Halo: From Ashes

This fanfiction article, Halo: From Ashes, was written by StoneGhost. Please do not edit this fiction without the writer's permission.

Halo: From Ashes

1

"They ennobled all of us, and they shall not be forgotten."

The sun hung low in the vast equatorial sky. It was empty except for a single alien warship, sleek and almost aquatic in appearance, with a bulbous, hook-like head. The hillside was bathed in the warm orange glow of the approaching dusk, and high above, thin, wispy cloud half-glowed in the light's swansong. The shadows lengthened by the moment. A gentle breeze, almost imperceptible, ran an invisible tendril over the photographs and rank slides tacked to Voi's hasty memorial, and cooled SPARTAN-050's bare cheek where the tears had rolled down.

The memorial was makeshift, ramshackle, but undeniably sacred. On the shipping crates that passed for a plinth, the naval officer replaced his service cap solemnly. His arm snapped crisply up in a salute. Six deep, the crowd, immaculately turned out in all types of service dress, did likewise. The silence hung thick and palpable in the air. The marines raised their rifles in unison, ready for the gun salute.

Jory-050's eyes fixed on the upright aircraft wing, embellished with mementos of a hundred lives lived, lost and remembered. How could it be that not one of them had a photo of John? Fred-104's roughly hewn carving was all they could manage.

Crack. The marines' volley cut through the silence.

It would do for now. In time, there'd be something more permanent. For now though, there was far too much rebuilding to be done.

Crack. The shots echoed across the barren hillside.

John-117 was gone. Humanity had lost its last, best, hope, and the SPARTANs had lost a brother. They were the only family Jory-050 could remember. So few of them stood with him on that barren hill in the gathering dark that more tears welled up as the faces of those absent flooded his thoughts.

Crack. Beyond, a thick mist concealed the vast alien structure below.

The war was over, but there was no elation. Too much had been lost, too much mourning postponed until this moment. A wave of despair washed over Jory, so great he thought it would crush him. It occurred to him that his own messed-up cauldron of emotion- guilt, anger, inconsolable grief, relief at having survived, disbelief that it was over, crippling uncertainty about what the future held- was just how the others felt. After all, what would happen to the SPARTANs now that existential struggle was at an end? Was it, in fact, over? Were they needed any more? Was being needed better than the alternative?

But SPARTAN-050 was just plain old Jory Hansen, he had to remind himself. While the SPARTANs wore the immaculate white dress uniform of the UNSC Navy, Jory was instead clothed in the dress blues of the Marine Corps. Whatever the UNSC did with the SPARTAN program, Jory thought, it would have little to do with him.

The crowd had already begun to disperse. The SPARTANs, a head taller than the crowd even without their powered assault armour, began down the hill, saying their goodbyes. It had been a decade or more since Jory had seen some of them, and the years were etched in the lines on their faces.

"Got time for a drink, folks?" said one SPARTAN. It was Leon-011. Jory hadn't seen him since they fought at Arcadia, twenty years prior. "I think it's fair to say we've got some catching up to do." He nudged Jory's shoulder, a wry grin on his face.

Kelly-087 furrowed her brow. "We shouldn't really. We get our assignment orders tomorrow at Bravo-Six. Zero eight hundred."

Maria-062 shot her a quizzical look. She, like Jory, was no longer a SPARTAN. "Assignment orders?" There was something more than curiosity but not quite disbelief in her voice. Jory was suddenly struck by how much the others were all still a team, how they kept in touch with what they were doing and where they were. He and Maria weren't part of that. He was surprised at how much it upset him, and felt stupid for not realising before this moment.

"Yeah," replied Fred-104 matter-of-factly. "Gotta get back out there, into the fight. Loads of us deployed at the moment, Rob, Roma, Gray Team. We need to go and join them."

Bridget-049 had pulled a thick cigar from seemingly nowhere in her dress whites, and it glowed in the half-light. "Can't argue with that, but we've got lost time to make up for. Besides, who knows when we'll see each other again?" Jory watched the cigar dance precariously as she spoke. "What, this? Don't you worry, Fifty. Special occasions only, promise." She must've seen him staring. He would've listed Bridget as among his best friends, yet he had no idea that she smoked.

Jory chuckled. The years seemed to melt away, as though they'd never been apart. "Well, you guys are going back to Sydney tonight, right? I hear there's a pretty decent bar in the mess there."

Linda-058 tapped the officer's bars on the shoulders of Jory's dress blues. "Yeah, the NCO's mess is generously stocked." She grinned mischievously. "Not so sure we can let you in, sir."

Fred laughed. "You're right, there is. I'm up for that- one or two, for old time's sake?"

"Perfect," Linda-058 declared, red hair stark against her dress whites. "We'll pay the NCO's mess a visit."

Bridget removed her cigar. "Except Fifty. He's barred."

* * *

The insistent shrill of the alarm roused Jory from a restless sleep.

His mouth was a desert. Jory ran a leathery tongue around his gums, vainly seeking to quench the drought. Instead he grimaced as he found himself involuntarily revisiting stale remnants of last night's booze. His head throbbed with every heartbeat as the hangover clamped around his skull, vice-like. Jory let out a long, low groan and took control of his haphazard limbs. He stretched out across the cheap army-issue bedsheets and realised he'd slept where he fell, spread-eagled on his front. The smooth plastic sheets squeaked as the thick fabric of his dress blues slid over them. He only vaguely remembered staggering in and setting the alarm. He felt like death warmed up, and, he remarked to himself, he had no one to blame but himself.

He reached out an arm and fumbled at the wall until he swatted the flashing alarm panel, and the reveille call fell silent. Jory rolled himself gingerly onto his back, grunting. He drew in a full chestful of air and released it all again in an almighty sigh. A smile crept across his lips as he imagined what Doctor Halsey would say if she saw her SPARTANs now, licking their self-induced wounds. In fact, he thought, chuckling to himself, she'd have understood; after all, she knew the chances for seeing old friends and letting their hair down were few and far between. In any case, he wasn't 'one of hers' anymore. He was an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper now, and being stinking drunk was pretty much mandatory when you don't wear powered assault armour and the next mission could be your last.

It had just gone six o'clock. Jory paused for a moment, eyes scanning the featureless ceiling as he ran a hand through his neat, short brown hair. The SPARTANS were getting their orders at 0800, or being briefed, or it whatever was that was happening. Jory wasn't part of that world any more and didn't miss a minute of it. Having nothing to do with ONI or its agents any more was the best thing about his post-SPARTAN life. But he did want to catch his old colleagues before they went in. Some of them might get a week or two of leave on Earth, and some might be on a prowler to a far-flung colony by that afternoon. Jory himself had only been given leave for the weekend; his entire battalion of elite shock troops were on high readiness with a week's notice to deploy, anywhere in the known galaxy. There was a locker back in Kenya with a full set of ODST kit, packed and ready to go. It occurred to him how silly it was that he'd travelled to Sydney, halfway around the world, just to get drunk with Bridget, Fred, and the others, and that now he'd have to go all the way back. No, in fact, he thought quickly, that makes perfect sense.

It was gloomy, but as far as Jory could tell, the small room he occupied in the officers' mess was clean and modern. The window opposite him stretched from floor to ceiling, and was almost opaque with electrically-controlled tint. Besides the double bed there was a tiny bedside pedestal and a low table by the door, on which he'd dropped his duffel bag. In the far corner was an alcove containing a shower cubicle, while next to it was a hand basin and mirror bolted directly to the wall. Next to it, two door handles presumably concealed a modest wardrobe. Jory called out a command, his raspy voice taking him by surprise. The computer seemed to understand, though, and he narrowed his bleary eyes to slits as the window became transparent. The sun hadn't yet risen, and the room flooded with pale half-light. He rolled over and sat up on the bed, swinging his legs down onto the floor. The metal soles of his heavy dress boots touched the carpet with a dull thud. Small upside-down versions of Jory stared back from the flawless, mirror-like toecaps. It was funny, he thought, as he pulled each boot off to reveal an articulated, metal foot, there was a time when he thought he wouldn't have to bother with shoes again.

Jory stood and walked to his duffel bag cautiously, more because he was hungover than because he walked on prosthetic legs. His platoon joked that he was 'half ODST, half SPARTAN', and they were closer than they knew to the truth; cybernetics designed under the Thermopylae project were as strong and as swift as MJOLNIR powered assault armour and, like MJOLNIR, it took commands directly through his neural interface. Sensors gave him rudimentary feedback on what he was standing on; supposedly the Thermopylae prosthetic arms were even more advanced. Apparently, some people regarded SPARTAN-rated prosthetics as better than the real thing. Still, until Jory saw people cutting off body parts and replacing them with shiny new robot limbs, he was inclined to disagree.

He opened up the duffel, pulled out a half-litre container of water, and promptly drained it. Below it, to his relief, was a neatly folded and ironed set of Marine Corps working dress, and a pair of lightweight boots. Jory pulled off his blues and folded them half-heartedly, scowling when he saw how creased his impromptu slumber had made them. That was typical of 'yesterday-Jory', with whom the present version had a mixed relationship with; his past self had crumpled his blues through drunkenness, but also remembered to pack future-him a set of working dress and his pair of in-camp boots. His ODSTs, diligent as they were, often talked about making life easier for the future version of themselves. Jory found himself not for the first time considering that could learn at least as much from his subordinates as they could from him.

He dropped the uniform on the bed and grabbed his razor. In the mirror was a man in his forties, lean and well-built, but pale from a working life in protective uniform on warships devoid of natural light. Piercing green eyes sat under thick brows, and shaving foam coated the bottom half of his face and hid a prominent jaw. Faint lines around his eyes hinted at the toll years of stress had written into his face. A faint scar below his right nipple was a memento of the Brute's spiker round that his ODST armour had failed to defeat. He could almost hear the wheeze of his collapsed lung before he'd managed to get a chest seal over the wound.

Two wide, articulated metal feet did a fair job of approximating Jory's natural balance and movement. They were designed to be used as they were but also to fit inside MJOLNIR armour, and they were accordingly robust. The lower legs were skeletal save for the back of each calf, where the processor and what looked like some kind of gyroscopic system were located. The prosthetic knee joints were capped by a kneepad of sorts, allowing Jory to kneel if he needed to. Plated thigh sections covered the power packs and replaced where Jory's lower femurs would have been. Above, two sockets connected with the short lengths of Jory's legs that hadn't been vaporised by the plasma mortar. He shifted his weight slightly, and the metal that replaced the lower half of his body moved with him. It had been eight years since Miridem and he still wasn't fully comfortable with seeing himself in the mirror.

They said he'd never fight again, though. Shows what they know.

Once he'd showered and changed, he headed down to breakfast, trying to recollect the previous night. Linda had been right about the bar being amply provisioned. It took an awful lot of alcohol to get eight SPARTAN-IIs drunk, but they'd apparently seen that as just another mission. Well, mission achieved, he thought sanguinely. The bar had been empty save for the SPARTANs the previous night, yet as Jory filtered along the hotplates, he found the food hall that morning almost two-thirds full. The long, open space was bright and modern, with sanitised white walls and floor and steel columns periodically supporting the high ceiling. Long rows of dark mahogany tables filled the space, and large skylights invited in the first streams of Sydney's daylight. The hotplates served a miraculous array of foodstuffs from Earth and the colonies. The others were already here; he spotted his old teammates near-immediately, sat together and visibly larger than even the veteran Marine and Army officers that sat in small groups conversing earnestly around them. He saw several unremarkable-looking individuals in smart civilian clothes, noting with disdain the world of difference between the pleasant environs ONI surrounded themselves with and those he was more accustomed to.

Jory piled his plate with a mountain of porridge, a small bowl of chopped fruit and some delicate-looking pastries he didn't recognise. They jostled for space on the overloaded tray with a large mug of tea. As he neared the SPARTANs he noted they'd wisely ditched their dress uniforms (breakfast and dress whites didn't mix) and instead wore plain grey Navy fatigues. The lack of name tags, unit insignia or rank patches that concealed their identities was itself conspicuous, Jory reflected, but he supposed that wasn't the point. He slid his tray down besides the others, who sat eating at a speed only someone in the military could match. They listened intently to Kelly-087, but he only caught a snippet as he sat down.

"...seven of them apparently, and they say Infinity is going to find the rest." She finished as he pulled out his chair, and suddenly he was acutely aware that they were discussing things far above his clearance.

"Morning troops," he chimed enthusiastically, starting a conversation he could get involved in. "How's everyone's heads feeling?"

Naomi smirked. "A lot better than you, I bet. We were beginning to think you wouldn't be joining us."

Jory took a bite of the mystery pastry, finding it looked better than it tasted. "And miss this place's bumper breakfast? I think not."

"I'm glad we had that time together," said Fred through a mouthful of toast, "even if it was just the one night. It might be a while before we're all together again."

"Yeah, thanks for filling us in on all of your escapades," replied Maria, her voice low, and Jory knew she meant him too. "I mean, a lot of it is terrifying- alien superweapons, Dyson spheres, the Flood-"

"And," Linda interrupted, "a lot of it would get us court-martialled if it were known we'd told you that."

Kelly looked up from her bowl of fruit salad. "We've just gotta be better at keeping in touch. Sure we can't share classified stuff, but do we care about that? I wanna know how you're all doing, that you're well, when you'll be in Sol next."

"Yeah," said Bridget thoughtfully. "We're a family, we need to look out for each other. Especially-" her voice faltered. "These days." With so few of them left. it sobered Jory to think that the next time he saw this group of people would probably be at yet another military funeral.

"And like any proper family," chuckled Leon, changing the topic, "we drank our way through an entire bar's worth of alcohol in a single evening." He looked down, stirring a bowl of something. "And Fifty, I never said last night, but it's good to see you back on your feet."

Kelly smirked. "Even if they're not actually yours." That got a murmur of laughter from the table. She shovelled a forkful of pineapple in and her grin widened behind it.

Fred gestured with a half-eaten slice of toast. "Glad I got a chance to drink to your health. Honestly, after we heard about Sheila, we thought you were-"

Jory leaned over and swiped the slice from Fred's hand. "Toast? No, I'm not going anywhere." He laughed, and swiftly crammed it into his mouth.

The conversation moved on. Funny as it seemed, Jory thought, he enjoyed engaging in banal conversation like this. The shared body of experience he had with these men and women was lifelong, indelible, unbreakable. Yet he sat here, talking about the weather and how ugly the latest iteration of MJOLNIR was. There was something overwhelmingly comfortable about sitting with his old brothers and sisters and talking away the Saturday morning. None of them could solve the huge, burning questions facing Humanity, so they didn't bother, and instead they laughed at how Leon's hair was turning grey, and how there'd still be a Blue Team in decades' to come, comprised of octogenarian SPARTANs. Jory swirled the remnants of his tea as Maria passed around an image of her young family, her face lighting up as she talked about her children. They talked about Jory and how he, too, had relinquished the life of a supersoldier for something more ordinary. They talked about Dr Halsey and the trouble she was in with that old bat Parangosky, and they remembered absent friends. They talked of John, out there somewhere in the void with Cortana as his only companion. It was a rehash of the previous night except this time they were all sober. It could only have been twenty minutes or so, but Jory could've sat at that table talking nonsense for a lifetime. He couldn't remember a time he had felt more whole.

The crowd in the food hall had begun to thin out. A large digital clock above the empty hotplates told Jory it was almost eight o'clock. Linda took out a datapad and asked a nearby Marine Captain to take a holo-still, promising to forward it to them all. The SPARTANs rose and said their goodbyes, exchanging firm handshakes and rough embraces. They turned as one and headed towards the exit, eager not to be late for ONI down in the depths of Bravo-Six's labyrinthine subterranean levels. With so many SPARTANs all in one place, there would be someone high up waiting to shake their hands and direct them off into side-rooms, where they'd spend hours receiving orders, sitting through intelligence briefings and poring over target packs.

Bridget lingered, though, as the others walked off. "It was really good to see you again, Fifty. Just like old times."

Jory grinned. "Yeah, it was. Let me know where you get sent. Who knows, with the last war over, maybe we'll have a bit of down-time before the next one."

"Here's hoping." She pulled out a cigar and thrust it into his chest. "For special occasions."

He refused to take it. "No, I don't want your filthy habit."

"I always was a bad influence on you," she sighed. "Listen. I know you're a Marine now, and I know you think that means you aren't one of us." She put a hand to his upper arm, pinching the death's head insigia of the ODSTs between her thumb and forefinger. "But you were a SPARTAN first, and you always will be. We haven't forgotten that, and you shouldn't either." She lowered her arm, and took a few backwards paces, backing away from him. "Take care, Fifty."

He murmured a thank you as she turned to walk away, leaving him stood alone as the last few latecomers to breakfast scraped their plates clean. He paused for a moment, lost in thought, then set off towards his room. He'd think about what Bridget said, but later, he told himself.

"Major Hansen," a voice behind him stopped Jory dead in his tracks. Twelve hours of being with SPARTANs and he'd already forgotten his real name, he mused, noting how much it stung to hear it. He turned around to see a man he didn't recognise immediately, standing in front of him, a datapad clasped neatly in his folded hands. Then Jory remembered he'd been sat amongst the ONI spooks earlier. Instead of their smart civilian attire, however, he wore equally unremarkable navy working dress, devoid of unit markings or rank, and, Jory was certain, a sidearm concealed in a shoulder holster. He had dark brown hair and a plain if not unremarkable appearance, and was perhaps in his mid-twenties. He wasn't a short man by any measure, though standing in front of the former supersoldier, he barely reached Jory's chin. He held out the datapad. "Sir, if you'd like to follow me please, we'd like to have a moment of your time."

Jory took the datapad, and the spook immediately turned and walked off. He was loath to comply with such an out-of-the-blue rendezvous, but he understood that in reality he didn't have much choice. He followed the man, glancing down at the datapad. It revealed nothing except proof of the man's identity, as Sergeant Ramesh, part of some obscure data analysis regiment. it didn't say anything about him being on the personal staff of someone at the top of ONI, but then, Jory had already assumed as much.

They travelled down a long corridor towards a bank of elevators four-wide. "Where am I going?" he asked, wondering if he'd get a straight answer.

"The basement," Sergeant Ramesh replied matter-of-factly, lining his eye up with a scanner on the elevator's control panel. "I can only apologise for the late notice of this meeting. I think it was something of an impromptu affair after we realised you were in Sydney." The doors opened with a chime, and the pair stepped inside.

'Meeting' was a strong term, Jory thought as the doors slid shut behind him. "I've been on Earth since September," he scoffed. "What changed the moment I visited Bravo-Six?"

"Like I said," Ramesh explained, "it's an impromptu thing. Think of it as ONI taking advantage of the situation."

Jory scowled. Maybe it was his fault for drawing attention to himself. Someone in ONI had realised one of their SPARTANs was off his leash and they'd pulled him in to fix it. The elevator accelerated downwards, but there were no floor indicators to tell Jory how fast. "And who's this meeting with?"

"My superior. She's involved in handling you and the other SPARTANs."

"I don't have a handler," Jory spat. "I'm not a SPARTAN. I'm a company commander in the 28th Shock Battalion and I don't answer to anyone who doesn't have a flaming skull on their uniform."

Ramesh didn't seem at all phased by this. "That may be, sir, but she's still your handler." The elevator finally came to a stop, and the door slid open to reveal a grey concrete-walled foyer, and three identical corridors branching off it. It was a lot cooler down here, he noticed. Sergeant Ramesh stepped out and Jory followed, brow furrowed.

"What happened to my last handler?" Jory asked, annoyed.

"If you mean Lieutenant Clausen, I don't know for certain, but he was on Reach."

"So was I," he said sourly. Ramesh didn't reply, and so they walked the corridors in silence. The walls were featureless and on the ceiling above, pipes and wires of all colours and size neatly traced their way along the corridor. The doors were numbered and that, Jory assumed, was how Ramesh knew where he was going. Jory committed the route and room numbers to memory. The sergeant stopped at one- seemingly at random- and gestured to the Marine to wait.

The door slid away, and Jory took two steps forward. He found himself in a bleak-looking conference room, bare grey walls holding up a low ceiling. The room was empty save for a large, oblong table surrounded by perhaps a dozen empty chairs. The room was depressing and obviously seldom used, as no one had bothered to dust the glass table. A small holotank sat in the centre, dark.

The woman sat at the opposite end rose, leaving her datapad on the table, and smiled broadly at Jory.

"Jory!" she said warmly. "It's good to finally meet you. My name is Laura, I work here for the Office of Naval Intelligence. I must confess I'm a little confused as to how you like to be referred to these days."

She was slender, dressed in casual trousers and an open-collar blouse. Blonde hair fell about her shoulders neatly. Jory guessed she was probably in her early fifties. He imagined in other circumstances he might've found her attractive.

"Jory's fine," he replied, resisting the desire to ask for her surname or rank. If she was going to tell him, she would have already. "Ma'am, why am I here?"

She sat down, and raised an arm for him to do likewise. "Please," she began, "call me Laura. Jory, the truth is we don't quite know what to do with you. You-"

"You don't need to do anything with me," he interrupted sharply. "I'm not yours anymore." He presented the ODST crest on his uniform for effect. "I'm not a SPARTAN, and I'm not an asset of yours to allocate as you wish."

"True, and we're thrilled that you've been able to return to active duty," she said, apparently earnestly. "But there are some in ONI who say that having someone with your skill-set as a Marine Corps officer is a huge waste of all the resources we've put into you over the years."

"I'm not fit to return to SPARTAN-grade activities, your own medical reports made that clear." He remembered how crushing it felt to be told he'd never fight with the SPARTANs again, no matter what prosthetics they came up with. "ONI wrote me off and stuck me in a training post instructing your child suicide soldiers," he glowered.

Laura remained composed. "It's not necessarily your body I need you for, it's also your mind. Your peers from the program who haven't been able to serve in the field have gone on to do some extraordinary things, using laboratories instead of MJOLNIR."

"But they were too fucked up by your augmentations to fight. I'm not. I've proved myself, on Reach, on Earth, half a hundred other places." Jory threw up his hands in exasperation. "I find somewhere I'm useful and you want to tear it down because it doesn't provide the best return on your investment? Fine, well if you try to reel me back in, what's to stop me quitting like Maria did?"

The ONI officer clasped her hands on the table in front of her. "Maria-062's circumstances are different," she explained. "She could no longer cope with the psychological pressures of combat, so now she tests armour systems that non-augmented personnel cannot. Your case is different. If you're mentally fit enough to lead ODSTs, you're mentally fit for anything. We've a number of roles we think you'd add value to, and we think you might actually like some of them."

Jory stood. "Ma'am. I've left the SPARTAN program. I'm done with it. You want a SPARTAN, but I happen to know that your shortage there is about to he resolved." Laura's eyes narrowed, the first time she'd betrayed a flicker of reaction. He paused. "As much as everyone wants to tell me different, I'm not a SPARTAN any more."

"Look," she said, regaining her placid demeanor. "We're not saying we're going to pull you back and make you a SPARTAN again. All we're saying is that we've a few places we'd like to use you, and that the situation is under review."

The door slid open again as Jory approached it, revealing a startled Sergeant Ramesh. "Thank you, Laura, are we done here?"

She nodded. "We'll get in touch if we come to any decisions," she said, but he was already striding down the corridor.

2

He wasn't really one to dwell on the past, if only because otherwise he ran the risk of getting lost in it. But Jory was in Sydney for the first time since the war, and it wouldn't be right to leave without visiting one more place.

In the distance, across the water, the city skyline was just as mutilated as the last time Jory had seen it. The difference was that now, scaffolding and sheets covered the deep scars gouged in the towers that had stayed standing, and shrouded the stark husks of those that had succumbed. The vast deposits of debris that had strewn and choked the streets had long since been bulldozed away, and the routine of peoples' daily lives had returned. The far shore of the bay was abuzz with locals making the most of the weekend sunshine, which glistened and danced off the surface of the water. Occasional traffic cruised quietly northward down the expressway. The flawless azure sky was unbroken by cloud. The beauty of the sky and the water framing a disfigured city centre created a surreal, other-worldly picture. In his mind's eye, Jory could still see the brooding overcast sky of the Battle of Sydney, the piscine alien ships that made that grey soup their habitat, and the brilliant, terrifying teardrops of plasma they hailed on the city below.

The battle's end was now infamous, but its beginning was less so, at least for the 28th Shock Troops Battalion. The heavy cruiser they called home, Absolution, and its escorts were attacked and quickly knocked out by the typically devastating power of Covenant firepower. Barely two companies survived Absolution's destruction and the drop into Sydney to even begin to put rounds back in the aliens' direction.

Spanning the distance between Jory and the far shore was the utilitarian temporary bridge the UNSC Engineer Corps had constructed in record time. Like all things built out of military necessity, it was ugly as sin, comprised of modular roadplate sections held aloft by struts sunk into Sydney Harbour's depths. It was nothing like its distinctive predecessor, which stood for six centuries until Cpl Dawson's charges blew.

The unhappy task of leading the battalion had fallen to Jory, as the senior-most surviving officer. His mission was to defend Bravo-Six, a critical node in coordinating the joined-up defence of the planet. In the chaos his battalion HQ consisted of some straggler marines and sailors and more Warthogs than working radios. Against the Covenant jammers they'd resorted to sending runners with messages manually in the vehicles. At one point both Jory and the battalion adjutant were forced to defend the HQ personally from Covenant scout parties.

A dozen corvettes had dropped troops on the north side of the harbour, outside the range of Bravo-Six's anti-ship guns, taking out targets in their path, and making UNSC operations of any scale impossible during daylight. MAC fire from orbit to take out the corvettes was apparently ruled out as likely to level both Bravo-Six and half the city, and the million lives who didn't or couldn't get out of the way.

Instead the UNSC had guided crippled warships from orbit into the corvettes. Two destroyers and four frigates, piloted by artificial intelligence right on top of the Covenant ships, their hulls still aglow from plasma fire and the heat of re-entry. A few of them were unrecognisable as warships, just tangles of twisted and deformed metal with barely operating thrusters. Jory recalled that eight had been assigned this one final task, but that the other two had disintegrated under the remorseless strain of re-entry.

The ships had been decelerated to lessen the devastation they inflicted on impact, but one frigate was too far gone to comply. It had streaked out of the sky like a lightning bolt and met its mark with vengeful accuracy, scorching a plume of white hot carnage into the ground and carving a kilometres-long scar in the urban mass. It was barely a few seconds from start to finish and as the heat from the fireball warmed Jory's brow even through his visor, he knew that in that moment humanity was several thousand souls closer to extinction.

The other five had found their targets moments later, each Covenant ship winking out in a roaring white fireball that faded to reveal the thousands of tons of debris yet to fall on the city. Less collateral damage than an SMAC slug, sure, but even so, the damage wrought was almost unbearable. And yet, in the retelling of the battle, this was the beginning of the fight-back.

The record didn't mention that there were still people on those ships. Some panicked, screamed, begged for help. Most understood and accepted. Jory could still hear them.

It was a single ODST corporal, however, who really won the Battle of Sydney. Jory hadn't known Corporal Amelia Dawson well, but she had a reputation for professionalism and initiative in equal measure even by Shock Trooper standards. Sydney Harbour Bridge was the obvious route for the Covenant forces being dropped by corvette on the north side of the harbour, for an assault on Bravo-Six on the south side. Ordered to blow the Sydney Harbour Bridge up, she'd understood that doing so would prompt the corvettes to brave Bravo-Six's air defences in order to drop their troops directly outside the facility. Her delay meant that the bridge was blown up after the Covenant ships had met their demise, leaving their troops unsupported in a pocket to slowly be ground down by UNSC ground offensive.

Its destruction was said to be spectacular by those who witnessed it. A single Warthog, crewed by an ODST and a Navy physicist, raced across the bridge as it collapsed concertina-like, weaving between abandoned vehicles and the streams of plasma fire from the pursuing Covenant armoured lance. It jumped, landed, skidded to a halt- and behind it, fifty Covenant Wraiths and Ghosts found themselves at the bottom of the harbour. It was a close call. But Bravo-Six was saved.

Corporal Dawson had disobeyed direct orders- Jory's orders- and in the process might well have saved the planet. He smirked. He didn't know whether he would have recommended her for decoration or court martial.

He turned and touched his hand to the marble cenotaph, cold even in the direct sun. It was an exceptionally simple monument, a single stone slab etched deep with the names of those who fell in the fight for Sydney. Among the several thousand names Jory traced his fingers gingerly along the imprint of Cpl Dawson's name. Alongside it were many others he recognised, some as faces he remembered and others as firm colleagues. Jory hadn't been an ODST long before these men and women died following his orders. It was difficult to quantify such sacrifice in a wider sea of selfless actions, but he was sure that his Helljumpers had done him and humanity proud that day.

Jory turned, and headed for the airport.

* * *

There was a whine as the transport's engines began to spin down, and the banks of exit hatches hissed and slid away. The late afternoon heat of Nairobi washed over Jory as he stepped down onto the asphalt of the airport. Squinting, he took in the view. Much effort had been put into getting the New Mombasa's spaceport back into operation, mainly to act as a hub through which troops and reconstruction material could flow. But Nairobi's Earth-local civilian facilities hadn't benefited from nearly as much reconstruction, and so the airport that faced Jory was a barebones affair. As he strode ahead of the small crowd of passengers towards the single-story terminal building, he thought to himself that it resembled more of an airhead, a temporary airbase from where fresh troops would be pushed forward to the fight and the injured recovered through. It certainly wasn't a flattering comparison.

Jory found a bank of rather sorry-looking taxi pods outside the terminal, vaguely resembling eggs with three limb-like landing struts protruding from their undersides, and worn, orange paint surrounding the viewports. Pairs of blocky, gimballed thrusters jutted out from the craft's widest point behind the passenger compartment. Jory selected the most serviceable-looking, programmed his destination, and climbed in. He almost flinched on seeing the price and quickly flashed his holo-ID, waiving the fare. Pulling the hatch closed behind him with a satisfying clunk, he strapped himself in as the pod's engines reached a crescendo and it lurched into the air. The pod was basic, with no holotank for watching movies or reading the news. He settled in to catch a final twenty minutes' of sleep, but found the cabin seat ill-suited. The craft was basically a very disappointing civilian facsimile of a drop pod, he reflected with a touch of irony. Besides, there was too much going on in Jory's head for him to really sleep, anyway.

He took out his datapad and flicked through the week ahead's schedule. Commanding officer's briefing Monday morning- as usual. 4 Platoon were on the obstacle course again on Tuesday because they weren't hitting fitness standards. An interview on Wednesday with a marine who wanted to discharge because his wife was pregnant, and another on Thursday for one who got into a fight on a night out in New Mombasa. He groaned- armoury serial number check on Friday. He put the pad away as the vehicle sped through the vast empty Kenyan sky, the mishmash urban sprawl below giving way to unbroken, unending savannah. Brilliant crisp sunlight scattered through the pod's port window, warming his cheek. A wide smile spread across his face. It was better than any holotank. Perhaps the pod's designers knew that when they omitted one.

Archer's Post was a small town three hundred kilometres north of Nairobi, used by the UNSC for training for centuries, and by the British Army before that. With the huge influx of troops to the region following the battles in and around the Portal, troops found themselves deployed rapidly to Kenya, thrust into the action, and based ad-hoc around east Africa. Archer's Post was now home to a single company of ODSTs. On paper, they were part of the UNSC Marine Corps's rapid reaction force on Earth; in reality, it was where they slowly pieced themselves back together as a fighting force. The 28th Shock Troops Battalion's Mars Company had fought itself to near destruction in Sydney, becoming infamous even among the hundreds of heroic deeds done in those weeks. The few who remained alive and uninjured once the dust settled were quietly merged with Callisto Company and stuck in a backwater training area to lick their wounds and accept battle casualty replacements in twos and threes. The fact that they supposedly formed part of a rapid reaction force really hammered home how shattered the Marine Corps really was.

The taxi pod began to descend, and Jory saw the small base in the distance. A few dots on the horizon marked other marines and officers trickling back after a weekend of leave. Some would've visited family or friends on Earth, while those from off-world or, Jory thought pensively, whose families hadn't made it through the war, would've gone to New Mombasa or further afield to get off camp for the weekend.

The pod picked a spot just outside the south gate and hovered momentarily, unfurling its landing struts, then slowly settled, squatting in the cloud of red dust it created. Jory clambered out quite clumsily, making a brief but obviously futile attempt to remove the dust from his clothing. The bored marine on guard threw up a salute on seeing his uniform and opened the gate, barely checking as Jory showed his holo-ID. He headed straight for the officers' mess, his mind on what dinner would be and what needed ironing for the next day.

The officer's mess, like most of the buildings on camp, was ancient but well-maintained. It was a large, brick building with a grand entrance; a bank of steps led up to an ornate two-storey portico, held up on either side by a thick marble pillar. Either side, half a dozen manual sash windows added to the dated feel. It had to be three hundred years old at least. But in true military style, it was out of the way, and it kept working as intended, and so no one bothered to replace it.

The door to Jory's room slid sideways to reveal a tidy space filled with belongings and issue kit. By barrack standards, it was generously spaced, with ample shelving, a bathroom, holo-desk for work and a personal holotank for his own use. He tossed his duffel on the floor just in time to hear a door open at the other end of the corridor.

"Jory!" a voice called out. Jory turned to see Captain Rahman, the company ops officer.

"Hi Nala, good weekend?" He wasn't really in the mood for talking, but she was a friend and a brief bit of small talk wouldn't kill him.

"Yeah great actually," she replied cheerily. "Went back to Luna and spent some time with Andy. You?"

Where to begin. "Yeah, alright I suppose. Saw some old friends. How's Andy?"

"Oh he's fine. He tidied up the garden and put up some shelves since I've last been home. He was very proud of himself." She chuckled. "He wishes he saw me more often though, you know how it is."

He didn't, but he laughed with her anyway. The two turned to enter their rooms.

"Oh," Nala said, pausing. "That reminds me! Have you heard about what's happening tomorrow?"

Jory stopped. "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, commanding officer's briefing. Rumour has it that it's a full set of orders."

Jory furrowed his brow. "Orders? For what?"

She shrugged casually. "Not sure, but I've heard deployment."

"Deployment. Shit. We're in no state."

Nala cocked her head. "You're kidding right? We're the QRF, tip of the spear!" Jory was fairly certain she was joking.

"Yeah." He trailed off skeptically. "You're not fooling anyone." He turned back toward his room. "Night Nala."

The door slid behind him, and Jory began unpacking his duffel bag. His mind turned to the state of his company and what orders they'd be given the next morning. Whatever it was, he was ready to push back against the chain of command if he felt too much was being asked of them.

"SPARTAN-050, do you know what the chain of command is?" CPO Mendez had once asked him with a wry grin.

"It's the chain I beat you with to tell you that I'm in command." Jory allowed himself a chortle.

* * *

The orders room at Archer's Post's had only recently rediscovered its original purpose, as a few enterprising platoon commanders had been quick to transform it into a holo-cinema on arrival. The thick velvety curtains concealing the now-removed screen were gone, but the blackout blinds had remained, so only the pale blue glow of the holotank cast any light. Steeply graduated steps lined with chairs rose on all sides around the central, circular holotank that took the place of the floor, five metres in diameter. It was so designed to allow officers to walk in and around their holographic models and maps, briefing and explaining to their audience as they went. The layout gave the feeling of a central fighting pit ringed by an amphitheatre, the officer delivering orders taking the place of a gladiator in mortal combat. There was something theatrical about the process of delivering orders, Jory mused. It wasn't enough to have a sound plan- one had to deliver it with confidence, know it inside out, and sell it to the subordinates who would carry it out.

Lt Col Oliver Pirez was an exceptionally competent commander who exuded charisma. A life-size holographic avatar of the man danced and gestured animatedly between a summary of a transport plan to Luna and a diagram of the marine accommodation onboard a Stalwart-class frigate. Over the last hour, 28th Battalion's commanding officer had given a masterclass in how to sell a bad plan well.

The room could've sat a hundred, and probably had done many times in its history. But only a single company of ODSTs made Archer's Post home, and so instead the mute audience comprised of Jory, a few company HQ officers, and his four platoon commanders. The cavernous, dark room felt empty beyond them as Pirez's voice reverberated through the speakers. Elsewhere in Africa, the other companies of the battalion were receiving the same real-time performance, their officers furiously scribbling down grid references, details and questions to save for the end. Col Pirez placed away his datapad, marking the beginning of the last act, and out of habit the watching officers did the same.

"Place your notebooks down," Pirez said, looking up, making deliberate eye contact with his officers, "and listen in for a summary." He paused for a moment. "The battalion will form up at Archer's Post on the eleventh of March 2553. Mars Company will remain in place, Callisto and Io Companies will depart for the rendezvous at their allotted times, moving by previously detailed aviation. Once complete, the battalion will conduct final rehearsals, checks and confirmatory orders. Exercise RAPID ARROW will commence at zero-four-hundred on the twelfth of March, simulating a rapid embarkation onto atmosphere-capable UNSC Navy assets, followed by a hasty orbital insertion onto another planetary body, and subsequent offensive operations. As part of the scenario, target packs, situation enemy and mission will not be released to us until already underway aboard Navy warships, simulating a rapid, unplanned operation."

Pirez paused, pacing the holo-tank for effect. "Think of this as an operation, not just an exercise. This will test all of you in your planning, your command and your basic military skills. It will test your men and women, too. A lot of them have seen real war. Impress on them that they can't just switch off because this is training. Some others have never been on exercise with this battalion before. They won't integrate immediately, and you need to be ready for them to be rusty." Jory felt a wave of relief surge through him. Far from being a real deployment, it would be a short exercise probably not getting beyond Mars. It wouldn't be easy, and he was certain it wouldn't be at all smooth, for the reasons Pirez had just covered. But no one would die, no one would lose their job, and they'd likely be home for tea and medals within a week.

"We are held at high readiness, because an awful lot of trust is placed in us," Pirez concluded. "We need to prove that we are worthy of that trust, and prove that we are still an elite, aggressive, effective unit, worthy of the name 'ODST'. We have a reputation to uphold. We go feet first into hell."

Pirez turned to face the whole of his audience, performance over. His finishing words, as impressive an orator as he was, didn't stir Jory particularly. His company had enough experienced NCOs and marines to pull the rest through, and his own ability, and that of his headquarters team, was equally honed. If it went wrong anywhere, it would be planning and coordination higher up, or general lack of practice on the part of the battalion overall. Jory watched the battalion commander answer questions from keen young platoon commanders. he himself zoned out, having heard and recorded all the information he needed to write his own orders and formulate his own company plan.

Jory knew that Pirez probably hadn't emphasised enough exactly how much attention there would be from higher up on the exercise; an elite shock troops battalion, exercising in Sol system itself, would need to produce the goods to prove it was up to the job. There would be a lot of pressure to perform. It would fall on the company and platoon commanders, however. Those lower in the chain of command would feel the stress of their commanders, but be insulated from the direct heat of expectations. If anything, the exercise would be good for the juniormost marines, breaking the monotony of life in camp or guarding reconstruction efforts. By and large, marines joined to fight, and became ODSTs to jump. The greenest ODSTs would be itching for this exercise; the seasoned Great War veterans, like he himself, Jory imagined, would regard it with minimal interest. Exercises had a habit of losing their potency once you'd fought for real.

Jory sighed silently as Pirez repeated Io Company's transport plan for an inattentive platoon commander. He exchanged a furtive glance with the company second-in-command, Captain Fleming. She smirked, knowing him well enough to understand his impatience. Like Jory, this would be the first time she'd done her job- training to kill the enemy, not just sit in camp- since Sydney. He put away his datapad and stole a glimpse towards the exit. There was a lot to do, and he was anxious to get on with it.

He was wrong though, he now realised; it wasn't a bad plan. With no missions, no enemy information and no intelligence, it was impossible for the battalion commander to plan anything beyond the initial deployment. But, then, that was the idea; in a real situation, they'd be herded into ships, blasted out to the crisis, planning in the scant hours en-route, and then shot from orbit with hasty orders around a holo-table and no rehearsals. Orbital Drop Shock Troopers were used to operating on plans drawn on the back of a cigarette packet, literally devised on the way to the drop point. This would just be another one of those times.

3

The ODSTs stood frozen, poised, hugging the low breeze block wall. Their weapons were trained and alert. The first man's shotgun was levelled at the door, barrel held away from the frame to conceal its owner. The second ODST hugged the first's body tightly, her rifle aimed over the shoulder of the marine in front, literally inches from his face, ready for threats in depth. Behind, a third and fourth figure stacked up close, one scanning upwards, the other covering their rear. Their fingers lightly rested on their safety catches. A ripple of anticipation ran through the marines. They were as silent now as they had been on the move, each one knowing exactly where to be, exactly where the others were. There was no fuss and no flap.

The third ODST lowered his rifle momentarily, leaned forward, and extended an armoured arm so that the front pair could see his clenched fist. His wrist rotated and he gave a thumbs down. The lead ODSTs acknowledged the command in an exaggerated, deliberate nod, and the one who'd given the signal stepped back against the wall, two subdued chevrons briefly visible on his chest plate. The second marine swung her rifle to the rear, dug out a grenade from a pouch on her hip, and gripped it tightly. She thrust it forward into the view of the man closest the door. He dipped and raised his rifle three times, giving her the okay. The pin was already out as she leaned forward and posted the grenade neatly into the room beyond, ducking back and getting her rifle back in her shoulder. For four seconds they were silent and still again.

The grenade went off with a pop and the ODSTs were in virtually on top of it, the first man sweeping left and covering that corner- nothing- and the second right behind and clearing right- a dark figure loomed over her. She pulled the trigger and her weapon reported three times, the muzzle flash dazzling in the dark. The dark figure fell back.

The grenade lifted any need for silence. "Room clear!" the lead man shouted back to his commander. "One doorway, one window left, two windows right, one enemy dead!" The corporal moved into the room and in a heartbeat stacked up the next two ODSTs on the doorway, ready to launch again.

The small scrap of waste ground behind Archer's Post's other ranks mess hall had been repurposed as a makeshift training centre, and it was now a hub of activity sandwiched between the wire perimeter fence and the rest of the camp. Low walls simulated buildings, corridors and the interiors of warships of both Human and Covenant layout. The breeze blocks had been the idea of one of Jory's platoon commanders, and were so recent an addition that the long straw-coloured grass had barely been trampled down around them. The half houses they crudely fashioned were a rudimentary solution, but offered useful training where there was nothing else, and the usually taciturn platoon sergeants had leapt at the chance to demonstrate their experience. They were usually one step back from the battle but easily the most experienced marines in the company, and couldn't resist the urge to run their troops through one last time. The sun set quickly in Kenya, but Jory surmised they had perhaps forty minutes before last night. The sky above them felt as vast as always and characteristically devoid of cloud. The half houses cast long shadows, as did the darkly armoured figures flitting through them.

The fireteam of ODSTs reached the end of the half house's low rooms. "That'll do troops," said the Gunnery Sergeant watching, his gruff voice inscrutable. "Close in."

The marines applied their safety catches and pulled out of the makeshift breeze block training building. One picked up the blank grenade and tossed it out of the room, over the waist-height external wall. The ODSTs removed their helmets, revealing ruddy faces, and formed a horseshoe around the instructor for a debrief.

Jory looked on inconspicuously from the shade of the mess building. He already knew what the Gunnery Sergeant was going to say as he moved on to watch another fireteam clear the next layout of three-foot walls. After all, if anyone surpassed twenty-year ODST veterans at close-quarters battle drills, it was a former SPARTAN-II supersoldier. The ODSTs were good- very good, in fact- but not perfect. The first man had cleared his corner, the one on the left, posing the biggest threat, but silhouetted himself against the next doorway, exposing himself to another. The second trooper hadn't properly swept the right of the room with her rifle- perhaps understandable as there was only the one plywood Brute cutout, and she'd already put three holes in his centre of mass- but all the same, sloppiness like that could get her or her friends killed.

Still, he conceded, it was good enough. He'd watched the company prepare for their deployment over the preceding weeks with encouragement. His staff had needed minimal direction from him in order to play their necessary parts in the plans, from the platoon commanders revising drills, like the room clearance serial he was currently watching, the second-in-command planning and briefing the plan for smoothly loading the company onto the Navy spaceframes, to the company quartermaster sergeant organising the necessary stores. Jory had given his orders and direction early on, and his subordinates had carried out his plan, leaving him to focus on the future battle.

Jory was a little apprehensive, and he wasn't the only one. Archer's Post crackled with anticipation. The entire camp had the feel of a wild creature about to leap from some precipice. The following day would see the arrival of Callisto and Io Companies, and final rehearsals and checks for the operation the next morning. Rows of prefabricated huts stood empty awaiting the temporary influx of shock troopers. Their arrival, rehearsals and eventual start of the operation was a complicated thing to orchestrate perfectly, but would set them up well for the rest of the deployment.

Two men wearing not wearing ODST armour noticed Jory, and detached themselves from the training to head in his direction. Jory recognised the one on the left immediately; he was exceptionally tall and fairly slender, looming over the other marines even in working uniform. He clasped his hands behind him in the small of his back and walked with great strides, seeming to glide along the dusty earth. His nose looked as though it had been broken several times and his pointed chin was unusually pronounced. First Sergeant Roper was the senior-most soldier in the company, and Jory probably saw more of him than he did with his own 2IC. He had all the hard-headedness of someone survived being an ODST for a decade, and wasn't afraid to voice his opinion on how things should be done. Still, Jory thought, Roper was one of the most capable marines Jory had ever commanded, and they made a good team. The other ODSTs all looked up to him as a sort of demi-god.

The second man was of average height, but beside Roper, looked humorously short. He was stockily built though, his working dress tight against his chest and around his upper arms. His jaw was wide and square, and under his brow were a pair of intense brown eyes. His cheeks were incongruously hollow however, and pronounced back shadows ringed his eyes. The solitary bar of a 2nd Lieutenant sat in the centre of his chest, and Jory recognised him as 2Lt Robson. Junior officers in the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers always had considerable combat experience, but Robson was something else entirely. By the time of Sydney, he'd been an ODST for nine years and a marine for five before that. So many senior NCOs and officers were killed during that last battle that he found himself commanding 4 Platoon as a First Sergeant. He'd somehow also found time to drive into Covenant territory, rescue a UNSC scientist, and escape across Sydney Harbour Bridge as it literally collapsed beneath their wheels. It was no wonder really that his command of the platoon was formalised with a commission.

The men halted neatly in front of Jory, and Lieutenant Robson threw up a smart salute. Jory returned it politely, noting to himself that ODSTs still liked drill as much as they always had, despite his best efforts to dissuade them. You'd never have caught a SPARTAN bothering.

"Lieutenant, First Sergeant," Jory said, grinning widely. "Loving life?"

"Oh yes sir," Roper replied, his tone of voice suggesting anything but. "Ready to smash Exercise Rapid Arrow and get it over and done with. Sir if you're happy I'll fall the troops out; they've no other timings until tomorrow."

"Please do, First Sergeant. Carry on." Roper saluted, face stony and professional, turned on the spot, then paced away.

"They've integrated well, haven't they?" Robson suggested, gesturing to a squad of marines clearing another mock building. "The ones just out of training, I mean."

"Oh, they're very good, no doubt," Jory mused. "I'm sure you've heard the saying that a good standard of soldiering can rescue a poor plan, but a good plan can't make up for poor soldiering?" The Lieutenant grunted in the affirmative. "Well, let's just say that they won't let us down if we do have to rely on them."

"Are you planning for a bit of a disaster then, sir?" Robson's years of experience hadn't prepared him for a company commander to speak so openly about the risk of failure; then again, he reminded himself, he was an officer now.

Jory chuckled. "I wouldn't quite say that, Michael, but pretty much everyone who's in an important role was promoted into it after Sydney. You, me, the CO, the ops officer, the int officer, Io Company commander. You name it. We've not done our jobs for real since we stepped into the shoes of whoever had just died in them." Jory turned to walk back to the officer's quarters, and Robson followed. "And for God's sake, call me Jory."

"You have a point," Robson agreed thoughtfully, "but we've all had experience of doing that role in the hardest of circumstances- in combat, having taken over in all that chaos, with no handover, no grip on the situation. And we made it work. You as company commander in Sydney, me as platoon commander. We achieved the mission."

Jory raised his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. "Yeah. There's some truth in that. Either way, I have nothing but confidence in the company. If there are any failings, I'd bet my pension they're at the planning level somewhere. You never know, the ones who fuck up might be me or my team."

The two neared the officer's mess, and began walking up the gravel path that led to its grand entrance. "That's very open of you I suppose, Si- Jory," Robson said uneasily. "Wow, I'm going to have to get used to that one. If we're going informal, then you should call me Mike. The only person in the galaxy who calls me Michael is my sister."

Jory laughed. "In truth, I've never heard anyone call you Michael either. Mike it is."

The two walked in silence until they reached the steps between the thick marble pillars of the mess. They passed through the open door, a pair of thick, antiquated wooden panels, and Robson began to turn off for the junior officers' corridor. The atrium was a large room with a high ceiling and plasterwork embellishment around its edge. Some ancient dark wood furniture sparsely decorated the room, along with two huge oil portraits of military men no one remembered. Jory stopped.

"So, since you brought up Sydney-"

"Sir, just don't." Robson cut him off abruptly, his voice sharp. It was back to 'Sir', Jory noticed. The Lieutenant's tone took him by surprise, but he tried to carry on as if it hadn't.

"I know it's not easy to talk about, Mike," Jory probed, his expression earnest. "I don't find it easy either, but we have to at some point. I feel like perhaps you blame me for what happened, and I want to try to explain."

There was a split-second where Jory could've made a decision to stop what Robson did next. The Major could've stopped his subordinate leaping at him, grabbing him with balled fists by his collar and thrusting him backwards into a long table, which both men fell violently onto. Some part of Jory told himself in that fraction of a fraction of a second, if he'd defended himself and broken both of Robson's arms, it would mean the end of both of their careers, and, worse, he would have hurt a man who he'd already caused so much suffering.

So instead Jory found himself laid out flat on the table. Robson was on top of him, his breathing rapid and shallow like an animal, his breath hot on Jory's face and his eyes wide and wild. His face was an inch from Jory's. They stayed like that in silence for a moment.

"Get off me, Lieutenant Robson," Jory said slowly. Robson hauled himself from on top of the other officer. Jory eased himself up until he sat upright on the table, propping himself up on his arms.

"I'm sorry," he sighed, still breathing deeply, backing away from the Major. "I'm sorry sir. That isn't me, at all. I just- I'm dealing with a lot at the moment. I haven't really let myself think about Sydney."

A door opened down the corridor, out of Jory's view. "It's Captain Fleming," Robson warned.

"Go back to your room, Mike. I'll deal with her. But we've clearly got unresolved issues here- not least what just happened."

"There's nothing to talk about," Robson shot back. His brow was furrowed, the lines deep in his face. It seemed as though every word caused him physical pain. "You were the company commander. She died. So did a lot of other good people. It's not your fault, it's not anyone's. No one but the Covenant." He balled his hands into fists and for a moment Jory thought he was about to hit something.

Captain Fleming leant through the door from the corridor to the atrium, peeking her head and shoulders around the corner as if timid. The company 2IC had obviously just showered, and her shoulder-length blonde hair was still dark and heavy.

"Are you two alright?" she enquired sheepishly, concern lining her face. "I thought I heard someone fall."

"Yeah, we're fine, Claudia," Jory replied with little more than a murmur. Robson turned quickly, head low, his eyes averted, and sped down the hallway towards his room. "I think it was these things," he said, knocking his prosthetic lower legs together with a synthetic clack, "decided I could do with a sit-down." He eased himself back onto his artificial feet with an attempt at an insincere laugh, which came out as a sort of bark.

Captain Fleming apparently found it similarly unconvincing, still appearing perturbed. "Okay Jory," she said doubtfully. "Well I hope they don't do that on Rapid Arrow."

"I'll check them before we deploy. Good night, Claudia." She hesitated, obviously not entirely convinced, then disappeared back down the corridor, leaving Jory alone to dwell on what had happened in the gathering gloom.

Lieutenant Robson's bedroom bathed in the flickering blueish light of his holotank. The room was otherwise dark and so the shadows created by his neat, organised possessions seemed to dance around the small space's nooks and alcoves. One of the largest shadows was cast by a low, slouched figure sat hunched on the end of the bed, a half-empty bottle in hand.

Robson looked up, eyes fixed on the two transparent people posing for a holo-vid. It didn't show much; a man and a woman holding each other in a loving embrace, smiling, the man leaning in for a gentle kiss. Then it looped again, the same happy few seconds on replay, ad infinitum. It wasn't the last holographic record Robson had of Corporal Amelia Dawson, but it was certainly the happiest.

He was certain that he hadn't felt that feeling since Sydney- since she disappeared in the pink haze of a needler volley. He hadn't even been there.

He wouldn't cry. It wasn't for lack of trying; he just seemed incapable. Sometimes he felt that sobbing, were it not beyond him, might be a relief, like a reservoir overflowing its dam. Most days he felt nothing- just an emptiness, a sort of numbness. It was like he was desensitised to normal Human existence, as dead as Dawson was. That was, of course, apart from the intermittent exceptions- those brief periods where his apathy was overcome by a rage so blinding and so strong that it scared him. It happened earlier, and he'd almost thrown away his career. Picking a fight with a SPARTAN, hell, he'd almost got himself killed.

I don't care.

Robson took a mouthful of liquid from the bottle. He'd lied to Major Hansen, he realised. When he'd said no one was to blame for Amelia's death.

"It was someone's fault. It was mine."

4

To her disbelief, Morag's breath began to frost on contact with the air. She'd been skeptical when the marine on the surface had handed her a thick cold weather jacket, and wondered if it was some kind of joke those in uniform tried on all civilian visitors. The marine's face had remained deadpan, however, and she soon experienced why for herself. It was unnaturally chilly as the skeletal elevator platform descended deep into the Kenyan crust. The elevator was more reminiscent of something she expected to find in a warehouse or factory, its walls mere metal lattices partly open to the rock through which the shaft sunk. But then, she told herself, it had only recently been installed, in haste and with flat-pack military hardware.

The temperature dropped further, though behind Morag, the marine escorting her didn't flinch. He wasn't particularly tall, but all the same, he towered over Morag's diminutive, slightly rotund frame. A name badge- a quaint addition to all the uniforms in the unit assigned to work alongside civilians- identified him as LCPL BRODIE. She supposed this was ONI's way of making marines less intimidating to the crackpot scientists they'd dragged from dingy research labs and offices and tasked with unpicking the Portal. His rifle was slung across his back, and Morag found herself wondering what he'd been doing a few months previously, when Humanity's home world itself had fallen under alien attack. She briefly considered asking, then thought better of it. She'd found through experience it was usually better not to bring up the topic.

She drew the military-issue jacket tighter around her neck, burying her chin in the thin fleece lining. It was several sizes too big for her and the hem floated and danced around her thighs. She imagined that the smartly turned-out marines and ONI agents probably found her appearance slightly ridiculous; a wizened yet animated lady in her mid-fifties, wild grey hair barely tamed by a messy bun, her over-sized olive green jacket rolled several times at the cuffs. But she'd never really cared much for either her appearance or the military's opinion of her. She'd worked on more xenoarchaeological projects over the decades than the could count, and usually ONI were at best a hindrance and at worst actively obstructive. Of course, she conceded, it was easy for her to judge from the comfort of her office at the University of Edinburgh. The job of studying aliens was considerably less lethal than fighting them.

It was more than just the stark contrast between the relentless African heat above and the still coolness that usually permeated underground facilities. No, it was genuinely cold, she thought, watching the thermometer reading on the elevator's control panel plummet faster than the elevator itself. And no one yet knew why. It was just one of a hundred questions that remained unanswered about the Portal, a huge ancient alien construct that had lain dormant on Humanity's home-world for millennia. She'd seen it from the air, and had scarcely believed its size. Now, she was going to see it from within, as the elevator reached the one-kilometre mark below the surface. Her ears popped for what felt like the millionth time, and she yawned deeply, expelling a cloud of condensed vapour.

"Will we be able tae see the centre?" the scientist asked, wondering if the vista below ground would match the one above. She spoke with the subtle tones of a Glaswegian accent dulled by decades of travel.

"No, ma'am," Brodie replied. "The entire void is pitch black. No one's even been to the central pedestal yet except the survey crews. Besides, this shaft goes through solid rock all the way down."

She'd been briefed that this was the case, but furrowed her deeply lined brow all the same. From what she knew of Forerunner architecture, they wouldn't learn an awful lot from the pylons until they managed to access the central pillar, on which the Forerunner dreadnought had docked many months prior.

"When can I go there?" She turned to face the marine, and saw that it was his turn to scowl.

"We're building a surface rail to get over there, but it'll be a while. The cavern is over a hundred kilometres across. We have to illuminate everything as we go."

"A hundred and seventeen," she corrected, and the marine grunted. "Have yae encountered any active artifacts while down here?"

"Nothing ma'am, not even a single lightbulb. The entire structure is dormant."

The elevator began to slow, and a brightly lit cavern emerged from below. It stopped with a shudder, and as Brodie stepped forward to open the rudimentary gate, Morag took in the facility. It was typically utilitarian, and basic even by military standards. The cavern ONI had blasted out for itself was roughly fifty metres from end to end, with a high ceiling perhaps twenty metres above her head. Bare rock comprised the walls, and metal struts rose from the ground, stretched up the walls and congregated in a rectangular frame bolted into the ceiling. The metalwork was more for ease of mounting equipment to the walls than structural support, Morag surmised, as basic spotlights were interspersed along it at regular intervals, providing harsh but ample lighting for the space. On the left, small, pre-fabricated sheds acted as the site's security office, and also provided somewhere for civilian researchers to base themselves without braving the long journey back to the surface. She was the first here, but was impatient to see the alien structure for herself and could establish her working space later. On the right, a series of generators and machines provided power, purified the air, and, as the scientist realised from the more bearable temperature, provided a modicum of heat. Another set of devices, which Morag recognised, were there to detect everything possible from movement inside the structure to Cherenkov radiation levels, although nothing of note had been recorded in the three weeks they'd been there.

Brodie picked up Morag's rucksack and swung it over his shoulder, and to her amusement he was taken aback by its weight.

"What've you got in here?" he exclaimed, seeing the impish grin on the scientist's face.

"Oh just a few wee things," she replied, her expression perfidious. "I tend to get quite engrossed in my work, and I need some provisions for if I don't come up for air for a few weeks."

Brodie obviously wasn't sure if she was serious or not, so instead stepped forward silently, and Morag followed. "This is the most developed research station thus far," he explained after a moment as they crossed the cavern's uneven floor, "but we've got a much larger one under construction fifty kilometres south. They're calling it Alpha, so this is Beta. You're being shown around Alpha tomorrow."

She didn't reply, and instead took her surroundings in silently. Directly opposite her, in the wall of the far side of the cavern, was a small flight of steel steps leading up to an open hatch that disappeared into the rock. The marine went first and, as she climbed the steps behind him, she saw a tunnel lined with lights above head-height, its floor paved with metal grating. Morag followed him into it, feeling the walls close in around her and imagining the weight of a mile of rock above her head. The passage wasn't narrow, but was claustrophobic by the standards of the elevator terminal, and she felt the fine hairs on the nape of her neck prick up.

She struggled to see their destination past the marine as he strode ahead of her, but it looked like the tunnel terminated in a bright silver structure. After a minute or so of walking, they reached the end of the passage, and the Corporal stepped aside to reveal a flat expanse of metal wall, crisscrossed by geometric detailing with no obvious logic. A tall, wide door broke the otherwise uniform surface, still flanked on either side by the heavyweight military breaching equipment that had inched its heavy panels apart. Brodie placed the scientist's rucksack down against the wall, pulled out two small torches and offered one to her. This time, he stayed put, gesturing toward the open door with a smile. The familiar rush that Morag always felt in close proximity to such ancient constructs surged through her limbs. She took the torch, and stepped through.

She scanned the narrow corridor of white light that her torch traced across the floor. It was intricately etched with abstract details, which to the untrained eye were random decoration but to Forerunner AIs would detail the hard light technology concealed below. Nothing new here. Morag tilted her wrist and the column of light stretched itself further along the floor until it reached the far wall, about ten metres across the other side of the compartment. It was bare save a single geometric door identical to the one Morag had just stepped through and sealed tight, as it had been for a hundred millennia. Between her and the sealed hatch, a central pedestal that would otherwise project holographic control panels instead stood dark and silent like a miniature cenotaph, casting a long shadow. Either side of her, the extent of the room was no more than the temporary office huts she'd walked past back in ONI's subterranean access cave. Above, a vaulted ceiling graduated in three shallow steps retreated upwards, reaching its zenith in a cylindrical holo-projector. It aimed directly down, at nothing in particular, and was as lifeless as the rest of the ancient structure.

Morag's heart sank. The Forerunners were fond of making a statement, and anything of note was always marked by expansive constructs comprised mostly of empty space, high ceilings and light bridges. The space where she now stood had none of that. Although it was true that the doorway beyond could conceal more promising architecture, her reading on Forerunner constructs- as well as her experience- told her that she stood in an ancillary maintenance station meant only for use by Sentinels, and not the enigmatic aliens themselves. She expected to learn little of value here. Still, there was always the other research station the next day.

And yet, there was a control panel. Surely a Sentinel wouldn't need one of those, would it?

"Problem?" The marine had stepped through behind her, holding a dormant lantern. He'd follow her all through her work, partly for her protection, and partly to make sure she didn't wander off. She'd earlier scoffed at the idea that a single marine could offer any meaningful resistance to a determined Forerunner adversary, but indulged the military in their fanciful notion.

She whirled to face him, and only then realised the'd planted her hands on her ample hips and frowned so deeply that she was in fact scowling at Brodie, who raised his eyebrows in bemusement.

"Sorry," she said. "Thinking face, bonnie laddie. Terrible at poker. I'll take a look around but I think we might be barking up th' wrong tree here."

Brodie seemed nonplussed by this, placing the lantern down. "I'll radio a few guys from up top to come and prize that door open. You won't go anywhere, will you?" he quipped, motioning towards the small space.

This time her scowl was genuine. "Get tae fuck, you cheeky sod," she sulked, and the marine ducked out the door with a chuckle.

Morag crouched down gingerly, her hands braced against her thighs. Her back still groaned after her meandrine journey to the Portal the previous day, not helped by a restless night's sleep on a military camp cot. She scooped up the lantern by the top handle, and probed its cylindrical base for a few seconds until she located the switch. The lantern cast a soft white light in all directions, causing her to squint. It illuminated the entire room and confirmed her conclusions about its meagre dimensions. Morag trundled towards the chamber's central pedestal and planted the lantern on top, then took a step back, perplexed. She ran a hand through her untidy hair. The scientist was meticulous and usually the first thing she would do would be to catalogue the entire room, inch by inch, floor to ceiling, before going any further. But this room puzzled her, which was exciting, and exactly why she loved working with Forerunner structures.

Morag touched a finger to the personal computer strapped to her forearm, and the screen flashed into life. She commanded the device to call up Forerunner chambers of similar dimension, and it did so after a moment's pause. In the light of the lantern, more details about the Forerunner construct around her were revealed. What she thought was a solid floor was actually broken by two solid transparent panels, though nothing below was visible. That was interesting. What was down there, and how far down was it? Her stomach churned with a sudden wave of vertigo. The holo-projector on the ceiling was not, as she first thought, aimed randomly, but instead pointed directly down towards the top of the central pedestal. And in fact it didn't look very much like a holo-projector at all, but a hard light emitter.

Of course. The room wasn't a room at all- it was an elevator shaft. Very different in design to the metal and stone one she'd descended through from the surface, but more or less identical in function.

She moved the lantern from the top of the pedestal, and all the shadows around the room jumped in unison. Just as she suspected, there was a node in the pedestal's top that matched up exactly with the hard light emitter above. On each corner of the pedestal, a short spar probed down and outward, towards the elevator platform. She imagined the control panel illuminated, brilliant blue holograms, solid to touch, filling the space between the spars. With a specialist AI and a few weeks' work, she could get the elevator working again, and then maybe they'd learn more about the alien object buried in the very birthplace of Humanity. Morag considered setting up the portable holo-tank contained within her equipment, but she and her AI colleague, Helga, frequently differed in their methods. She'd get a head-start with Helga dormant.

Morag allowed herself a little whoop of glee at the thought of uncovering mysteries so fundamental to Human life on Earth. I love my job.

She turned back to her substantial kit bag and took out a small holo-scanning drone, instructing it to inspect and record every surface in minute detail. She tossed the tiny device into the air and it quietly whirred into life, humming like a mechanical hornet. She unfurled a small folding stool from her kit, lowered herself into it, and watched the drone's progress on her computer, enthralled.

It was at least an hour before Morag tore her eyes from the drone's cataloguing video feed. Corporal Brodie had never returned. She was sure she heard something, above the drone's gentle hum.

That wasn't possible. She was here alone. The entire structure was dormant. Perhaps she'd imagined it? She looked back at her computer uneasily.

There it was again. Definitely something, some movement beyond. She eased herself to her feet, and peered down the long corridor through the rock.

"Brodie?" she called out, uncertain, her voice echoing as it retreated down the passage. Nothing. The tremor in her voice took her by surprise.

Again. She was certain this time. It wasn't down the corridor but beyond the chamber she stood in, deep inside the heart of the structure. Even as she told herself there was a rational explanation, the fine hairs on her nape pricked up.

As she stared down the long, illuminated corridor, a pale red light suddenly suffused the room, the source somewhere behind her. She turned, slowly.

The hologram that occupied the centre of the room was circular, transparent, and two metres in diameter. It was the source of the new red haze that bathed the walls. An outer ring hovered, motionless, while in its centre sat two hexagons, one smaller than the other, and dislocated off to one side. Every few moments, the hexagons flickered out of existence for a fraction of a second, replaced by a 'J' shape, which vanished as quickly as it appeared. Morag knew this symbol.

A sudden noise behind her made her jump. Her heart leaped out of her chest.

The door had slid shut behind her. Cut off from the glow of the corridor's lights, the chamber was dim in the solitary glow of her lantern and the crimson glare of the Forerunner glyph.

"Welcome, Reclaimer."

The voice called out from all directions. It spoke in neutral, almost friendly tones, but its voice seemed like two or three speaking in unison. Around the chamber, the lights powered up, and suddenly ample golden light banished the shadows. A brilliant blue lance of solid light shot from the emitter above, down into the pedestal like a column.

Morag froze. The room was still, and she barely dared breathe.

"I am Mendicant Bias."

5

The light turned itself on spontaneously. It wasn't overly bright but the glare still dazzled Major Jory Hansen, who squinted and dug the crumbs of crusty deposit from the corners of his eyes. He was forty two years old and had been in uniform of one type or another since he was six, he scowled to himself, but he'd never get used to the early starts. He waved a hand and the steadily increasing blare of the alarm was silenced.

It had been a restless, quietless few hours. Jory always slept poorly the night before any operation, whether it was a short training exercise or the real thing. Before the drop into Miridem, he'd taken to roaming the deserted corridors of the destroyer Sheffield. He'd encountered Sheila-065 on the observation deck, perched behind an optical telescope, silently watching the swirling clouds of the system's largest gas giant. The pair had sat and talked about nothing much at all. This time, though, it was more than the upcoming mission that burdened him, as memories of his encounter with Second Lieutenant Robson two nights before swam back into focus.

It was 0300. Outside, beyond his own window, harsh strip lighting already illuminated the enlisted ranks' prefabricated accommodation and cut through the near-total darkness of the African night. Jory pushed himself upright on his thick arms, counteracting his awkward raised centre of gravity that resulted from his truncated body. There were lots of little things that were different for Jory as a double above-knee amputee, some of which he could cope with, and others he didn't ever think he'd get used to. His marines laughed that he couldn't do situps without his prosthetics on unless someone held the remnants of his legs down. It was funny, and he laughed with them, but the truth was those under his command never saw him without his legs. Wearing them, he was Major Hansen; a company commander, two metres tall, physically powerful; an ODST and former SPARTAN. A man his subordinates could, and did, look up to and respect. Without his prosthetics, he was a shattered wreck of a man, barely four foot in height, shuffling around on his hands and his backside and the abbreviated leftovers of his legs. Broken by his past mentally as much as he was physically maimed. Not a leader who could compel others to do things that might cost them their life, but an object of pity.

He threw back the covers. It was only a single bed, but the expanse of unoccupied space below his hips seemed to go on forever. Out of his boxers extended two thighs that abruptly ended about four inches down from his hips, perhaps a third the length of a full femur. The short stumps of Jory's legs neatly rounded off at the same point, equal in length, smooth save for a light silvery scar. Everything below that had been lost to the plasma mortar less than a hundred yards from where Shiela-065 had been killed, and everything above that had remained. He doubted he'd ever get used to the sight. Jory raised each short limb into the air in turn and ran a light hand over the rounded end, before turning to his prosthetic legs. They stood by the bed as if to attention. They were already armoured in the skin-tight bodysuit and plating of ODST battledress. From heel to the sockets that held them attached to Jory's body, the things would've been taller than him if he'd hopped down from the bed. He grabbed each one, bent it at the knee, and shuffled his short limbs into the snug sockets. A ripple of electric energy ran through his body as they awoke, reached out to his neural implant, and obeyed his commands.

He strode to the mirror. The man looking back still could've passed for a SPARTAN- he looked more like an olympic athlete than an ageing Major, he thought, as he took in his robustly built, bare upper body. From the waist down he looked and moved for all the world like an ODST in battle armour. He shifted the weight of his body between each of his stumps and felt the reassuring bulk of the prosthetic legs move beneath them. He looked and felt whole now. His prosthetic legs were mental armour as much as physical.

Through the walls, he heard the other officers react to their alarms. On one side was Captain Rahman, who'd no doubt be releasing her hair from its neat black bun in order to slip her helmet on. Before she became an ODST, as a Marine Corps platoon commander, the woman had personally killed three Jackals with a large kukri she'd been given by her Nepalese father. Ever since she'd walked around with it fastened to her chest like a SPARTAN would. Having never met one, she probably didn't realise that she was emulating supersoldier standard operating procedures, and Jory had never told her for fear of discouraging her, but he was certain that in another life she'd have made a superb SPARTAN.

Adjacent to Jory's room on the opposite side was Major Lai, the OC of Callisto Company. He was a tall, slender man with a clean shaven head, fierce black eyes and prominent cheek bones above hollow cheeks. He'd been transferred from another battalion to lead the company after Sydney, like so many others, filling a dead man's shoes. Jory had made covert enquiries about his career history and his ability as an officer, but no one seemed to know very much about him. From first impressions having met him the day before, he seemed stern and direct, but then again, he was under the pressure of leading a pretty depleted unit on a battlegroup-level joint exercise.

Jory suddenly thought of Robson, on the other wing of the mess, in his own room, probably doing much the same as he was. Except, of course, he probably needed a few gulps of something stronger than coffee to get him going. The marines all loved him; it was no wonder when he still acted like he was one of the boys, despite the bar on his chest that set him apart. Jory hadn't yet decided if formally disciplining him was better for the unit than keeping it quiet. But if he let Robson get away with it, how could he stand in front of any marine being punished for the same thing with any integrity? On second thoughts, he knew exactly what the right thing to do was. It didn't feel good, but it was definitely right. The reckoning would just have to wait until after the exercise when they were back on the ground.

He shaved and dressed, taking a moment to check his personal kit one last time as he strapped up his body armour. He'd stow most of his kit in lockers near the drop pods once they were embarked onboard whatever Navy ships picked them up, but for now the large, well-packed rucksack would go on his back. Once he was ready he headed to breakfast in the officer's mess, where the battalion's commissioned officers filtered through the hotplates and sat talking animatedly about the task ahead, through hurried mouthfuls of egg or porridge. The usual low hubbub of the conversation was punctuated by a new sound, which puzzled Jory, until he realised it was the dull clack of the marines' thigh armour plates under the overcrowded tables. Several dozen ODST helmets were strewn across the low mahogany side tables, identical save for the small name printed above the nape. Jory grabbed his from where he'd left it, half amused, at the two platoon commanders searching for their own amongst the masses. Then again, he thought, looking down at the unique Air Assault helmet he'd picked up, he was cheating.

On the way out, he glanced a quick look at his watch- 0325- as he dashed to the armoury. He found the marines already in the queue listless and barely awake. Jory would probably be the same if someone hadn't stuck an oak leaf to his chest, he thought wistfully.

It was at this moment that there was a distant low rumble, growing, slowly at first, then with ever greater pace into a tremendous crescendo from overhead. Even in the armoury bunker, the wire grilles behind the desk and the weapons racks rattled. Some of the younger marines gave up their hard-won spots in the queue to run back outside for a glimpse of the vast frigates, suspended in the sky as if by magic, that would bear them off into the vacuum. Another time check told Jory it was 0330. The frigates would blast off at 0530, whether the battalion was complete aboard or not. He drew a rifle and sidearm from the armoury corporal, who was similarly nonplussed by the Navy's arrival, slinging the former tightly across his back and stowing the latter on his right thigh.

Io and Mars Companies had arrived en-masse the previous morning. Now the prefabricated accommodation blocks were full, rows of immaculately prepared vehicles lined the tank park, and the kitchen staff scurried through the mess corridors with uncharacteristic haste. By the time Jory emerged from the armoury, the three ODST companies were already beginning to come together at their assembly areas, down the dirt track that was the camp's spine and out the back gate. The first few ODSTs to arrive had already arranged themselves in platoons and now sat on their kit, making last minute adjustments or checks. Other than the coalescing infantry companies, the acacia trees and the straw-coloured grass that stood upright in the still air, the vast savannah beyond camp was dark and featureless.

Above, casting enormous columns of light downward onto the assembly areas, three black silhouettes hung in the air. The stalks of light they projected gave them the appearance of huge abstract creatures standing aloft on long, glowing legs. Squinting up against the glare, Jory could barely see the warships, themselves only dimly self-illuminated by the glow of their thrusters. The night sky above them was a stunning canopy of colour and light, the Milky Way smeared across the canvas like colossal brush-strokes. People used to think it was beautiful, Jory reminded himself, and he could see why; but that was before they knew what was up there.

The camp of Archer's Post came to an abrupt end as Jory passed through the gate onto the open plain beyond. The illumination provided by the Navy wasn't essential- the ODSTs had, in the past, trained to conduct such operations in the total darkness- but it would make organising and boarding on the ground smoother. Colonel Pirez had decided that speed was more important than preserving night vision, which would slowly recover in the red-lit drop bays in the frigates' bowels. Jory fitted on his own helmet as he approached, feeling its snug crown secure around his head and the pressure seals lock around his bodysuit. He cranked up the magnification, and tried to pick out his First Sergeant, somewhere in the throng of the middle assembly area.

First Sergeant Roper had gotten to the assembly area before any of the ODSTs, and had set about making sure everyone knew where to be. A less experienced senior NCO might've showed up to their company with the main body of arrivals only to find a sort of organised chaos had taken hold in absence of their stern direction. A quick glance at the companies either side of Mars Company told Jory that their First Sergeants might not have been so proactive in setting their alarms as First Sergeant Roper, and he found himself for the hundredth time grateful that his seniormost NCO was very good at his job.

The company signaller- Jory's signaller, he corrected himself- was a young, slender Lance Corporal who Jory often thought looked like she ought to collapse under the weight of the Longbow radio she carried. Then again, as she'd proved several times already, no one got to wear ODST armour unless they were up to the job. The signaller was crouched on one knee, rifle in her arms, while Roper adjusted the blocky radio on her back. He was so tall that he had to stoop to reach whatever control or setting he was fiddling with.

"That should do you, Private Trahan," Roper said firmly, and the ODST stood up. The veteran NCO saw Jory approaching, depolarised his visor, and a thin smile spread across his face. "It'll get your boss here a line to a ship in orbit, but only if you remember to change the bleeding battery."

Trahan's visor was opaque, but Jory knew that behind it she was blushing. She was a good ODST, but her First Sergeant had just made her look bad in front of her OC.

"Sorry Sir," she croaked sheepishly, turning to face Jory and coming to attention.

"Morning, Private," he chirped back, seemingly nonplussed. "That's quite alright. Ready for this?"

The ODST looked up at the frigate hovering above, which told Jory all he needed to know. "Last time I dropped from one of those, it was through a storm of plasma. I guess I thought I'd have a bit longer before doing it all over again."

"That makes two of us," he nodded sympathetically. "But at least this time there won't be any plasma- unless something goes very wrong."

Trahan laughed the sort of fake laugh one does when a superior tells a joke that isn't funny. Jory was sure that she wasn't the only ODST wondering if, when the moment came, they'd be able to climb back into that pod. Training mission or not. Platitudes and shit one-liners weren't much help to anyone.

"Major Hansen, Sir," Roper interjected, apparently done waiting for Jory's small talk with the enlisted ranks to end. Trahan got the hint, braced up, and turned back to her kit. "The Commanding Officer was looking for you not too long ago."

Jory's stomach sank just a touch. "Uh-oh." Jory's HUD told him it was 0340. He wasn't late for any timings, or at least, any that he knew about. Roper pulled a sort-of mock sympathy face, his lips pursed. "Did he say what about?"

Roper sensed his OC's trepidation, and his expression widened into a broad grin. "No, no, I think he wanted to touch base with you, that's all. You haven't fucked up, the pension's fine." The senior soldier barely contained his mischief.

Jory grinned back, planting an arm on his First Sergeant's substantial shoulder. "You bastard," he laughed. "You had me thinking I was in the shit there. I'll get you back for that." The two remained silent for a moment, before Jory turned to face the now rapidly-growing numbers of ODSTs congregating under the frigate's spotlights, hands planted on his hips. "How we doing on timings?"

A few illegible information screens flitted before Roper's eyes, only just visible. "Not quite all complete, Sir, but filing in steadily. I'm sure everyone'll be here by the 0400 timing, if not I'll be knocking heads together."

"Excellent," Jory replied. "What about ammo and radios?"

"Not to worry Sir," Roper said with a conspiratorial wink, before looking around to make sure no marines were within earshot. "I'm just as good at my own job as I am at covering yours. Radios are distributed, ammo's being dished out when it arrives in a few moments. It's all in hand Sir, now if you'll please stop being such a knobber."

Roper was deliciously insubordinate when the situation permitted. Jory appreciated that it was an important part of their relationship, and probably worth putting up with for the benefit of the company's effectiveness. But on this occasion he simply stared at the First Sergeant, mouth agog, taken aback.

"I'm sorry, First Sergeant," Jory replied slowly, "did you just call me a knobber?!"

"No Sir," Roper replied, smiling, because he definitely had. "NOBA. N-O-B-A. Not Officer's Business; Administration. Now, if you drop your kit and magazines here, I'll get someone to square your ammo and radio, while you go and have your little officers' chat with the CO."

Jory laughed out loud. Roper was right, but bloody hell was he bolshy.

"You know what, First Sergeant," Jory said forcefully through a mock angry frown, removing the rifle magazines from his pouches, "that's exactly what I'm going to do. I've been in the military since you were in pre-school, but that's the first time I've heard that one."

Roper laughed heartily as his OC walked off. "Plenty more where that came from, Sir!"

6

"Do you know who I am, Reclaimer?"

The elevator descended. Morag stood paralyzed- by fear and by indecision. Her mind worked at double speed to unpick what she was looking at. It was Mendicant Bias. Morag was one of the foremost Forerunner experts in Human space- she knew more even than the misguided San'Shyuum who claimed to have devoted their lives to understanding the Forerunners. She knew that Mendicant Bias had been created as their most capable artificial intelligence, charged with studying and combating the Flood, and holding back the nightmarish onslaught. But he had instead betrayed his creators and sided with the Gravemind, committing unspeakable atrocities and leaving the Forerunners no choice but to burn all sentient life out of the galaxy, save those safely conveyed to the Ark. Bias had been imprisoned and all thoughts deprived of him save for atonement. Morag was one of a dozen Humans who'd read the surviving logs recording Bias's fall.

That was one hundred thousand years ago. A hundred millennia. Back when humans were nothing more than a bipedal mammal species barely getting to grips with ritual burial and cave paintings. Bias had tried to wipe them out along with countless billions of other lives he'd robbed of all meaning and absorbed into a rotting mound of animated corpses.

She steeled herself. "I know who yae are," she said, defiantly, surprising herself with the force with which she spoke.

"Good," he replied, and Morag blinked at- was that a cheery note in his voice? "Then you know what I want."

"No, I don't. What do yae want?" She was scared again now, not for herself, but of whatever the ancilla had planned. None perhaps but the Graveminds and the Prophets were responsible for such an incalculable amount of suffering.

"I seek that which has been my sole topic of thought for ten thousand lifetimes, Reclaimer. I seek atonement."

"I know what kind of atonement you're in th' practice of, wee laddie. Seeing one ship safely through the Portal?" She scoffed. "And you could'nae even get that right!"

"My efforts were insufficient, but rest assured, I was able to guide the Reclaimer who activated Installation 08 to safety elsewhere." So the AI knew he was only partially successful in guiding Forward Unto Dawn back to Earth. How? One of a thousand questions she had. Where to start?

"How did you escape? I've read your last log entries, you expected tae die wi' the Halo."

"You are correct. Initially I calculated my own chances of survival to be minimal. But I concluded that if I survived my first act of making amends, I could continue to make good my sentence of atonement." The ancilla's voice- or voices, for there seemed to be several at once- became melancholy. Morag had no idea what a hundred thousand years of isolation had done to the construct. "I escaped the cataclysm of Installation 08's premature activation in the same manner as the logs which you refer to- carried in the Combat Skin of the one called John-117, and then in the data core of the ship that bore him."

Then she remembered; she wasn't alone. Morag stepped over to her kit bag and pulled out Helga's holo-pedestal after a brief rummage. "What is this atonement you're after?" she asked, keeping him talking.

"There will be ample time for questions, Reclaimer," Mendicant Bias replied, "but for now there is work to be done. Know that I mean you no harm, but you are required if I am to begin to pay back the debt I owe to the sentient life of this galaxy." His voice was still omnidirectional, and it made the scientist uncomfortable. "And please, do not activate your ancilla until we have departed."

Morag opened her mouth to protest, but the elevator's descent slowed. An expansive corridor, flooded with artificial light, twenty metres from floor to ceiling and twice as wide, inched into view. She guessed they were at the very bottom of the construct and this corridor led, after fifty or so kilometres, to the Portal's central pedestal.

It wasn't the corridor that caught Morag's eye, however, but the ethereal blue-green swirl of particles forming a pillar from of iight just three or four metres from the edge of the elevator. She'd never seen an active one up close, but knew from images that it was a type of teleportation technology.

"Please, Reclaimer," Bias said, his voice inscrutable, "I require you to step through this portal. No harm will befall you."

Morag stepped forward kit bag over her shoulder, but the holographic glyph of the ancilla remained behind. "It's nae as though I have a choice, really, is it?"

"Of course you have a choice," he replied. "There is always a choice, Reclaimer, even if that choice is between submission or death."

It was hardly the answer she wanted, but she more or less expected it. She had read about how Lieutenant Keyes had attempted to kill Sergeant Johnson and herself to deny the Covenant a Human pawn. But even if she had the resolve to take her own life- and she knew she wasn't as strong as Miranda Keyes- she had no means by which to do the deed.

"What if I chose death, Bias?" she challenged. "How then would you enact your plan?"

"There are many millions of your kind on this world, Reclaimer," he replied, measured as always, "but I would prefer not to seek out another. I have lived a long life, and seen many things in the universe that might indicate the existence of fate. You are the one who has been chosen for this task, Doctor Stewart."

Morag didn't know what to think. She was being taken captive by perhaps the most treacherous, murderous being in existence. She had no idea what he needed from her, but no doubt it was some Forerunner structure or technology that needed a Human to be activated.

And yet, the Forerunners had specifically imprisoned him with only atonement to reflect on. For a hundred thousand years. It all hinged on what form exactly his planned atonement would take. Either way, Morag was in no position to try to stop it if she didn't know what it was.

"Fuck it," she said, and stepped into the swirling light.

Morag felt sick. She felt as though she had been torn into a million pieces and reconstituted again, because that was exactly what had occurred. Her head span. She resisted the urge to retch and opened her eyes with a monumental deep breath.

She had always been struck by the odd, subtle parallels between Human and Forerunner architecture. Separated by millions of years of completely separate technology and totally unrelated evolutionary branches, and yet even so, even to her civilian mind, she recognised the space she stood as the control centre of a starship. A circular central platform was raised in the centre, surrounded by concentric platforms each more depressed than the last. This was clearly where the vessel's commander would give direction from. Beyond, four wide walkways, arranged in a cruciform, connected the central core to the circular edge of the command centre. Dotted along this edge's own outer platform were stations that looked like they were designed for use by sentient beings. Four huge holograms occupied the empty space in between the walkways. One depicted the ship itself, a sleek and pointed vessel; another portrayed the solar system in miniature. The last two displayed a diagram of the portal itself and a galactic map, with one route in particular highlighted. Morag had not a clue what it meant.

"I hope you find the facilities amenable," Bias said, though she couldn't see where from. "This is the Harrier-class escort ship Skirmish. Of all the vessels remaining in the Portal's anchorage, I assessed this one to be the most comfortable for your species."

"You're a gentleman," she replied.

"I am in fact a Contender-class ancilla, Doctor Stewart, but nonetheless I will aim to be a courteous host."

Morag scoffed. No sense of humour, now there's a surprise.

A bright silver orb floated into view. It turned to face her, revealing a brilliant blue core that looked for all the world like a giant robotic eyeball. It was a monitor's shell, she realised, repurposed to house Mendicant Bias.

"I hope that taking a physical form of some description will allow us to cooperate more easily," Bias's voice projected from the monitor, "but in truth I reside in multiple places, including this ship. I am comprised of fragments of my original self, and exist as something of a compound being."

"Good to know," she replied, seemingly absent-mindedly, but in reality she took in the magnitude of this revelation. Only a single fragment of Mendicant Bias had been imprisoned on the Ark. If he had reunited with one or more others, where had they come from?

"Doctor Stewart, we are about to depart. Please secure yourself in any of the nearby console positions."

Morag did as she was told, clumsily climbing into the bucket-like seats. They were obviously designed for humans, or at least, organic beings, though apparently not ones of Morag's build. Once again the AI brushed off her inquiries about their destination.

Morag was a well-travelled woman by any standards, but all the same, she despised space travel now just as much as she had always done. All of her vast logic, intellect and reasoning skills were naught against the bone-rattling vibration of re-entry, the head-spinning sensation of high-G acceleration and the cold, manic emptiness of the void. No matter how many times she told herself that it was perfectly safe and incredibly common, her mind only focused on the myriad ways it was possible to die in space. On her very first interstellar trip, the slim, smartly dressed man sat next to Morag had smiled and asked if it was her first flight.

"Does it show that much?" she'd managed to mouth between nervous breaths. He replied that it did, and ordered her the first of three whiskeys. She didn't remember the landing. She and Isaac had married three years later and he wasn't nearly so slim twenty years on.

This time, though, she felt she had genuine cause to be terrified. She was a xenoarchaeologist kidnapped by an ancient entity in an alien spacecraft, and blasted off to destinations unknown. She was positively shitting herself.

Come on, though, thought the little girl inside her, who loved playing with Forerunner ruins, with a wild, adrenaline-fueled glee. This is fucking brilliant.