freighter’s cockpit. “Get them to stop the Chancer when it gets through the atmosphere!”

“I guess I could do,” Diana mused disinterestedly. “But then someone else would wind up collecting the reward, wouldn’t they? You sure you want that?”

It was no use. There was no help forthcoming from Diana; Simon had told her he could snag the smuggler on his own, a stupid flash of pride that he was paying for now. He raised his assault rifle and emptied the magazine up at the departing Chancer. The freighter didn’t so much as alter its course as it sped away and vanished into the sky, leaving only wisps of engine fumes lingering mockingly in its wake.

“And now you just wasted thirty AP rounds,” Diana observed. “Aren’t you always complaining about how expensive ammunition is these days?”

Simon lowered the rifle, shaking his head in disgust. The aches from his collision with the crates were beginning to set in again. He turned and limped back towards the storage facility. Outrun and outwitted again, by a run-down smuggler with no armor or augmentations to speak of.

Simon’s armor now sported several new scrapes and dents along its patchwork frame of battered components and scavenged replacement parts. His camo system, which had kept him ahead of the underworld’s other hired guns, had failed him; it would take a miracle to get it up and running again. And with the beating he’d taken from the containers, he’d have to run inventory on every scrap of equipment just to make sure it all worked properly.

And in the end it was all just one more footnote to a career mired in failure and humiliation.

Times like this made him glad the rest of Gamma Company—his former friends and comrades—thought him long dead. It was far better to be buried history than for them to see just how low he’d really sunk.

He could still see Gavin Dunn’s face staring at him from the corner of his mind. Don’t you have better things to do?

No, he answered silently. It was a rough, bitter truth. There was no sense in denying what he was. What he’d become. Not anymore. “Clever of him to use the crane,” Diana commented. “Not bad work, for a meatbag.” “You could have stopped him,” Simon growled. “You can’t tell me you weren’t watching the whole time.”

“If I’m always jumping in to help you, you’ll never learn,” the AI replied cheerfully. “You’re already a lost cause, but I still think I’ve got a chance to teach you a few things. If anyone can make something out of nothing, it’s me.”

“What a ringing endorsement.” He hobbled his way past the wrecked containers and on towards the exit. He’d left a van parked outside when he’d chased Dunn to the facility. He had a long, painful drive back to New Tyne’s residential district to look forward to. “How about you just not talk for a few hours, okay?”

“You should have just shot him in the leg,” Diana continued. “You talk tough, but you’re still too soft.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.” Simon shoved his way out the back of the facility. He could feel another ache quivering behind the bruises Dunn had just given him. He shot another forlorn glance at the sky the Chancer had disappeared into before heading back to the van.

“Damn it, I’m hungry.”