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This fanfiction article, Halo:Oedipus, was written by CarpeJugulum and Stel' Vadam. Please do not edit this fiction without the writers' permission. |
This is where we teach you to kill kings.
Halo: Oedipus is a novel set within the Against All Odds fanverse, revolving around a secret UNSC project to train a new generation of black operations soldiers.
The story is currently in early development stages, and as such only early drafts will be available. Further drafts can be found here, where I will continue working on the story.
Dramatis Personae[]
UNSC[]
- Forward (formerly First Sergeant Cameron Harding, UNSCMC, member of Project OEDIPUS)
- Annabelle Scherer (Human journalist)
Covenant Separatists[]
- Imdo 'Mupos (Sangheili data miner)
- Stel 'Vadam (Sangheili Shipmaster)
Story[]
Prologue[]
April 7, 2564
UNSC Fleet Command, Earth
The door swung open as an ONI agent, coffee mug in hand, walked in and sat before the large computer on the desk. Behind him, the security door closed itself and beeped softly to indicate that it was was locked. Pulling out a sheet of paper (which the agent considered to be an overly anachronistic security measure), he looked at it for a moment, then looked to the computer and opened a new menu, from which he selected REGISTER PROJECT.
Whenever some branch of the UNSC proposed an operation or a project, the general parameters of the proposal were fed into this program, which kept track of all the projects, secret and open, that the UNSC had run or was running. It also provided each with a name. Sometimes these names were based on the project's goals- the SPARTAN supersoldier program was one such example- ,but at other times, the names seemed completely random, like naming a proposal for redecorating military prisons in the Sol System TYRANNOSAUR. Having fed the parameters of the project into the computer in front of him, he sat back and waited for the machine to spit out the results, sipping at his coffee.
The machine beeped, indicating that the proposal had been registered in the system and named. The agent leaned forwards. Slowly, he grinned.
"Oedipus, huh," he murmured. "Makes sense."
Over the next three weeks, five hundred UNSC servicemen and -women vanished. There was no correlation between the soldiers- they were drawn from all branches of the UNSCDF, with no two being taken from the same unit. Their records were systematically erased, and their commanding officers were informed that the soldiers were being used for a black operation, one that could very well cost them their lives. The chosen few had little to no family left, and those who did had neither seen nor heard from their relatives in years. No one asked any questions, and no answers were given. The five hundred simply disappeared.
First Sergeant Cameron Harding, UNSC Marine Corps, filed slowly into the large auditorium along with what seemed to be a completely random mix of UNSC servicepeople. Everyone wore their dress uniforms, complete with decorations. Looking around, Harding saw no one who didn't sport a dizzying array of color that was enough to make one think they'd had fruit salad spilled on them. Hardly any officers, either, he thought, eying the ranks of those around him.
He estimated the crowd to be around five hundred people, and confirmed that by counting the chairs in the room. Twenty rows of twenty-five. He took a seat in the thirteenth row, thirteenth from the left.
At the front of the room stood a man, wearing clothes that, while not a uniform the Marine recognized, were too severely cut to be civilian. Apart from a general's stars, he wore no identifying insignias and was of average height and build. He waited until everyone was seated, then began to speak.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to your new life," he began. The crowd was too disciplined and professional to start talking, but Harding knew that everyone, including himself, was wondering what the man was talking about.
"Please, remove your IDs, decorations, and all other identifying marks from your uniform and place them into the disposal units in front of you." As he spoke, the back of each chair opened to allow the objects to be disposed of.
This command brought a slight murmur, but that was soon outweighed by training. The hall was filled with a rustling as soldiers removed the objects and threw them into the disposal units.
Soon, the hall was quiet again. The man nodded, satisfied. "From now on, your past life is dead. You will choose a new name. You are all parts of an elite unit crossing into every branch of the UNSC. Welcone to Project Oedipus."
Someone near Harding whispered, "What, they'll teach us to kill our fathers and screw our mothers?"
The general turned slightly and looked directly at a man in the row behind Harding. "No, that's not what you're here for," he said.
"This is where we teach you to kill kings."
Chapter One[]
September 27, 2564
Halls of War*, Sangheilios
Imdo 'Mupos watched the holorecording playing out before him impassively. The images had been captured by a low-orbit satellite that had been tracking the movements of a group of Separatist soldiers for weeks. The Sangheili, each of whom was a quartermaster or had access to one, were suspected of stealing weapons and equipment from military shipments bound for the front line, where the conflict with pirates and the remains of the Loyalists had begun to heat up again. Worse yet, they appeared to be selling the hardware to the very enemy it was meant to fight.
Breaking the silence, 'Mupos asked, "What exactly am I looking for, Honorable Commander?"
The warrior sitting across from him, a tall specimen wearing the colors of a special operations commander, held up a hand for silence. "You shall see, Miner," he promised. 'Mupos rolled his eyes, a gesture picked up from his years of living with humans. It's a good thing these government jobs pay so well, he thought.
'Mupos was a data miner, an individual whose talent lay in his ability to lay his hands on valuable information for a price. Most of his employment came from corporations who weren't afraid to engage in technical illegalities such as industrial espionage, and their patronage- and deep pockets- had kept 'Mupos from being prosecuted for most of his work. He'd spent the last several years working with a human corporation, Aperture Science, a post that hadn't been anywhere near as unsavory as some of his earlier gigs. On the other hand, illegal often paid better. Always a trade-off.
"Look now!" the other Sangheili said, startling 'Mupos out of his reminiscing. The sat had been recording a rather boring day at the apartment which belonged to one of the ring's members- all of them were talking business, judging from the scant audio gleaned from a poorly-laced bug. Its placement was the only thing that had allowed it to escape detection.
Now however, the audio track played a different sound. Harsh coughing noises could be hear, a sound that 'Mupos recognized from a brief tenure with a human crime organization that had called itself the Crowd, or some such nonsense.. "Silenced projectile weapons?" he asked incredulously. The commander nodded. "But those are human weapons!" 'Mupos interjected.
"Exactly why I've called you here," the commander said. He sped up the recording until the screen showed a number of humans exiting the building. "Luckily, there was a security camera at street level. We managed to use the camera to capture a picture of one of the assailants. The faces of the others could not be made clear."
The screen focused in on the lead figure, blurring slightly as it cleared up the pixelated image. The subject was a male of a height just under two meters, with brown hair and green eyes. All of the humans wore the robes of a recently formed evangelical movement known for its door-to-door approaches. "These humans killed all thirteen members of the ring, destroying any possibility we had of tracking down their buyers!" the commander growled. "And the human military completely denies any involvement in the operation. We've had no luck matching the face, no fingerprints were find at the crime scene, and they used what would seem to be caseless weapons." Seeing the miner's blank look, the commander elucidated, "Projectile weapons that do not use casings to fire their rounds. The ballistics on the weapons are harder then to prove in court." 'Mupos nodded, making a mental note to figure out what weapons the human military was currently using that fired these caseless rounds. "May I have a copy of this image, as well as the information you have on the case?" he asked, indicating the frozen picture of the human male.
"Of course. A copy of everything we have will be provided to you."
"Thank you, Honorable Sir." 'Mupos paused, then asked, "If I may, sir, why not simply have the military investigate this?"
The commander looked at 'Mupos, clearly weighing his response. "You'll be working on this separately, but we also have a military investigation underway," he explained after a lengthy pause. "We hope that your network of contacts will be able to furnish us with leads that we might not come across in a standard investigation."
'Mupos leaned back and considered his options, then said, "I'll take the job. How will I report my progress?"
"There's a secure messaging account set up for you under this identity," the commander said, handing him a card. 'Muposee glanced at it, then tucked it away into his bag. "There's a message waiting for you containing a messaging address that you will report your findings to, as well as the data you requested. You will also be assigned a military liaison." The commander looked back at his papers. An expression of mild surprise crossed his face. "It would appear to be Stel 'Vadam."
'Mupos knew that name, as did almost every Sangheili. The 'Vadam clan was the leading force in the post-Schism Separatists military, with the heroic Arbiter being none other than Stel 'Vadam's brother, Thel 'Vadam. Why are they assigning a career soldier in Special Operations to escort me? 'Mupos wondered. The answer came to him quickly. There will be fighting.
Keeping his face steady, 'Mupos nodded. "And my pay?"
"You will be given double your normal rate for consultancy work, which is what you are doing should anyone ask." The commander chuckled. "It's almost the truth, besides."
'Mupos grinned. "Truth, Commander," he said, standing from the table and waiting for the Commander to do the same. The two Sangheili bowed to one another in the traditional gesture of farewell before 'Mupos walked out.
It took almost ten minutes for the data miner to clear the various layers of security and reach the street level of the building, where his personal items such as recorders and a personal computer were returned to him, having been taken before he entered the meeting for security purposes.
Drawing the card he'd been given from a pocket, 'Mupos activated his computer and entered the messaging address into the system. To his surprise, the secure address was based on a military server. He quickly tried to enter the database, only to find that, apart from accessing the messaging system, his user rights stood at level zero. He sighed. Well, you cannot blame a miner for trying to mine.
Opening the file in his inbox, he found that, apart from some further details about the smugglers' operation, there really wasn't anything that had been kept from him until he'd accepted. He brought up the image of the human again and tried to discern some hints from it. The man's hair was worn longer than 'Mupos believed human military regulations to allow, but if he was a member of a black operations team that was to be expected. Already he was planning how and to whom he'd be reaching out for information. His extensive network of contacts should be able to shed some light on the identity of the man. He had to at least have been military at some point- this operation was too neat to be civilian in nature. 'Mupos didn't even consider freelancers- he'd worked with private military contractors before, and none he'd seen were this slick.
This would be a tough quarry. But then again, easy didn't pay double. To work, then.
*The Halls of War are the Separatist counterpart to the Pentagon of the United States during the 2000s.
September 25, 2564
Apartment Block 23B, Greater 'Haran Metropolitan Area, Sangheilios
Jaral 'Wantas, self-titled leader of the smuggling ring, sighed as his partners bickered amongst themselves over their next target for "skimming." The group had been operating perfectly fine until a rather junior member had taken it upon himself to convert the operation into a sort of pyramid scheme and invite a few of his friends in. Luckily, all of them were scheming, greedy cutthroats, not informers. Still, the new size made these meetings much more tedious. 'Wantas was already planning regrettably unfortunate demises for a number of them.
"Brothers, let us not bicker over such small issues," he said, trying to regain control of the group. "Where we strike is not the largest problem we face. Our takings are slowly increasing in size, and as such it is becoming harder for our accountants to rig the records." Three Sangheili sitting near one another near the other end of the table nodded. "Therefore," 'Wantas continued, "I propose that, over the next two months, we either reduce our takings or-" he swallowed, knowing this proposal would be a hard sell- ", we eliminate our operations for that period altogether."
As he'd expected, the table erupted in clamor. Two Sangheili of differing opinions began to shout at one another from across the table, while others simply shouted out their own proposals. 'Wantas sighed and shook his head, then stood.
It was this motion that kept him alive for an extra minute.
The door to the apartment was suddenly hurled to the floor, allowing a flash-bang grenade to be thrown in. The explosive detonated, leaving the Sangheili dazed and confused. Dark figures wearing long coats swept into the room, firing silenced weapons. 'Wantas took a burst in the lower back that sent him to the floor. As he lay there, the intruders, whom he now saw to be humans, walked in and stood amongst the bodies, checking for pulses. One of the humans saw 'Wantas watching him and raised his weapon. 'Wantasee tried to raise his arm and ward off the attack, but he could do nothing. The bullet entered behind his left eye and severed his tenuous grip on this world.
Forward- formerly Cameron Harding- lowered his weapon, satisfied with the results. This group had been selling weapons to the resistance for months, promoting a cause that had already killed four hundred-plus soldiers of the Interspecies Union this year. Too bad the split-lips are too damn afraid to go in without "proper evidence," he thought. Woulda saved us some trouble.
The team ensured that the targets were down, then stowed the weapons beneath their long, formal coats. Their garb had been chosen to imitate the clothing of a recently formed evangelical movement known for its door-to-door approaches. The group attempted to minister to both humans and former Covenant alike, so their presence wouldn't draw too much curiosity.
The walk away from the scene was easier than the actual killing. Anyone who got too close was instantly scared away by the offer of pamphlets and tracts produced from the sleeves of the "acolytes" like a conjurer's trick. The whole operation had been almost childishly easy- they had been tipped off to the ring after a raid on a Loyalist stronghold had yielded a number of newer-model plasma rifles. While the onboard computers had been wiped and the serial codes filed off, enough data had been recovered to trace the weapons back to the shipment they had been skimmed from. After the UEGBI had watched the group for a few months and figured out who was who, the operation had been taken over by Section 0, who in turn gave the responsibility to the Oedipi, as the members of the project were colloquially known.
Chapter Two[]
June 23, 2564
MacDill Air Force Base, North American Republic
Annabelle Scherer retrieved her bag from the security scanner and proceeded into the base, smoothing out her clothing from the thorough pat-down she'd been given. Isn't the war over? she thought. Guess no one's told them yet.
Drawing a card from her pocket, she looked at the name on it. Cameron Harding. The man was a first-class special operations soldier and had been fighting front-line against fanatic Loyalists, a revamped Insurrection and pirates for years. She'd been granted an interview with him a few months ago for her upcoming piece she was writing on the "new face" of the UNSC's post-Great War military strategy. In the thirty years since then, the amount of service-people officially designated as special operations had gone up by nine hundred percent. Of course, the newest SPARTANs acounted for some of this, but the growth was large nonetheless. She assumed that Harding had been ordered to allow himself to be interviewed. She'd read his file, and he appeared to have great disdain for civilians, and especially for the media. Still, he was intelligent. He wouldn't say anything too controversial.
That is, unless she provoked him.
Drawing her PDA from her bag, she opened a map of the compound and searched for the base headquarters. She was scheduled to meet Harding there in ten minutes, then they'd head out to the base's non-commissioned officers' barracks, where she'd speak with Harding and a few other soldiers. The majority of her piece, however, would be focused on Harding.
It took another eight minutes to reach the centrally located building and pass through the security check. As she entered the main lobby, a soldier in dress uniform stood up to face her. "Annabelle Scherer?" he asked.
"Yes, that's me," she said. "Who are you?"
"Sergeant Gerald Roach, ma'am," he said. He offered his hand, which she shook. "I'm replacing Sergeant Harding for your interview. He's unavailable at the moment."
Scherer frowned. "Unavailable? This interview has been scheduled for two months now. Where is he?" She was angry. She'd studied Harding's file for this interview, formulating questions specifically geared to his service record. Without Harding, her story would have no substance beyond whatever she could think of at random. This would not go over well with her boss.
Roach looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I'm not actually sure, ma'am. And if I were, I'm sure I wouldn't be able to discuss it."
"Classified?" Scherer said conversationally, switching the recorder on her PDA on. "Is he on active duty? Where is he stationed?"
Roach shook his head. "As I told you, ma'am. I don't know where the sergeant is, and what he's doing is likely classified."
"Is this a large-scale operation?" Scherer pressed, hoping to get the soldier to reveal something. "Is he in combat now? Pirates or anti-insurgency?" She stopped and pretended that a new possibility had just occurred to her. "It's the Loyalists, isn't it?"
"Ma'am, I'm not answering any questions about Sergeant Harding. Would you like to do the interview now?" Roach asked, not letting anything slip.
Scherer sighed and shook her head. "Fine." Rather than head to the NCOs' quarters, she asked a few surface questions and then left. Well, that went badly. Her random guesses at the nature of Harding's mission had been nothing but a vain attempt to gain information. She knew that no one was planning a real attack on the Loyalists- they were far too politically expedient. Politicians whose careers were flagging could often gain a quick burst of popularity by raising a hue and cry against the "Loyalist scourge."
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