Halo: Tempered Scalpel is an upcoming novella by Halo Fanon users Distant Tide and slowfuture. It will focus on Delta Company's Team Boson as they are eased into their new public surroundings under the reluctant tutelage of Team Xiphos. Dramatis Personae[]
Prologue: Vague Plans[]Inside a pristine boardroom, a young man reclined on a soft back chair, the soft hum of the Slipspace drive gently ringing in his ears. The room was filled with comfortable silence. He sat at a round table with three others, each of them inside a state of the art suit of armour. All four helmets were neatly sat at the table in front of their owners. The mahogany table was clean and contrasted with the battle-worn helmets that adorned it. The room they found themselves in was sparsely decorated and finished in a matte gray. Beside the table the Spartans were sitting at, there was a single bookshelf. It was full of manuals on space warfare and command theory. The room’s occupants paid it no mind. One of them was outfitted in gray SCOUT-class MJOLNIR armour with crimson trim. His thick gauntleted hands gripped the desk firmly, it kept his chair in place as he reclined staring gormlessly at the ceiling. A treatise on Sangheili literature lay unopened near him. This was Joshua-G024. Immediately to his left, sat another Spartan. She wore grey PATHFINDER armour. Her eyes were closed and soft sleeping sounds escaped from her mouth. G094 was emblazoned across her armour, to those in the room she was Amy. These Spartans made up Xiphos and they sat with their backs to the door. Directly their opposite, a DEFENDER-clad Spartan read a light fiction novel, her index finger in her mouth as she did so. Her thick curly blonde hair adorned her armour like jewelry, complementing the dark black finish. Her helmet guarded the door with a scowl. The last soldier, himself clad in MARAUDER armour traced his surroundings on a creamy white page, his tongue sticking out of the corners of his mouth in pained concentration. These were John and Clara, and they comprised Cloidem; Xiphos’s siblings. These Spartans comprised Violet-III, an elite special operations force that worked exclusively for the Office of Naval Intelligence. Their fame and reach on the frontier were notorious, and each of the fireteams had earned a reputation for success. Despite this, if anyone unknowing of their status had found them sitting in this room it would have been easy to mistake them for university students on a field trip. The door opened and a familiar man entered the room; he wore the silver oaks of a Lieutenant Commander. He was of average height and stocky build; the naval jacket that adorned his shoulders looked uncomfortably large. His face was thin and gaunt, a long protruding scar ran from the top of his forehead to his chin. This was complemented by a head of hair that was gracefully thinning. At a glance, it was clear this man was worthy of respect. Not one Spartan stood up to greet him. “By all means,” he said, “don’t get up on my account.” The soldier reading raised a single finger up to the officer as she finished the page she found herself on. Quickly, she snapped the book closed and turned to face him. “Finished now?” he said. She replied by giving him a thumbs up. He rolled his eyes and took the final seat at the table. He placed his briefcase in front of him and keyed it open. There was a satisfying clink. Next, the officer quickly began to ruffle through the papers nestled inside; an oddity to be sure. Satisfied that he had found what he needed, he took them out and sat them beside the briefcase. He sighed happily as he closed it and sat it on the floor, next to his feet. “Now,” he began but stopped when his eyes were caught by the still sleeping Spartan in front of him. “Jesus Christ,” he said rubbing his eyes. “Josh, would you be so kind as to wake Amy up, please.” The crimson-clad man nodded and gave her a moderately hard thump in the ribs. Amy awoke with a start and a yelp; her hands gripped the mahogany. “Good morning, Amy,” the officer said. “Sorry, Frendsen,” she replied, wiping the sleep from her eyes, “long trip.” Frendsen bared his teeth warmly at her. He cleared his throat and began his presentation. “Now,” he said again, “ONI has decided to recall you with such urgency with good reason, I assure you.” The Spartans were nonchalant in their responses. “I need you to take and read one of these,” he said as he began passing out paper thick with black redaction lines. “Still using paper?” the MARAUDER-armoured Spartan said. “Yes, John,” Frendsen replied without looking him, his tone tinged with slight irritation. “This is top level stuff. Burn after reading, if you will.” “Then why is it so heavily redacted?” Clara said. Her eyes deeply focused on the parchment in front of her. “It’s to keep your biases in check,” he replied. “Our biases in check?” Josh snapped, quickly looking over at his liaison officer, “what does that even mean, Commander?” “Look, would you just read the brief, please,” Frendsen implored. Josh grunted and turned his eyes towards the paper in front of him, scanning intensely. Several lines of text piqued his interest; he had never heard of the planet Aragon outside of it being a pirate’s paradise. Nothing on his travels even seemed to suggest that such action deserved what appeared to be a small scale UNSC invasion. “Two HAVOKS?” Clara said incredulously, breaking Josh’s concentration. “What division was leading the assault here?” “Fucking amateurs,” Josh snarled. “This is beyond fucking reckless, Frendsen. Two HAVOKS in this part of space? I’m tired a’fighting bush wars out here.” Frendsen placed his hands out, palms facing the table, and moved them downwards. “Easy, Josh,” he soothed. Josh gritted his teeth but returned to the brief: it made for obnoxious reading. Any and all mentions to the UNSC attack force were unavailable, leaving only cursory details. To the contrary, all mentions to the enemy’s order of battle were conspicuously robust. “Who is this Librus? I’ve never heard tell of him,” Amy inquired. “He was a top lieutenant of Cronus,” John said, “The leader of the Dominion of the Retribution?” “Oh,” Amy said chewing on her bottom lip, “We never came across them during our time on the frontier.” “It’s because I had you and Josh deployed on the other side of space,” Frendsen interjected, “I was more interested in keeping you two in Human space.” “John and I have had a few run-ins with the Dominion,” Clara began, her eyes never leaving the creamy paper, “but nothing serious.” “We only ever knew Cronus by reputation,” John continued, “I find it hard to believe he’d suffer rebellion willingly.” “If I’m understanding what you’re saying,” Josh said, “surely that means Librus is small time? Still seems like the UNSC force was quite substantial.” “Were the IVs deployed here?” Amy asked. “No,” Frendsen said, quickly answering Amy’s question before turning his attention to Josh, “If you haven’t finished the brief, it mentions that Librus has managed to obtain two Covenant supercruisers.” Josh scanned the other side of the page quickly. “Sure,” he began, “I understand what you’re saying Frendsen, but Covenant supercruisers aren’t the bogeymen they used to be.” Frendsen sighed. He took his spectacles off to rub his eyes, gently placing them on the table. “Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he said in a hushed tone, “but truthfully? ONI is still unsure who authorized this raid, let alone who conducted it. It wasn’t officially sanctioned. It never occurred.” The room suddenly erupted into bellows of laughter from the Spartans. Clandestine was the name of the game for the Office of Naval Intelligence, and it did not come as any surprise to these Spartans that such activity would occasionally confuse even this agency. After all, they were products of such clandestine machinations. Frendsen sheepishly averted his gaze from the four Spartans. It took a few moments for the laughter to subside. Both John and Amy had to wipe a tear from their eye, such had been their joy. Clara made a motion for Frendsen to continue. “I’m going to give you that good reason for your hasty return,” Frendsen said as he regained his composure. “We need you to investigate Aragon. As I said, we honestly don’t know the exact details of what transpired on its surface.” The Spartan members of Violet-III listened to Frendsen intently. Their eyes unmoving and unblinking, a stern look was shared by all. “As you may have guessed, we have been traveling through Slipspace. The UNSC Dublin is to be stationed in this system for the foreseeable future,” Frendsen paused in an attempt to maintain their attention, “this means that your prowlers are to be impounded onboard until your mission has been completed.” Violet-III groaned in unison. “This is just temporary,” he said reassuringly, “we don’t know what kind of presence remains in-system and we’d prefer it if they didn’t think ONI were involved.” They may not have liked the idea, but the Spartans could not argue with its logic. Aragon, despite it only being fifty-eight light years from Earth, was one of the beating hearts of the Outer Colonies and with that came a healthy distrust of the famed Office of Naval Intelligence. Frendsen’s caution was not unwarranted. “That’s everything,” Frendsen said clapping his hands together. “I’ll have your AIs brief you when you’re on your way to the surface. Make sure you take separate pelicans. I’ll see you soon.” Frendsen stood up from the table and collected the briefs he had handed out before stuffing them into his suitcase. He nodded at his Spartans and headed out, leaving the door open as he did so. Violet-III lethargically got to their feet. The sounds of chairs scraping along the floor uncomfortably rang in their ears. Then they too headed out after Frendsen, making their way to the hanger. “We shouldn’t have laughed,” John said as he and the rest of them put their helmets on. They would now talk on their private channel. “We all know he hates it.” Amy shrugged in response, “I know, but he can’t expect us to be surprised that ONI sometimes gets lost in their own shit.” “He’s just so earnest,” Clara chimed in. “I honestly believe he still thinks we’re those naïve fifteen-year-olds.” The four Spartans walking side-by-side along a ship corridor cut an impressive figure. Naval servicemen and women, along with their Marine counterparts, looked upon them with awe. Without fail, the ship’s inhabitants would quickly press themselves up against the wall and offer quick salutes to them as they walked by. Violet-III did not return them. “I wish they’d stop saluting us,” Josh said finally. “Our IFF does identify all of us as officers,” John retorted. “We both know that’s not why they’re saluting,” Josh spat. Amy placed a soft hand on his shoulder. Josh tapped the centre of his chest once with his right palm. Sorry, Gamma. A green light flashed up on Josh’s heads-up-display from Amy. The squad continued its march down to the Dublin’s hanger bay. The UNSC Dublin was an Epoch-class heavy carrier, one that had seen extensive combat during the Human-Covenant War. It was commanded by Admiral John O’Kelly. O’Kelly had made himself famous for his staunch defense of the Outer Colonies during the earliest and most brutal years of the war. His fame had increased further during his efficient ending of the bloody uprising on Kafka. The rousing speech he had given the fleet as they departed Earth for the rebelling colony had been replayed almost daily for months afterward. He was regarded as one of the saviours of Humanity as it teetered on the edge after the Human-Covenant War. This was a title he was embarrassed by. Violet-III had served on the warship for several months during the re-conquest of Kafka. Following that conflict, Frendsen had been allowed to use the carrier as his own personal base of operations. They were as familiar with its long corridors as they were with each other. It was, oddly enough, a home away from home. The time they spent on this wearied old carrier was as close as they got to a holiday. Josh keyed the elevator button. After a few short moments, it dinged and all four of them got in. They were a comical image as the four armoured behemoths struggled to find space inside the cramped walls of the elevator. The journey down to the hangar bay was a brief one, barely giving them time to adjust to the narrowed space. The doors opened to expose them to a bustling hangar bay. There was a cacophony of noise, as machinery and voices, both human and AI, filled the air. At the far end of the hangar, the two prowlers owned by Xiphos and Clodeim cut an imposing shadow over the entire floor. Directly to the left of them, they could see their two Pelican gunships being diligently prepped by the Dublin’s flight crew. Xiphos reached their Pelican first. Both Josh and Amy took turns to embrace the other members of Violet-III. “It was good to see you both again,” Amy said. “It had been too long.” “Theirs was not to reason,” John said. “Why? Do and die,” the three others replied in unison. “Good luck out there,” Josh said, “happy hunting.” John and Clara both took their first two fingers of their right hand and made a half circular motion across their visors. A Spartan smile; as rare as any precious gem. Xiphos watched their Gamma siblings embark on their pelican before they did the same. “Svara, what have you got for us,” Josh inquired as he climbed up onto the Pelican’s blood tray. He followed Amy into the cockpit. The celestial avatar their AI had chosen for himself appeared in front of them. “Amituofo,” it said tonelessly. WIP
Epilogue: Field Trip[]The dusty gravel road crunched under the tires of the HuCiv HC1500 Supreme as it rolled through the American Midwest. A passenger cabin was mounted in the back, capable of holding as many as fourteen passengers. Today it only hosted seven. On one side of the cabin interior sat a Sergeant Silverthorne, Major Duceppe, and Zachariah. On the other side, Daniele, Roxanne, Andra, and Merlin. It was quiet in the back of the vehicle, it been like that for the last two hours of a three-hour journey through the rural countryside. Merlin peered through the tinted one-way window adjacent from his seat, taking in the passing waves of yellowed prairie grass that extended toward the distant horizon. He wondered how the grass survived in this climate as he leaned his head against the window behind him, feeling the cool surface tickle his neck. Winter on Earth, at least in this area, was mild but significantly colder than what Merlin was used to. However, his previous point of reference was borderline-tropical, so it was a poor comparison. He examined the gray overcast sky and wondered where the Sun was. Arizona was supposed to be a sunny, desert province in North America, and yet, the cloud bank refused to part. The local star was obscured, barely a dull-yellow circle behind the stubborn haze. The wind danced across the plains outside, occasionally pounding the side of the HC1500 with a jostling whoosh. Another one arrived this time several magnitudes greater than previous, aggressively throwing the cabin back and forth. Merlin’s head bounced off the glass and back softly, but his sore stomach had other ideas. A thought slipped to the front of his mind; it imagined a strong gust of air slam against the cargo truck, tipping it one way and then the other. The truck rolled, spun out, and landed in a grassy ditch. Everyone climbed out, maybe a little hurt, but they were stranded – in the cold. His stomach lurched at the daydream causing him to wince uncomfortably. One thing led to another. A closely-wrapped arm around Merlin’s waist slipped a little. In response, his back flared up, causing him to squirm and curve his spine to release the tension. The arm relinquished quickly, recognizing someone in pain. Merlin blinked in rapid succession, a reaction to the imaginary needles jabbing him in places underneath his abdominal cast. “Sorry,” Andra whisper-hissed in alarm next to Merlin. Her arms were raised up in the air as if in surrender. After the boy failed to respond to her apology, she moved her arms just above his shoulders, preparing to provide renewed support. Zachariah glanced up at his teammates from his personal distraction before glancing back down without a word. “It-it’s fine…” Merlin eased back into his chair once the pain subsided, cautiously shifting his spine until he was comfortable again. Andra, after a couple more seconds of silence, stopped eyeing him in alarm, and gingerly wrapped her arm around his shoulders. Even after she hurt him, she still kept close. She squeezed her hand around Merlin’s left shoulder and planted it there, unwavering. A glance in her direction only revealed a distant look in her eyes, tiredly directed toward the fields outside. He glanced between the window and her, looking for the unseen thing she was focused on. Afraid to break the silent spell hanging over the passenger cabin, Merlin said nothing and Andra did the same. Her shoulders eventually slackened, and she leaned her head full of brown hair against his shoulder, returning to a state of relaxed contentment. An adventurous strand of her hair danced toward the boy’s cheek which he kindly responded to with a short puff of air, chasing it away. Merlin considered whether to lay his own head against Andra’s but decided against it after a second of contemplation. He laid his skull against the glass instead, welcoming the familiar chill that mingled with his short black hair. His eyes darted back to the pressure of Andra’s head against his shoulder and considered the recent development of the gesture. The Spartan girl had always been close with him, ever since their first tumble together in the mud on Argus V. They were best friends, a bond that went beyond the fire-tested resilience of their Spartan team’s family unit. And yet, since the day Joshua-G024 got carried away in training and broke Merlin’s right arm and three ribs, she had grown very touchy – almost like she was afraid she was going to lose him. He liked the feeling, the constant reminder that the one he trusted most was nearby. However, the recent development was still unexpected. Back in training, this kind of behavior had been discouraged exhaustively – drilled into the Spartans’ heads regarding the kinds of comradery that promoted strong unit cohesion. And now, Andra was blatantly ignoring it, in front of a superior officer even. Merlin turned to the officer in question, Major Duceppe. The man was lost with a content smile on his face as he worked his way through what appeared to be the second half of a decently-sized hardcover novel. It was a worn blue cover as if it had been read more than once. The book’s title, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, glinted of gold lettering in the natural light around them. Well, maybe that explained why he wasn’t saying anything. The Spartan looked over the vehicle interior, assessing every detail for something of interest but intentionally avoiding the windows and the passing plains beyond. His stomach already sent a clear message, he would not look outside again until the truck reached its destination. A glance at the unfamiliar individual at the front end of the cabin, Sergeant Silverthorne, featured a man dressed in a full kit of the UNSC Army’s standard battle-dress uniform with URNA Desert-type camouflage. A plain service cap covered his pale-bald head. A BR55 Service Rifle was nestled between his boots and thighs. He seemed like a dutiful, experienced man, typing away at a military-grade laptop. Merlin's eyes dragged away from the rather uninteresting Army man, they instead settled on the heavily-armored duo: Roxanne and Daniele. Twice their usual bulk out of armor, the SPI-clad Spartans were indistinguishable from one another with exception to behavior. Their fishbowl MIRAGE-class helmets obscured all facial details but their friend's watchful eyes picked up on who was who. Roxanne was the sprawled-out girl half on her seat and half in the passenger cabin's open aisle. Her head was resting on Daniele's armored thigh. Daniele and his helmet were glaring down at a grasped computer tablet in a manner that Merlin vaguely understood to be concentration. Evidently, it was a game given the small Spartan running around shooting aliens on screen. And then there was Zachariah sitting right in front of Merlin. The tinkering boy was reaching in and out of a small tool pouch at his feet and flipping through a paper manual regarding the M6I automatic magnum in his lap. A disassembled MA5D assault rifle and M7 submachine gun rested neatly on the seat next to him. Of five SPARTAN-IIIs present on this road trip, only two were dressed in armor. As he understood it, the get-up was a kind of gesture to the combat unit they were meeting. Many things about this trip were unusual, or at least did not add up to Merlin's rationality. This was his team's first time on Earth but they didn't get time to offload their few belongings and Spartan armor from the UNSC Infinity. Apparently, that was to be handled by someone else. Instead of putting the Spartans on a Pelican flight directly to their destination, they were ordered onto a nondescript cargo truck and told to dress like civilians. Only two Spartans were asked to wear armor, and not even of the MJOLNIR variety. Instead, Daniele and Roxanne volunteered to wear the less-protective Semi-Powered Infiltration armor, favored by SPARTAN-III suicide troops in the Covenant War. With his own broken arm and ribs, Merlin was unable to put on armor for the time being. Along with Andra and Zachariah, they attempted their best to appear civilian with the limited options available in the UNSC Infinity's shipboard exchange. It was all so strange, coming from the harsh training of Argus V, the aggressive tutelage of Amy-G094 and Joshua-G024, and now here, where regulations and practicality were being thrown aside at a world-shattering pace. He had asked Duceppe about the odd mission orders and the man's only response was "relax." Merlin wasn't quite satisfied with the vague answer but the Major was his direct superior. He did as he was told. Time continued to pass and the rumbling in the less-than-paved road continued unobstructed. Merlin's lack of concentration on anything meaningful left him focusing on the individual vibrations passing through the glass behind his head. His eyelids drooped, and eventually, they closed entirely into darkness. He awoke to someone tapping his knee. "Yo, Merl. Doll. We're here." Merlin cracked an eye open to the sight of Zachariah leaning towards him on bent knees. He felt soft hair pressed under his cheek that smelled of salt and flour, the scent of military-issued shampoo. "Zach. Would you stop calling me that?" Andra's voice growled from a place between Merlin's shoulder and head. "Nah," Zachariah responded, standing up. He picked up the MA5D from the seat next to him and threw it to someone out of view, outside the truck. "Thanks," Daniele called to Zach. They were stopped. Merlin's eyes opened fully and his head lifted off the top of Andra's. A glance at the passenger cabin told him that everyone was beginning to exit the vehicle. Daniele, Roxanne, and Sergeant Silverthorne were already out the door. Major Duceppe eyed Merlin and Andra from his seat with a wordless half-smirk. "Alright, that's everyone then. Out we go." The Major announced, gesturing them out the back with an open hand. Merlin stood slowly, careful not to twist his slung right arm too quickly or to not overuse his abdomen. Andra was careful behind him, always a hand's distance away. He winced at the effort but pushed past the minor pain, mostly unbothered. This was nothing compared to that metal knee Joshua had shoved in his side, the catalyst for the injuries. That trainer was a menace, having little restraint or respect for his junior Spartan. He didn't understand it, however, he accepted it. This wasn't his first training injury or his first one motivated by personal reasons. Taking pain was part of the Spartan experience, he would recover. The three Spartans still in the compartment filed out quickly: Zachariah in front, Merlin next, Andra behind him. Duceppe took up the rear. Upon exiting the HC1500 Supreme, the Spartans were welcomed to a sight unlike anything witnessed by them before. Infantry fighting vehicles lined up next to one another over trampled grass. Tanks were pointed toward a giant hole, a crater in the earth. Quick-assembly and prefabricated structures were strewn about doubling for cover and concealment and for meeting the amenity needs of military forces. Military vehicles were everywhere and so were military personnel. Men and women in uniforms similar to Sergeant Silverthorne passed in and out of buildings and between vehicles and tents. Above them, guard towers, floodlights, and flagpoles stood tall. The phrase 'tent city' was an apt description of the combat staging area. Sergeant Silverthorne was standing off to the side with Roxanne and Daniele, each lightly armed with weaponry, courtesy of Zachariah. The Sergeant gestured for the Spartans and Duceppe to follow him as he guided the group toward somewhere deeper in the encampment. It was clear that the soldiers did not see children here often. Darting eyes from UNSC personnel did not latch on to Roxanne or Daniele, instead, they locked onto Merlin, Andra, and Zachariah. Even in civilian clothes, toughened bodies, and unnatural heights, they still did not appear as adults. The soldiers could tell, there was something unusual about the strangers walking among them. No one spoke to them, no one shouted out an objection to children being in the staging area. He still felt it though, the confusion and paranoia. Without his armor, Merlin felt naked in front of all these judging eyes. Andra fell into step with him, snaking an arm lightly around his waist. Major Duceppe stepped in line next to Andra and looked as if he was going to say something, however, the challenging gleam in her eyes made him swallow his words. The Army officer walked past Andra and fell into step with Silverthorne instead, leaving his two subordinates to walk together in silence. "Hey, Merlin! Look over there." Zachariah called out, pointing toward a purple mountain range in the distance. "What is that?" "You don't recognize the shape? That's a Covenant cruiser!" Merlin's eyes widened, locking onto the object of interest due north of their position. Upon closer inspection – the rounded, bulbous hull, the metallic glint, and the dirt lining its sides – clearly the edge of a crater. It was definitely a Covenant warship, a crashed one. "That's the Wonderous Resolve. It was part of the Covenant's invasion fleet when they hit Earth in late 2552," Sergeant Silverthorne hollered, speaking to the Spartans for the first time. "We hit it with a number of nuclear missiles before it came down over there. There are another fifteen or so sites like it dotting this basin." "Is it still radioactive?" Roxanne asked from right behind Silverthorne. "Fatally. We deployed radiation scrubbers as early as December 2552. Nanomachines, you get the idea. However, we also programmed the scrubbers to maintain and increase the radioactivity presence on all known Covenant wreckages in the area in case the 'locals' attempt to salvage them for one reason or another." "Locals?" Merlin called up to the front of the group, directing his question to Silverthorne. "It's best we show you, the fireworks are going to begin soon." The assembled group of Spartans and Army personnel arrived at a large metal box with several doors embedded in each side. Knocking on the nearest door, it took a few moments for a response but a dark-skinned Army Sergeant First Class eventually peered out and looked the Spartans over. The name "Howard" was velcroed to his collar under his rank insignia. "These are the Spartans they sent us? Aren't they kind of young?" "They're Spartans. This is Major Kyser Duceppe, he's an Army liaison with the Office of Naval Intelligence and formerly with the Ohio National Guard. This is his unit, Spartan Team Boson." “Sir. Spartans.” The noncommissioned officer saluted the Major and greeted his subordinates. The Spartans said nothing to the upper-level enlisted-man but Merlin nodded to him out of respect. The Sergeant First Class smiled awkwardly at the injured Spartan before turning back to Silverthorne. "Take them to the observation point. The Air Force boys are telling me their fast-movers are two minutes from Point Striker-Charlie. Bombs will fly fifteen seconds after that." "Roger that. I'll take them now then Sergeant." "Dismissed." Silverthorne turned from the combat information center and proceeded to take his group back in the direction of their cargo truck. The Sergeant First Class closed the CIC door behind him. A feminine-sounding radio announcement pierced the air, "Attention, all combat personnel, please report to your action stations. Operation begins in two minutes, secure all doors and prepare close-in weapon systems. Keep vigilant and barrels hot." Silverthorne quickened his pace, guiding the Spartans and Duceppe to a canopied pavilion at the back end of the staging area. From here, Merlin noted its distinguishably higher elevation than the rest of the camp, he could see just above the vehicles and buildings and the crater beyond them with the entire military installation gravitating toward it. “Inside. Everyone. Now.” “What’s this operation?” Zachariah asked, looking between the group's two adults. “Operation: YOSEMITE. You’re about to see for yourself.” Silverthorne cryptically explained. Merlin noted that the pavilion was lined on one wall by several screens, the other side by a few benches, plastic chairs, and a few tables. He grasped Andra’s arm and gently pulled it away from his body. With her eyes on him, he shuffled over to one of the benches and took a seat on it, facing the large monitor. She quickly followed, taking a seat next to him. A countdown appeared on screen as it flickered to the perspective of an aircraft’s external flight camera. While there was no audio, the footage of familiar plains and a long country road quickly informed Merlin what he was looking at. The other room attendants quickly found their own seats and silence reigned. Listening closely, Merlin could hear the low drone of an approaching aircraft. “B-65 Shortswords,” Silverstone commented. The droning noise multiplied and came closer and closer and then completely passed overheard. The noise peaked and then began to recede. That was when the explosions began. The video feed showed bombs descend from cargo bays, one at a time, in rapid succession. Merlin felt the rumbling in the ground. One after another after another. Boom. Boom. Boom. Looking outside the pavilion, Merlin saw dozens of small cylinders descend from the black wedges speeding quickly away from the bombing area. The concussion from the bombs rushed across the plains, flattening prairie grass and slamming dust along the wake of shockwaves. The bombing carried on for a good two or three minutes before ceasing with a final crackle of rolling thunder. The bombers ascended back into the clouds, disappearing into the overcast sky. When the dust settled, Merlin's breath hitched at the sight of the field. Caved-in holes dotted the landscape, subterranean cavities beneath the Earth. Something scuttled about in there, in the absolute dark. And then, they rose. Thousands upon thousands of creatures sped up into the afternoon air seeking the menace that trashed their home and interrupted their slumber. They were dark in color, but as they zoomed up and out in intelligent patterns, metallic glints of blues, greens, reds, and yellows adjourned the creatures' forms. "Yanme'e. Buggers." Andra muttered next to Merlin, recognizing the alien insectoid species racing out of the holes in the ground and the crater that served as their primary doorway. Air warning sirens echoed across the plains, erupting from the UNSC Army staging area. Attracted to the noise, the Buggers turned to race at the encampment and the pavilion as well. "Uh, should we move to a more secure...?" Roxanne asked, her helmet tilted to look at Silverthorne and Duceppe who seemed too relaxed for their own good. "No. Take a seat, this is the best part," Silverthorne replied. The sirens wailed on but an even louder sound drowned them out, the noise of pure terror filling the air. Lances of gunfire erupted from anti-aircraft weaponry across the camp. Nearly one hundred rounds per second, the Gatling-style M71 Scythe anti-aircraft guns shredded the flocks of insect aliens, bullets and molten lead splashing them from the sky by the hundreds. The smashed carcasses fell to the Earth like black snow. The guns didn't stop and the bugs didn't stop either, becoming long distorted columns being cut down by laser-like streams of gunfire. Merlin could only gap at the display. "Fuck yeah!" Zachariah shouted from off to the side. "This is how Earth handles aliens," Silverthorne commentated over the gunfire, "if we can't evict them from the planet peacefully or integrate them within UEG standards, we put them down. This is the fifth Yanme'e hive we've encountered since 2553." "Impressive," Daniele commented. "If you're all wondering why you're here, your unit is joining our own. Duceppe wanted to give you a front row seat of what we specialize in. Consider this a field trip, enjoy yourselves. If anyone wants a drink, there's a fridge in the back with sodas." Silverthorne explained, pointing to the mini-kitchen at the back of the pavilion. "I wanted to ease you guys into the job before we got you settled in New Phoenix," Duceppe added. "Even if the Covenant War is over, there's still much to do." "Is it really this easy?" Roxanne asked, pointing to the display of military superiority. "Oh heck no. This is the easy part, you guys won't have to participate this time around but after we burn the squatters from their caves, we got to go in and make sure they and the Queen are dead. We asked that two of you at least wear SPI in case we needed Spartans on hand but generally, we haven't needed them for the last five years so we should be fine," Silverthorne explained. "Welcome to Earth, and welcome to the Internal Investigations Unit 419. We like to call ourselves The Exterminators." |
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Halo: Tempered Scalpel
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