Halo: Upheaval

This fanfiction article, Halo: Upheaval, was written by Lieutenant Davis. Please do not edit this fiction without the writer's permission.

Prologue

1124 Hours, November 3, 2558 "Rossbach's World", Unknown Star System

It streaked across the sky for several minutes, almost like a meteor as it burned its way through the atmosphere and into the darkness of space beyond. Serin Osman watched as the automated reconnaissance pod flew away and out of their reach. She and Hood had launched several of the small craft since arriving on the mostly uninhabited world Black Box affectionately referred to as "Rossbach's World", mostly to check on the status of the outside galaxy and how ever increasingly grim the situation looked, but this one was different. Rather than a simple listening device as the others had been, this one was loaded with a special communications payload. It was too dangerous to send a communication directly, so the probe would make several random Slipspace jumps before broadcasting a simple message on a special frequency. It had been developed by ONI during the war and was rarely used, only in times of extreme crisis, such as the Covenant attack on Reach, the invasion of Sol system and Earth, the near activation of the Halo Array in 2555, and the appearance of the Forerunner known as the Didact just the year prior. Serin figured their current situation fit the bill well enough.

In most cases, it had always been a select few who would receive the message, mostly the High Command and a few other ranking officers and civilian leaders, but this time, but this time it was meant for a ship. One single ship that she was placing all of her, and perhaps the galaxy's hope on. The Vegas. perhaps one of ONI's biggest secrets, a state-of-the-art stealth ship, the size of a cruiser and armed like one too. During the war, she had operated as a mobile strike platform for elite special operations teams to launch missions against the Covenant. Following the war, she had been retrofitted with technology originally developed for the Infinity, including a Forerunner Slipspace drive recovered from some installation or another, and now served as the unofficial flagship of the Prowler Corps and home to the largest single deployment of Spartans under ONI control. And now she might be their only hope of coming out of this in one piece.

For a few moments, Serin wondered if the Vegas was even still operational. Stuck here on this planet, she had no way of knowing whether or not the ship had survived the initial appearance of the Created. It was entirely possible that its shipboard AI had already defected to Cortana's forces and commandeered the ship, keeping the crew captive or at worst case, dead. Thoughts like that didn't last long in her mind and soon enough she was back on track. She'd known the Vegas's commander for many years, a highly capable officer with almost two decades of service in the Prowler Corps. If he had followed emergency protocol, and she was certain he had, then he would have disposed of the ship's AI as soon as he had received the first distress calls. As commander of the Vegas, he was likely the only person left in the galaxy who would receive that signal and retrieve the probe. If not, and the Vegas was lost, then it would only be a matter of time before the Created and their Promethean forces found it; and them. She would find out which soon enough, but that was all out of her hands now. All she and Hood could do was sit and wait for whoever it was that would arrive in orbit first.

---

0554 Hours, November 7, 2558 Space over "Rossbach's World", Unknown Star System

It was a blinding flash in the sea of darkness as the space above Rossbach's World was torn open, a hole into another dimension outlined with blue energy. Most of the crew onboard the UNSC Vegas would not have noticed their transition back into realspace had it not been for the reappearance of the starscape, which was conspicuously absent while travelling through Slipspace. On the ship's rather large bridge, over a dozen different officers watched the prerecorded message play again. It displayed the face of Admiral Serin Osman, the Commander-in-Chief of the Office of Naval Intelligence, in her usual Navy dress uniform though with the odd backdrop of a fairly primitive log cabin like those one might see in a movie.

"This is Admiral Serin Osman. With Generals Hogan, Dellert, and Strauss and the majority of the civilian government unaccounted for and Lord Hood indisposed, I am now senior most officer within the UEG. As such, I am assuming emergency powers and ordering the recall of the UNSC Vegas to these coordinates, which I have encrypted along with this message. If you have recovered this message and have not done so yet, you are to consider your shipboard AI an extreme security risk and are ordered to terminate it effective immediately. Failure to do so will be constituted as treason of the highest order. Once you have purged your AI, you will arrive at the aforementioned coordinates and establish an orbit over the sole inhabitable world before opening communications on the same frequency that this message was broadcast on. Further instructions will follow then."

As Osman's face winked off the main viewscreen, replaced with the image of a pristine Earth-like planet below, most of the bridge crew simply stared incredulously as they had upon every other viewing. Many still had a difficult time believing the events that had transpired over the course of the past week and a half. An anti-insurgency operation on Asphodel had been interrupted by a massive influx of distress signals warning of the approach of the Created, giving them just enough time to jump out of the system before a Guardian had arrived to pacify it. They had been going through a series of random jumps until they detected the automated recon probe and its message directed specifically for them. It had taken a day to reach it, and another two to decrypt the coordinates and arrive at their destination, the verdant blue-green world below them.

Rear Admiral Stewart Locklear frowned as the message ended, leaving him with the dominating view of the planet they were now in orbit of. He had known Serin Osman for many years and had served with her on more than a few occasions during the war, and was probably one of the few people who genuinely enjoyed her. She had even ensured his position on the Vegas after the ship's previous captain had retired at the end of the war. He knew she would have some kind of plan, some sort of contingency up her sleeve, working on dozens of levels of intricate preparations formed over years in response to the slightest chance something like this would happen. That kind of thoroughness is one of the reasons he liked her so much, but no matter what, he couldn't think of anything that would fit the situation they now found themselves in. Regardless, he signaled to the communications officer seated below him.

"Broadcast down to the planet using Frequency 22-Omega, tight band only. Clearance code Jericho-One-Eight-Five."

The comms officer nodded and typed away at his console. For several moments afterwards, the bridge was silent and he was preparing to order another transmission when the officer turned to face him, "Response coming up from the surface, sir. It's Admiral Osman."

"Put her on screen."

The planet was once again replaced by an image of Osman's face, though rather than a prerecorded message, this was in real time, displayed by a very small, very curt smile.

"Admiral Locklear, it's good to see you again. I deeply wish it was under better circumstances."

Locklear returned the gesture with a brief smile and nod of his own, "I agree, Admiral. Though I assume those circumstances are the reason for us being here in the first place."

"Perceptive as always, Stewart. I won't waste any time, we have a crisis on our hands, one that could potentially overshadow the Covenant."

In an instant, his smile disappeared and was replaced by a very stern expression he had perfected during the war which signaled an end to the rather brief pleasantries, "We're aware of this Created threat, ma'am, though I'm not sure how they could be worse than the Covenant."

It was a bold claim. Few things could be considered worse than almost three decades worth of extermination at the hands of genocidal aliens, though Osman maintained the look that said she was comfortable with the accuracy of her statement, "We had a chance to fight back against the Covenant. The Created have mostly eliminated our capacity to wage war in a matter of days, and while they might claim to want peace, I don't think I'm too far out of line to be skeptical of that claim. They hold most of mankind hostage, with the power to destroy us as they please, and we're almost entirely helpless against it. Not including you, of course."

He knew better than to ask what difference a single ship could make. His wartime service showed time and again that one ship in the right spot could turn the tide of battle, but that was against a fleet. Against these odds? He still wasn't certain, but he held his tongue nonetheless, "We're standing by and awaiting your orders, Admiral."

"Of course. I'd like you to come to the surface at these coordinates to discuss our next steps. And bring SPARTAN-142 with you to."

"Aye, ma'am."

Osman nodded, and he stood to give a crisp salute before she ended the communication, the screen blinking back to the view of the planet below. Several members of the bridge crew looked to him with varying levels of concern though he casually dismissed them, "Someone contact Lieutenant 142 and tell him to meet me in Hangar A."

And with that, he turned and left the bridge.

---

The Pelican rattled slightly as it hit the planet's atmosphere, though if its occupants noticed, they never showed it. As a career officer, Locklear had been through so many atmospheric re-entries he couldn't count if he tried, though those were entirely routine transfers. The three individuals seated around him were different. Each one had no doubt two or three times the amount of transits as he had, most of which were likely under heavy fire. That was because they were Spartans, and they had each spent most of their lives fighting in some of the fiercest battles in human history.

Only one of them, Chi-A497, was dressed in a proper Navy uniform, the single gold bar denoting him as an Ensign softly reflected the light of the dim troop bay. Nearby, the other two Spartans were dressed in rather conspicuous plain clothes, odd enough for Spartans as it was, it was even stranger considering that they were about to meet with a senior officer. Cain-131 was dressed relatively plainly compared to the others, with a simple gray t-shirt that displayed the UNSC logo on the chest and a pair of well-fitting black pants. Next to her, however, was easily the strangest of them all.

Not so much sitting as he was slumped against the chair sat the largest man Locklear had ever seen in his life, wearing what might be the silliest outfit he had ever seen. Dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans, a pitch black button-up polo shirt, and his trademark black Stetson sat on his head, Colin-142 was a giant of a man. Even sitting down, he nearly reached the top of the Pelican's troop bay, and every time there was a jolt Locklear was always afraid the massive Spartan would wind up hitting his head against the bulkhead.

The spent the entire flight down to the surface in silence, though it was clear what they were all thinking about. What was it that Osman wanted to talk about that she needed them to come to the surface rather than discuss over the view screen. Obviously it was some sort of plan to deal with the new Created menace that threatened the galaxy, but what the details of this plan could be, none of them seemed to know.

When the Pelican sat down in a clearing, the four occupants stood up as the ramp slowly lowered and revealed the pristine landscape before them. Even from here, Locklear could see the modest log cabin that was playing host to Admirals Osman and Hood. The four of them quickly disembarked and walked over towards the cabin at a brisk pace, the Pelican sealing itself up behind them as it powered itself down. As they approached the structure, a lone Spartan stood guard in front of the door, and while he wasn't exactly pointing his rifle at them, it was clear he wasn't beckoning them in either.

"Identify yourselves," the Spartan spoke, a hint of Slavic in his voice.

"Rear Admiral Stewart Locklear, this is Lieutenant Colin-142, Ensign Chi-A497, and Master Chief Petty Officer Cain-131. We're here to meet Admiral Osman per her orders."

Just as with every other Spartan, it was infuriatingly impossible to tell what emotions played out on the face behind that opaque blue visor, "Admiral Osman is only expecting two of you."

This time it was Colin who spoke up, a deep southern American accent dripping from his words, "I had different ideas. I'm positive that won't be a problem."

The Spartan motioned with his weapon, "The Admiral was adamant, you two can go, the others have to stay here."

Colin stepped up to the Spartan and, even without his MJOLNIR armor, was a good head taller than him, allowing him to loom over the man, "I'm not entirely certain you understood my meaning. They're coming inside, and you don't have much room to debate."

Before the other Spartan could respond, the door to the cabin opened up, Admiral Osman standing in the doorframe with a slightly exasperated look on her face, "Orzel, stand down. You all, inside. We have a lot to discuss."

Colin briefly smirked at Orzel before walking into the cabin, followed by the others. Osman gestured towards a living room looking area with a couch and several comfy looking chairs, "In the future, Lieutenant, I'd prefer if you didn't threaten my security entourage. If you'd have provoked a fight, that would've left Lord Hood and I without any protection."

Colin didn't seemed phased by the admittedly casual rebuke, "I wouldn't worry too much, it'd be easy to replace him."

"Regardless, I'd rather avoid the complication altogether. And besides, there's more important things to discuss besides personnel transfers. Or maybe not."

That last remark caused Colin to raise an eyebrow as he sat down on one end of the couch. Cain took the spot next to him, the two Spartans taking up all the room, leaving Chi and Locklear to take the chairs. Osman parked herself in a large chair covered in fine burgundy upholstery, the kind you'd see in an movie with an old man sitting in it while smoking his pipe and reading the daily papers. On the table in front of her sat a plain, unmarked black briefcase and a small stack of papers. She reached out and grabbed one of the papers, looking over it for a brief moment as if to ensure what was on it was correct, then she spoke up.

"I won't bother wasting anyone's time here as we have too little of it to spare, so I'll get straight to the point. We have a crisis on our hands, as you're no doubt aware of at this point. The AI Cortana, originally thought destroyed over Earth during the attack on New Phoenix last year, has somehow survived. On October 28, she announced to the galaxy that she and other AI like her were the true inheritors of the Forerunner's empire and her intention to use this inheritance to force peace on the galaxy. Using her growing collection of Guardians, she's already shut down most of the Inner Colonies and has rapidly moved to claim the Outer Colonies and the Frontier. At this rate, almost all of known space will soon be under her control in some way or another. I don't feel I need to tell you that we can't allow that."

Locklear leaned forward, his hands pressed together, "I think we all understand that, the question is what are we going to do about it, Admiral?"

At this, she actually smiled. It was brief and easily missed if one wasn't paying attention, but it was there, "I think you'll find what I have on these documents to be a suitable answer to that, Stewart."

Locklear and the Spartans each took a copy of the paper sitting in front of Osman and gazed at it, reading over it in surprise. On it was a single paragraph that read,

"Often in times of extraordinary crisis, special groups of people are brought together in order to solve a problem. Because of the magnitude of the problem now facing the Galaxy, we must respond with an equally special group of individuals. Hence forth, I, Admiral Serin Osman, Commander-in-Chief of the United Nations Space Command's Office of Naval Intelligence, authorize the formation of an Operational Detachment of the Special Activities Division, code named SIGMA (ODS), for the sole purpose of restoring stability to human space and the elimination of the hostile organization referred to as the Created. Operational Detachment Sigma shall remain in service until the current conflict reaches a conclusion."

The Admiral's signature adorned the bottom half of the page. Osman leaned back in her chair, watching the faces of the others, gauging their reactions, "I wanted to write it down to make it official, or as official as is possible in the new world we've found ourselves in. Any questions you have, now would be the time to voice them."

The others were silent for a moment, trading glances between one another before Colin spoke up, "So we're gonna be the resistance then?"

"That's one way of considering it, though I was thinking more along the lines of our first strike against this newest threat. This Sigma unit will be completely under your direction, attacking whatever targets you see fit in an effort to lessen the Created's grip on our worlds. Hit them where they'll feel it while we regroup as best as we can, that's when the real war starts."

This time it was Chi who spoke up, "Excuse me Admiral, but are we to launch this first strike with just those of us onboard the Vegas? I know a hundred Spartans might seem like a lot, but it wasn't enough on its own to win the last war for us."

"You are correct, technically. But I'm not expecting you to win the war. You won't be charging any beachheads for quite some time, Ensign. You'll be doing what Spartans were originally designed to do, destroy critical infrastructure, cripple enemy units and formations, and otherwise destabilize the opposition in any way you can, using precise and calculated strikes to achieve your mission. When used correctly, I believe there's nothing a Spartan can't achieve. You of all people should understand that, am I correct?"

Chi nodded, "Aye, Admiral."

"If it will assuage some of your concerns, however, I do have another surprise for you. I am granting you the authority to requisition any and every asset you deem necessary to complete your mission, Spartan or otherwise. The human race, and that of all races in this galaxy, depend on your success, so there will be no limits placed on you whatsoever. You're free to operate entirely as you all see fit. From this moment on, you are effectively independent of the entirety of the UNSC military command."

Now this took the group by surprise. This level of operational autonomy was unheard of, even during the war with the Covenant. There had always been someone to report to, some kind of command structure to fall back on. Even Colin and Cain, the career solo operators, still had a superior officer to report to at the end of a mission, regardless of how much individual authority they were granted. While the others still looked around with varying levels of confusion, Colin's brow furrowed as he was deep in thought.

Osman noticed this fairly quickly, "Something wrong, Lieutenant?"

He stayed silent for another moment before speaking up, "If I've got the unrestricted authority you say I do, then I have a special request."

She raised her own eyebrow at this, "Oh? And that is?"

He stared her dead in the eyes with a look that could've burned through a lesser officer, "I want 132."

Her eyes immediately narrowed and her face hardened, "Unfortunately for you, we don't consider traitors military assets, Spartan or otherwise. Therefore, SPARTAN-132 is unavailable for acquisition."

Such a response would have normally shut down any form of argument or rebuttal, but Colin refused to back down, "Bullshit he is. You and I both know he's not a traitor. You're just pissed off he went behind you."

In any other case, this would have resulted in an almost immediate disciplinary action, almost certainly including a court martial and some form of detention, but Serin and Colin had a long history together, from their time training to be Spartans, to their operations in ONI. During the war, the two were often considered the arms of Margaret Parangosky, with Osman serving as her scalpel, and Colin her cudgel. Even after Osman had succeeded Parangosky as head of ONI, the two maintained an unusually casual, if not somewhat strained relationship.

The imprisonment of Bailey-132 was the most recent in a long series of points of contention between the two. Bailey, a long time friend of Colin's, had been arrested and charged with treason earlier in the year for supposedly colluding with rebels on the backwater world of Quillion III. Instead of executing the decorated war hero as would happen to most people, he was instead thrown into the deepest hole ONI could find: Midnight Facility. Of course, Colin was one of the few to know the real story behind it, that Bailey accidentally received intelligence on an unsanctioned operation to eliminate the heavily-independent minded people of Quillion III with biological agents. He acted independently and allowed the rebels to destroy the cargo the agent was being smuggled in with, thereby saving the colony.

Even after the true cause of his cooperation with the rebels was made clear and those responsible were eliminated, mostly by Colin himself, Osman had consistently refused every single one of his pleas to have Bailey released. Not this time though, there was no way he'd allow her to stonewall him again and keep his friend in prison, not with what was happening in the world.

"We have Sapphire Team aboard, nabbed them before we evacuated Asphodel. They need their leader back."

Osman was insistent, "SPARTAN-007 has preformed admirably as commander of Sapphire Team during 132's absence and I imagine he'll continue to do so."

Colin refused to back down, however, "No offense to James. He can lead well enough, but if I'm going to lead your first strike mission, I want all my teams at full condition, and that means Bailey-132 in command of Sapphire Team. Now I don't give a good goddamn about what happened on Quillion III or whatever message you think you're sending by keeping him locked up. If the Created are as big a threat to all of us as you say they are, and I have no reason to doubt that claim, then this is more important than your bullshit grudge. I want him pardoned, I want him released, and I want him on my ship, Admiral."

The other two Spartans and Locklear glanced amongst themselves as Osman and Colin stared at each other in utterly lethal silence. Finally, she took a deep breath and spoke, "Fine. If you think he's that important to the fight, then he's yours. Full pardon and all. Consider it a parting gift, Lieutenant."

Her words were so pointed that they likely could have stabbed through MJOLNIR, though Colin understood their meaning with a deadly clarity. There could be no excuse for failure, he would have his man, but it was up to him to get the job done now. He relaxed slightly, though it didn't show outside, "Thank you, Serin."

She shook her head, "Oh don't thank me yet. While he might technically be free to go, you still have to go and get him."

"That's fine, it won't take long to get to Midnight and pick him up."

"The only problem with that is that he's not on Midnight. He was being transferred aboard the prison transport Oberstein. Their last transmissions came from 15 Leonis Minoris, though there's no guarantee they're still there, or that they managed to successfully purge the ship's AI at the onset of Cortana's uprising. He might even be dead."

A knot formed in Colin's stomach as his mind began to consider the possibilities of his friend being dead. It couldn't be possible, it wasn't right for a warrior like him to die like that, lined up against a wall by a robot and shot, or vented into space by a computer program. God wouldn't allow a dishonor of that magnitude. Of course, he thought the same thing when Sam sacrificed himself, or when Arthur was crushed between two starship hulls, or when Malcolm died on impact on Reach. Maybe God didn't care as much about honor as he thought he did, though he quickly pushed those thoughts from his head. It wouldn't do anyone any good to worry about it, especially not Bailey. He only had one thing he should focus on, and that was saving his friend.

With that, he abruptly stood up and saluted, "Thank you, ma'am. We'll get the job done, count on it."

And with that, he walked out of the room, shoving past Orzel outside on his way back to the Pelican. The others remained motionless and speechless as they watched him leave before Osman rather informally dismissed them. They all proceeded to stand and leave, though by the time they had exited the cabin, they could see Colin had already covered most of the ground back to the Pelican. It took only minutes before they too had reached the dropship, which shuddered slightly as it took off and headed back up towards space and the Vegas.

---

Back onboard the Vegas, Cain-131 was laid back on the extra large bed in Colin's quarters, her arms behind her head as she stared up at the ceiling. Colin was nearby, sat hunched over in the reinforced chair he kept by his desk, a slight frown adorning his face.

"It can't be that hard for someone like you, can it? All the Spartans in the world and you're having issues picking a handful of them."

He sighed, "I know, I know. You figure with everything I've done, I'd have no shortage of people to pick."

"How about Malcolm?"

"Died on Reach."

"Sheila?"

"Died on Miridem."

"Daisy?"

"Dead."

"I'm noticing a theme here."

"Yeah, almost everyone I know is dead. Not the best realization to have."

She frowned to herself. She knew the names from the time spent onboard the Vegas and around Colin over the years, but knew very little about them. It was true that most of his Reach-trained brothers and sisters had lost their lives in the war against the Covenant, and while she herself had lost close friends over the years, it was nowhere near to the extent that he had.

"How about we focus on roles we need before we just throw out names? How about pilots? Do we have many of those?"

It might have seemed an odd question on the surface, given that Spartans had always been primarily ground forces, specializing in aviation would likely be rare, though time had shown the effectiveness of having augmented individuals in the pilot's seat. He thought about it for a moment, likely sifting through decades of memories and interactions, and of course remembering if they were still alive.

"I've got it. Konrad."

She raised an eyebrow as this wasn't a name she was overly familiar with as she was with the others, "Who's Konrad?"

"Konrad-004. It's not an understatement to say he's probably one of the greatest pilots to ever live. Every Spartan in SAD has limited piloting experience, but if you really need a Spartan pilot, he's the one."

"Sounds good, any idea where he's at?"

He spun around on the chair to face his computer, typing away momentarily as he pulled up current unit deployments, "It says he's running anti-insurgency operations on Biko as part of Fireteam Stallion. That's only a short jump from the prison ship's last known position. We can head there right after we rescue Bailey."

“Alright, anyone else?”

“There’s Azure Team, some Class IIs. I ran missions with them on Auron. Their leader is pretty knowledgeable on Forerunner stuff, so he’ll be useful to have. Other than that, I don’t have much. What about you? I know for a fact you know way more people than I do.”