Paths of the Exiles: Fate of the Exiles

 Halo: Paths of the Exiles  Fate of the Exiles

Part one of Halo: Paths of the Exiles.

Prologue
Space is vast.

It encompasses everything, from the innumerable stars to the even more numerous planets that orbit them. Nothing can escape its dark grasp; even light itself is trapped within its darkness, helpless to do anything besides providing its fellow prisoners with a means to navigate their unfathomable jail. In its unknowable size and insatiable greed, space gathers everything unto itself and holds them fast, unwilling to let even a single molecule go free. It has no need to keep what it takes, for what it takes has already been its own since it came into being. Everything that is real belongs to space. It may be that those beings who are capable of death transcend space for a higher plane when they leave their mortal shells, but in the grand scheme of things this is irrelevant to space itself. Let the intangible depart for places equally intangible. it seems to say. The tangible is all that matters to me, and I will keep it as my own until it ceases to be tangible.

Within this inky master exist those consigned to dwell among it until they themselves become intangible and in doing so cease to hold its interest. They care as little for their dark sovereign as it cares for them; to them, space is yet another limitation amongst a multitude of limitations. They do not see themselves as its slaves, but rather its masters and they carry on as if this were so. It allows them this hubris and does not take steps to keep them in their proper place. But after all, why act against an action that poses no threat to your dominion? These creatures will perish and be replaced by ones just like them within the blink of an eye. They set themselves against each other rather than their overlord, and it is content to allow this state of affairs to continue. The actions of species and cultures mean nothing to it, and the actions of individuals within them even less so. But to the ones who must live out their lives as insignificant specks within this uncaring void, these actions encompass the entirety of their existence.

One portion of space, an insignificant wrinkle amidst the grand order of things, has just completed an event, or series of events, that rocked it to its core yet failed to impact the void in the slightest. These events are referred to by those who experienced them on the Human-Covenant War. This particular portion of space has been stood on its head by the most destructive conflict since another insignificant race, referred to by the survivors of this current conflict as the Forerunners, sacrificed themselves to destroy yet another insignificant race, the Flood. Now the war is over and the factions that once strove for each others' destruction must begin to traverse the long, arduous path towards peace.

This Human-Covenant War has seen countless heroes arise on either side of the conflict. It was a handful of these heroes that brought the conflict to an end; in the case of many of these champions, it was at the cost of their own lives. Now the war's greatest hero floats amidst the endless void, thought dead and honored as a savior by his own species. He lies dormant in a state of suspended animation called cryosleep, not to be awakened until his battered craft at last encounters some hope of rescue. In the grand scheme of the universe, he is no more significant than any other individual. He and those who owe their lives to his actions are less than specks when seen from the cosmic scale, but it is pointless for us to view them through this scope. We must cease to view space as an entity and rather see it as the creatures subjected to it do: as an obstacle, a limitation that must be borne along with all the other limitations inherent to mortal life.

The situation we find at the start of our tale is very similar to that of the lost hero. There is another battered craft floating through the stars, a lonely relic of a war far less worthy than the grand campaign waged for humanity's very survival. A war waged by the selfish and by those who would reduce their own species' chances for survival merely for the opportunity to gather more power for themselves. And the occupants of this abandoned craft were drawn into the conflict even as the previous one faded amidst the glow of newfound peace. It is these individuals, insignificant when compared to the conquering heroes who strove to bring the Human-Covenant War to an end, whose story will now be told.

The first of these passengers is a traitor, one barely more than a child who abandoned his species in its hour of need in order to participate in a quest for vengeance amidst the fires of others' selfish conflict. Although he turned away from that path before he could become utterly corrupted, he still bears the scars of the time spent in dedication to a brutal cause. He is a volatile mix of cowardice and bravery, self-service and loyalty, hatred and love. He believes that the worst is behind him, but nothing could be further from the truth. One's past is impossible to flee from, and both old and new trials lie in wait for him.

Another is little more than a victim of fate and ill-fortune. Like her companion, she fought for humanity in the Great War, but unlike him she is not a traitor. She found herself on this ship as the result of her companion's reluctant compassion; neither he nor she knows whether she would still be alive had he not forced her to throw her lot in with him. Unlike the warriors she served alongside, healing was her first role on the battlefield, violence her second. She lost many dear friends to the Great War but she chooses to honor them through remembrance rather than vengeance. She has no desire to be a hero; all she wants is to find a place to call home.

The third and final passenger is actually an artificial intelligence program. Once tied to the same selfish masters the traitor chose to serve, she has since broken free from those bonds and joined him in his flight from both the war and the masters on both sides whom he betrayed. Unlike her organic companions, her mind is set and decided: she has been blessed with both a superior intellect and the means by which to prolong her own life indefinitely, and she will exploit these advantages as much as she can. Survival is her first concern, but even one as confident and arrogant as she is held back by some feelings of loyalty. The traitor saved her from certain destruction, and in her mind he is the only organic risking anything for her.

And so these exiles, insignificant on both the grand and the colossal scales, have come to the end of their blind drifting. They are about to wake, and with their newfound consciousness they will set themselves on the paths of their own destinies, whatever those might be. Clouds of darkness, fear, and suspicion await them, but just as their species has endured a war against an indomitable enemy, so shall they.

The sleep of the exiles is over. The paths of the exiles lie before them, waiting to be trod upon.

Chapter One: Awakening
''A child fled through a filthy alley. His clothing was ragged, his dark hair was matted and unkempt, and his face was covered with so much grime and dirt that it was almost impossible to make out the pale skin beneath. His bare feet were covered with scabs and sores, although this didn't seem to slow him down in the slightest. His breath was coming in short gasps that were punctuated by terrified sobs. Dodging and weaving past trash bins, the boy continued to run, occasionally risking frightened glances behind him. Something was pursuing him, something that growled and snarled at him from the alley's dark shadows.''

''As he ran, the boy clutched a prize close to his chest: a chunk of cast-off meat that was almost as grubby as he was. The greasy slab left stains on what few unsoiled patches were left on his torn shirt. The shirt was actually the remnants of an adult's overcoat, but the boy had scavenged and repurposed it to suit his own needs. It would have been too large even on a regular child, but the boy was so skinny that there seemed to be more coat than child. His legs were covered by pants that had once been long but were now so torn and frayed that they might have been mistaken for shorts.''

''The boy leapt past the latest trash bin. His foot caught the side of the bin, sending both the can and the boy sprawling to the dirty ground. Trash tumbled from the bin's exposed top, covering the boy and the ground around him with garbage. Emerging from the pile and tugging a banana peel out of his hair, the boy saw his pursuer emerge from the shadows.''

''The dog was practically a canine version of the boy he was pursuing. With filthy matted fur and skin so tight against its chest that its ribs were visible, it stalked towards the child, who once again fled away into the shadows. Baring its yellowed teeth, the dog sprang off after him. The boy had stolen what had rightfully belonged to the dog, who hadn't survived on the streets this long by letting thieves escape without a fight.''

''His breath now catching in his throat, the boy fought to ignore the pain in his chest and gut. The dog was right behind him, but he could see a light up ahead. If he could just get out of the alley, he could lose the dog in the hustle and bustle of the street beyond. He ducked his head and squeezed the meat even closer to his own hunger-shrunk chest. He had to make it. He couldn't give up the food now, not when he was so close...''

''Behind him, the dogs snarls were getting closer. The pounding of paws on pavement was beginning to drown out his own foot-falls. With a last burst of energy, he sprinted past one last trash can and stumbled into the light....''

''The dog was gone now, as was the alley. All around him lay the ruins of a small, dusty town that was illuminated by the orange light of a setting sun. Buildings, torn apart by tank shells and missile blasts, were all around him, their remaining walls riddled with bullet holes. The small street where he was standing was littered with the charred skeletons of burnt out vehicles and the bodies of men and women dressed in civilian clothes. Many clutched rifles and submachine guns in their stiff hands, but several others appeared to be unarmed.The clatter of automatic weapons was could be heard on all sides, as could the rumblings of the tanks that he now knew so well: Scorpions. A trio of bulky aircraft flew overhead, and with a mind that was suddenly well-versed in the appearance and specifics of the UNSC's arsenal he identified them as "Pelicans". Men and women were yelling in the distance; he could not make out what was being said.''

''His clothes were still ragged and threadbare, but there was more order to the patchy overcoat and scavenged cargo pants he wore than there had been to the ones he'd worn in the alley, which now seemed to be little more than a distant memory. He was still thin and lean with hunger, but there was more muscle to his arms than there had been before. There was a rifle in his hands now, and he felt a distant sense of disdain for its poor make and quality. Somehow, he was used to better...''

''But the thought passed quickly. He was running now, and the sounds of battle were all around him. A wall just behind him exploded and he dropped into a roll on an urge that seemed to come from some distant part of his brain. His head felt fuzzy; no memories were rising to the surface. There was just the battle around him and his own instincts and impulses.''

''Bullets tore the air around him and he spun to see a pair of armored marines taking up positions behind one of the destroyed cars he had just passed. A rocket flew over his head and struck the marines' cover, obliterating it and sending them sprawling into a wave of gunfire. The boy turned to see several men, in similar garb as him, motioning to follow. He obeyed, but in the next moment the men were falling to a new hail of bullets. The boy leapt over their bodies and turned onto another street. As he ran, he passed more slumped bodies strewn around like so much trash. A few were marines, but most were like the rebels he had just seen die.''

''He fired his rifle as he ran, sending bullets slashing towards another group of marines. There were explosions all around him now; the yelling was also getting louder. A wave of machine gun fire tore over his head, the bullets speeding towards some unseen target. A rebel firing position came into view as he ran only to be obliterated moments later by a tank shell. More rebels spilled out into the street and were cut down as quickly as they appeared. Bullets were everywhere now; he was caught in some kind of crossfire.''

''The world seemed to have gone crazy. Everything was happening at once and the boy was powerless to do anything but run. He scrambled out of the street, and found himself in another alley. He sprinted down the thin corridor, but tripped as he reached the exit. But this time the world did not change. He was still in the ruined town, and now he lay sprawled before a massive Scorpion tank.''

''Acting on impulse, he seized his rifle up from where it had fallen. It was the wrong move to make. The Scorpion's turret lowered menacingly and the tank's external cocked his heavy machine gun. The boy was frozen, unable to either drop or raise the weapon. As he looked on, the tank's grey metal shifted and became fur. Its treads morphed into legs, and suddenly he was staring at an enormous version of the dog from the alley. The creature snarled, and for the first time the boy screamed.''

''The dog's massive jaws shot forwards, but everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The boy grew colder as both the war-torn town and dog shrunk and faded into darkness...''

Simon-G294 opened his eyes and slowly shifted his head from side to side as his vision returned. His entire body was freezing, but he was filled with a strange sense of relief. He was in neither the slums of the city he had grown up in nor a dusty town on Mamore. He was in a cryo-tube in a stolen Insurrectionist shuttle and someone had just brought him out of his cryogenic slumber.



Simon fell from the tube and onto the grated floor of the shuttle's cryo-room. He was dismayed to find that it was almost as cold as the tube he'd just exited, and even more dismayed when he vomited all over the deck in front of him. There wasn't much to the puke besides stomach fluids, but it was still disgusting, especially with a good amount of the stuff falling onto his hands. It was only when he reached for something to wipe them off with that he remembered he was naked. A moment later he realized that he was aching terribly all over his body.

The intercom overhead crackled. "Welcome back to the world of the living," drawled a girl's voice. "I was beginning to get tired of not having someone less intelligent than myself to talk to."

The voice paused, as if observing Simon's nausea. "What a wonderful way to wake up," she commented snidely. "You're managing to look both repulsive and ridiculous at the same time."

In his addled, post-cryo funk it took Simon a moment to respond. "Thanks, Diana," he groaned, smearing his mucus covered hands across the base of his cryo-tube. "Glad to know you care about how shitty I feel right now."

The A.I. sniffed, making an effort to sound contemptuous. "I'm not interested in how you meatbags cope with those stupid bodies of yours. Just wipe that gunk up and get some clothes on. And have Doc do the same."

"Doc?" Simon asked. "Who's--"

He cut himself off as he slowly recalled all the things that had happened before he'd entered cryo-sleep. The fight with Jake-G293, his former team leader, back on the Insurrectionist asteroid base. Taking another former teammate, the wounded Cassandra-G006, onto the shuttle for treatment. Treating his own grievous wounds along with her own, which would have killed her before suitable treatment could be given. Convincing her to cooperate with him in spite of his status as a traitor. The failure of the shuttle's Slipspace drive, which had effectively stranded them in deep space. Agreeing to go under along with Cassandra while Diana tried to navigate the ship to a planet in realspace. "Doc" had been Diana's nickname for Cassandra, whom Simon had told her was trained as a medic.

"Me," said a quiet voice behind him. "Remember? She calls me 'Doc.'"

Simon turned to see Cassandra, who had obviously emerged from the tube adjacent to his own. Unlike him, she had managed to maintain control of her bowels, although she was looking somewhat green in the face. Maybe it was because Simon felt responsible for her current predicament--trapped on a shuttle alongside a wanted traitor and with no way to get back in contact with the UNSC--or maybe it was because he had harbored a small crush on her back in training, but he couldn't overlook the fact that she too was naked.

Spartans were trained to ignore such petty and unprofessional thoughts. Their training was entirely co-educational and they quickly learned to disregard each other's bodies and focus on more important things, such as their own bodies and the effects the drills and exercises were having on them. It was all part of the instructors' attempts to strengthen unit cohesion and help forge them into a company of brothers and sisters. By channeling thoughts that were so emphasized back in the civilian world towards more important matters, each trainee had learned to become almost entirely apathetic towards the subject of gender relations. Each of their comrades, regardless of sex, was a fellow soldier of no greater or lesser worth than an of the other three hundred-odd Spartans in Gamma Company. This training had only increased in importance when they had been sorted into teams of five and had been expected to grow as tightly knit--even more so, at times--as any family in the civilian world.

Simon, for all the failings that had hindered and humiliated him throughout his training, had taken these lessons to heart just as much as any of his fellow trainees. In fact, he might have had an easier time accepting it than all of the others. As a starving urchin eking out a means of survival in the slums of some colonial metropolis, the only thing children of either gender had meant to him was increased competition when scavenging for food and clothes. This suspicion of other people had gone so far as to actually hurt him during the early weeks and months of the training until he had learned to open up somewhat and become more of a team player. The onset of a genetically hastened puberty had had no greater affect on him than it had had on the other children. Small infatuations had sprung up throughout the company, becoming easy sources for playful taunts, and Simon had been lucky enough to fall for a girl assigned to a team other than his own.

It had been his ill fortune, however, that this girl's team had been with his own during that fateful mission aboard the Ides of March...

Ashamed at the beginnings of a blush he could feel creeping up around his cheeks, Simon turned quickly away from Cassandra and made a show of examining the mess he'd just made with disgust that was, for the most part, forced. Why the hell did he feel this way? They were in the middle of space in a crippled shuttle drifting towards who knew where and, to make things even worse, he was wanted dead by a government with some of the best trained and equipped agents in the history of humanity. He should be thinking about more important things than how the still-visible wounds on Cassandra's body--left there by an incapacitating explosion back on the asteroid base--didn't look as terrible as he'd remembered them being.

Maybe it had something to do with the time he'd spent fighting the UNSC alongside other child soldiers during the insurgency on Mamore. He'd become close friends with another girl, the leader of a small gang of young rebels, and had been deeply affected by her death during the fighting; enough so that from that point on he'd rejected all hopes of clearing his name and rejoining the UNSC. Perhaps this was where all this uncertainty about Cassandra was stemming from.

Shaking his head, he reminded himself that it hardly mattered where these thoughts came from. He needed to get a handle on his emotions quickly, before they came back to bite him in the ass. He might be dealing with some unresolved feelings for his companion, who on the whole was a less than willing passenger, but she almost certainly was not. It was only thanks to Cassandra's compassionate nature that she hadn't killed him before they'd entered cryo-sleep; now that she was coping with the same side-effects of extended cryo-sleep that he was, she might not be feeling so graciously towards the traitor who had nearly killed one of her friends and had more or less abducted her in the midst of battle.