Halo: Common Denominator/Chapter Three

Men and women, scattered from homeland, family, friends, Wander desolate and uncertain, scorched by a toxic sun... In this desert of frightened, blind uncertainty, some take refuge in the pursuit of power. Some become manipulators of illusion and deceit. -“The Warrior Song of King Gesar” by Douglas Penick (1996)

SANGHELIOS DEFENSE FORCE PRISON ABSOLUTION ROCK

Within the Sanghelios Defense Force prison at Absolution Rock, Sanghelios, there are fans of cyan and dashes of light. With every sweep of opal light, another dash falls silent.

Terrorists kill soldiers. They eviscerate them with energy swords, they impale them with serrated Jiralhanae maces, they remove limbs with surgical swipes of a blade. With every motion, another Sanghelios Defense Force guard falls limp, limbs spread at wholly unnatural angles.

Against the focused fury of the Stoics, the most advanced military equipment and combat training is superfluous. As superfluous as their lives. The Sanghelios Defense Force soldiers break rank, and are beset by vengeful anger in the vessel of bodily form. They are slashed, decapitated, incapacitated. The floor is carpeted with bodies.

The running battle is brief, less than five minutes. ‘Rradee stands victorious over meandering rivers of loosened Sangheili blood and pierced flesh.

Yet, there is more to be found at Absolution Rock.

UNSC MARINE CORPS OPERATIONS CENTER OFFICE OF THE THEATER COMMANDER

With regard and consideration to even the most primitive UNSC security protocols, a band of civilians, under no circumstances, should have been allowed into the secure office of the Theater Commander in the apex of a UNSC Marine Corps ops center. Times, however, dictated action. And these times of extraordinary stresses allowed for the melding of certain stipulations to the conveniences of others.

Their name was Terra Forever. They were a non-governmental organization—an NGO. The media portrayed NGOs as civilian fanatics with wealthy donors throwing money away for a cause. They never worked. Centuries ago when NGOs, civilians, had rallied against the long-buried genocides in Rwanda and Darfur, nothing had happened then. Now, half a millennium advanced into the future, political chess fields were more unbalanced. Terra Forever was on the intersection between an NGO and a political party, and in the post-War cataclysm, the civilian government had ravenously seized power away from the UNSC Security Committee, ended the UNSCDF’s martial law, and had made exaggerated overtures to increase the transparency of the military.

Woodbury met with the Terra Forever chiefs only by bureaucratic necessity, an increasing hindrance these days. However, it is difficult for the general to fully loathe their presence at SANCTUARY Control. Almost all their members were UNSC Defense Force veterans or retirees, and they acted more as a militia or an active reserve. Terra Forever even had managed to put up a struggle at Las Vegas during the attack on Earth for an hour or so before the Covenant had simply glassed the North American resort city in frustration.

The second thing was that Terra Forever was an extremely convenient political ally. Their members, all vets, had set their sights on decreasing the number of UNSC casualties on Sangheilios by half in the next two months. Terra Forever perhaps had the chess pieces in the political coliseum to actualize Woodbury’s moral and military objectives.

Woodbury excused the Marine MP from his post by the door, and then let his eyes rest on the Terra Forever chieftains, who were all clad in the former Navy and Marine uniforms with an impressive assortment of decorations and insignae. In comparison to their gleaming brass and silver, Woodbury was clad in a utilitarian and practical camouflaged utility uniform, which merely identified his last name, his service affiliation, and his rank. To an unpracticed civilian eye, Woodbury would seem like any other soldier not currently engaged in combat operations.

The Terra Forever warlocks knew better.

The first of their clan, an aging, yet energy-infused man of whitening hair and in the gleaming black uniform of a UNSC Navy captain, began the tenuous meeting with a broad smile. “General. We thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to meet with us briefly.”

Whether or not Terra Forever was in alignment with Woodbury’s goals, the flag officer still loathed the fact that this was a political meeting, with second agendas, hidden definitions, and subtle insinuations lurking behind every syllable.

His smile was terse. “The pleasure is mine, Captain…”

The leader filled it in. “Captain Stowers, now retired. Just call me Dale.”

Woodbury adamantly refused to accept any artificial extension of social kindness from them. He ushered the conversation forward, catalyzing it. “Gentlemen, seeing that you’re all here, what can I do for you?”

The Terra Forever bureaucrats had evidently rehearsed this—they didn’t even need to glance at each other or reference hastily-scribbled notes. Dale leaned forward, the artificial smile stuck on his face as if a plasma grenade adhered to a Marine. It was a decidedly unpleasant thought for Woodbury as the politico began, “General, as you know, there have been a concerning number of casualties amongst UNSC Defense Force personnel…”

After dealing with Wakes (who was actually a valuable asset), Woodbury had learned the art of not getting baited. Skilled politicians had found easy buttons to push on him in the past, and now that he understood his own control panel, he could soundlessly laugh at their attempts.

He stayed silent as Dale paused, and then continued further, “…We were seeing if we could provide any help to aid you in your efforts.”

Brief thoughts about having Wakes arrange Pressley to be drugged, kidnapped, shot, and buried flickered across his neocortex. The most permanent solution to this convoluted knot.

Woodbury smiled thinly. “Captain Stowers, I assure you that I—we—are already taking aggressive measures to secure our mutual interest.”

He glanced fractionally at his wrist chronometer. It was nearly time for the press release. One birthed from Wakes’s effort and his support.

OFFICE OF COUNCILOR ‘ILEAL SANGHEILI COUNCIL ADMINISTRATIVE SUITE

‘Ileal dismissed the guards with a flick of his wrist, and then glanced beneath his desk to see a cyan light flare on. The electronic countermeasures suite was active. A decidedly closet-like and unbecoming habit for a Councilor of the Sangheili Council and the government, one of the elite members of the Covenant’s newfound Sangheili oligarchy.

Yet, upon closer examination, Councilor ‘Ileal is far more than his title makes him to be—an oligarch of the Covenant. There are six other such oligarchs. Within a few years, there will only be one oligarch—and actually, then, it would be a position of monarchy rather than an oligarch. And to secure that distant probability, ‘Ileal must seek support from other sources.

There are hundreds of them, each acting in the darkness, each believing they are the only one. ‘Ileal has sought the eight most powerful of those and brought them here before him, assembling them. There are whispers of disquiet rustling about that he must silence.

One of his campaign supporters asks quietly, the edge of lethal menace sharp in his moderated voice, “…Councilor. Your current position and standing in the eyes of the Sangheili public make us concerned…” That one is a trillionaire, the magnate of a sector-wide shipping emporium. ‘Ileal had formerly personally passed trade acts that had given the trillionare monopoly over the entire sector. And now, he was repaying the favor to the Councilor.

A second unnecessarily finishes the train of thought. “…especially in light of your recent support of the Apes—the UNSC—the public opinion polls are quite—”

‘Ileal’s eyes light with a dangerous glimmer, and it is not the overhead illumination. His own voice is quiet, steady. “The UNSC is a necessary accomplice. You saw the Sangheili Intelligence Service’s reports on their technology and their ability to adapt and grow. Within a few years—five years, a decade—they will have fully recovered from the war and will furnish thousands of the bombs that destroyed Joyous Exaltation. They will have thousands of demons—SPARTANs. With such a force, even the Navy can not withstand our ascension. Our implementation of authority will be brutal, swift. Within hours we can take the Council and have the Covenant at our feet.”

His voice falls to a whisper.

“Stand firm, brothers, sisters. Bide your hands, and I promise that ascension’s day shall come.”

He stalks off to the Sangheili Council chamber. There is a particular oligarch of the other six that he will be destroying now.

UNDISCLOSED LOCATION SANGHELIOS

They move with purpose, kill with practiced quiet, ghosts flitting in the air, with a single touch a glancing, killing strike. Fans of light appear and fade, and people die in their path.

OFFICE OF COUNCILOR ‘ILEAL SANGHEILI COUNCIL ADMINISTRATIVE SUITE

The hour is night. ‘Ileal has spent his time before returning from his office attending to his own matters. His grassroot support is flourishing, flushed with his recent victory.

The Phantom disintegrates within the blanket of night, and ‘Ileal is left, alone, upon the flight pad leading to his suite within the Sangheili Council administrative division. He is a lone figure illuminated by the golden light spilling from the doorway, overwhelmed. He has won.

As he stands, epic against the light, he does not realize the surveillance systems depowering, nor the dampening of nearby light sources.

The projectile is loaded with two hundred grams of solubilized conjugated pentobarbital sodium. It is fired from a sniper rifle eight hundred meters distant and penetrates the intercostal space at a velocity of one thousand and eleven meters per second. It lances the pericardial membrane and instantly releases its load of pyrimidinetrione, which instantaneously diffuses into the right ventricle and is disseminated across the body within the time course of fractions of seconds. The sedative, enough to kill one hundred human beings, is magnitudes necessary beyond the requisite dosage for these purposes.

GABA receptors across the entire nervous system activate maximally, and the Sangheili crumples into unconsciousness, and if left unchecked in its rampage, the compound will slip him into instant death.

Wraiths slip through the night and whisk the unaware, unconscious Councilor away into the darkness.

It is a quiet night.