Strikeout

 Prologue

The whole bay shook as atmospheric pressures pounded on the haphazardly arranged refugee ship as she climbed out of Jericho VII's atmosphere. Waves of varying heat from the overpressured engines slunk around the passengers, eating at their resolve and wits. Only an hour before, they had been rushed from their homes to Herigald's civilian transport center and packed like sardines into the crowded bay of a cargo hauler-turned-refugee transporter. Children cried and sniffled, mothers looked harried from constantly micromanaging their offspring, and husbands glanced at each other and at nothing as the ship shook.

The most massive shake signaled the crossing from atmosphere into inner space. Soon, they would pass by the hulls of the massive UNSC warships that took even more of a beating than the old freighter would ever in order to ensure the most civilians got away as possible. Because it was all about them.

One young man in particular gazed out one of the few portholes available in the crowded bay and his eyes shot beams of pure hatred at the purple hull of an alien capital ship. They would pay for destroying his home. Not by his hand, no. But by the resolve of the entire human race. By the Gods, they would pay.

 Chapter I


 * On 7 October 2525, the Colonial Militia of the planet Harvest fought a collection of aliens that had come to plunder the planet for holy relics of their gods. The misunderstanding between the aliens and the human welcoming party resulted in the complete devastation of the planet, but not before a good majority of the planet's population escaped. News of this alien invasion reverberated abound the UNSC High Command, which dispatched a ship to investigate. The ship entered the system, but was never heard from again. The UNSC dispatched three more ships to find out what happened to the previous vessel. They, too, arrived in system, but only one survived. It was heavily damaged by weapons unlike anything encountered by the UNSC before. The surviving ship's crew spoke of a highly advanced starship that nearly destroyed all three ships. They had introduced themselves as: the Covenant.

eight years later

Auntero sat in the back of the darkened pub, one hand around his drink, the other resting on the table. He watched the various patrons of the establishment come and go, and waited. He sipped from his glass every now and then, but was otherwise absolutely still. He knew that the only way someone would notice him was if they were looking specifically for him. Cops popped in sometimes, but never noticed him. Beatniks stumbled about and attempted to score a girl for the night, oblivious to the fact that either they were horribly drunk and would pass out before the action even got started, or that the women were waiting for others to take them away. Auntero himself had tried the moves before, but a long petrified slash from his chin to his left ear taught him the error of his ways. besides, sex wasn't useful in his endeavors unless he could sleep with someone close to the Covenant's command chain.

His business of cargo hauling was a good way to get around and explore, but after the crackdown of the Cole Protocol, he was severely restricted in what his business could achieve. Then, he was hired out by a few UNSC blowhards who paid insanely good money for cheap stuff, and soon he was back in business. Working for the UNSC was never a chore, as he admired some of his contractors, especially the Defense Force. He'd been asked to deliver some military-grade goods across several Inner Colonies, and was always impressed with the professionalism they presented. The pay was excellent and he'd even gotten to know some of the Marines.

Of course, good isn't alone, and some of the jobs from his UNSC contractors required not knowing the route, the cargo, or even who his debtor was. He guessed they were the self-centered shadow-wannabes also known as the Office of Naval Intelligence. If Auntero knew anything about the universe, those weenies weren't spooks. Not even close. Spooks caused nightmares. These stiffs were just business covered in black.

No, the Covenant were the real spooks. They were the stuff of nightmares. They were what had haunted every Outer Colonist's sleep.

After a while, his cargo hauling became more of a bore, and Auntero picked up smuggling as a secondary career. A few good trips and he figured he'd gotten good at the game. But that changed. Very quickly.

It was part of the reason Auntero was in this darkened spot in this dank pub in this overstuffed space station. He was waiting for a contact to show up. No one but he was looking for Auntero. No one else had business this grave. So, he sipped. And waited. At least 3 hours passed before a man straddled into the pub. He had on a large overcoat that totally gave away his intentions. Station Rugaldo-6's average temperature was a stifling 99 degrees, because of the massive coolant requirements for the power systems and living quarters. Anyone wearing a padded overcoat like him was either cold-blooded, or was packing some serious hardware.

The man also looked exclusively in the darker, more secluded parts of the pub, indicating he was looking for someone like Auntero. His eyes eventually locked on a man that was hunched in his chair about 3 tables away from Auntero. The man looked up at the newcomer, his face covered in a raw, unkempt beard and jaundice splotches. They exchanged a few words, and as they did, Auntero slowly reached into his jacket and gripped the handgun holstered there. The newcomer glanced at Auntero and suddenly his entire attitude shifted. Auntero knew what was going to happen 3 steps before this meatsack did, and took the most appropriate action possible.

He ditched his drink and ran straight at the man.