Halo Short Story: Flight Reflex

[Noble Ire]

I started writing this on a whim, and I'm really not sure how it turned out. I'm about at the midpoint of the story (perhaps a bit beyond) and I'd like some comments on it before I continue.
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Flight Reflex


Mopht was not very smart. Nor was he brave, or even very strong. He did know how to fight though; he could carry and fire a weapon with fair proficiency and even execute simple maneuvers when it was required of him. He could follow and understand most orders, and was loyal to those he knew to a fault. However, the crown jewel of his meager collection of abilities, the attribute that had saved his life on many an occasion in the past, was his ability to flee. And right now, Mopht was exploiting that one distinguishing feature for all it was worth.

On the pyramid of social, military, and religious classes that was the Covenant, the Grunts, or Unngoy as they called themselves, resided on the absolute lowest tier. They were foot soldiers of the holy empire, and its path to power and dominance was drenched in the blood of billions of Mopht’s ancestors. In the eyes of the Prophets, religious leaders and rulers of the Covenant, the stocky, diminutive reptiliods were no more than tools, stepping stones used to pave the way to the fabled Great Journey. Even the Elites, driving force of the Covenant military machine, regarded them as inferior and expendable, although they were generally more understanding of the Grunt’s motives and needs.

Mopht and his kin however did not resent their place in life; their kind had been bred to follow the word of the Prophets and Elites absolutely for uncounted generations. Certainly, this service all but guaranteed each and every one of the methane-breathing foot soldiers a brief and largely unpleasant existence, but Mopht and the others truly believed that this servitude would ensure their salvation when the prophesied cleansing fire swept the cosmos of non-believers and propelled the followers of the holy Covenant along the Great Journey to the paradise of the gods. And besides, if carrying out the will of the Prophets meant a warm food nipple and a cozy sleeping alcove at the end of the day, it was alright with Mopht.

At that moment however, neither spiritual salvation nor food was on the little alien’s mind. Raggedly drinking in cold methane fed into his tubular breath mask from a triangular tank on his back, Mopht pumped his short legs as fast as they could go, flat scaled feet pounding against cold, hard earth. As he ran, arms flopping widely, he thought he heard a sickeningly familiar sound resound from far behind, and forced his stocky legs to propel him even faster. Even though he was abnormally fast for his species, Mopht’s short limbs still carried him at a rate slower than most other Covenant races, including the Jackal who was running alongside him.

Mopht hated Jackals. The featherless avian warriors, while technically of the same low status as Grunts, regarded themselves as being physically and mentally superior, and didn’t miss an opportunity to insult and jib them about it. Fris was no different, and since he and Mopht had been assigned to the same barracks unit, the Jackal had selected the Grunt as his personal outlet for abuse. Whether it was rest period, mess, or even daily prayer, the lanky being tormented him with a wide variety of creative insults and covert physical assaults.

For once though, the Jackal was silent, all but ignoring Mopht as they ran, his pace slowed by a deep gash on his right leg that oozed phosphorescent blood. His shield arm hung limply to one side, gauntlet still generating a shimmering, ovoid barrier of electromagnetically contained plasma. In the Jackal’s other hand was clutched a claw-like plasma pistol, standard Covenant sidearm. Nervously, Mopht glanced at his own weapon, a half-depleted energy carbine taken from a recently deceased Elite superior. If another of the officers saw the unqualified Grunt with the powerful weapon, he would most likely be severely punished, but at the moment he didn’t care. Its weight in his hands was comforting.

The two Covenant soldiers were racing along an ancient dirt path hemmed in by high granite faces on either side that wound its way along the crest of a rocky hill, weaving around huge boulders and other obstructions. Despite his injury, Fris was still faster than Mopht, and reached the top of the steep pass first, halting where rock walls tapered away at the peak of the hill.

“Hurry up, plug face!” the Jackal hissed in the Covenant common tongue as Mopht scrambled to reach him.

After half a minute of weary struggling, the Grunt tumbled out into the open area where Fris stood impatiently, his pistol pointed warily down the path from which they had both emerged. Overwhelmed by a desperate desire for rest, Mopht flopped immediately into a sitting position, breathing in recycled atmosphere gratefully from his large back-mounted tank. Fris glared down at the creature with beady eyes. “No time for rest, gas sucker,” he snarled reproachfully through his beak-like jaw. To drive home the point, the Jackal landed a kick on the Grunt’s thigh with his uninjured leg. Mopht growled angrily, but complied with the order almost in spite of himself, straining to push his body into a standing position. Mopht was used to taking orders, and even though Fris was a mere Jackal, he outranked him. Or at least Mopht thought he did. He wasn’t really thinking straight at the moment.

“What should we do now?” Mopht asked through his breath mask, voice uneven as he tried to clear his rattled mind. The Jackal was motionless for a moment, evidently trying to organize his own thoughts, and then turned away, staring out at the scene now visible beyond the high hilltop. Mopht followed his gaze, and was greeted by a panoramic view of a down sloping, rocky valley, lit only by the waning glow of the setting sun, which had all but disappeared behind the huge gas giant that hung in the sky above. Covered in towering outcrops of softly-hewed rock, narrow ravines, and low, uneven gorges, the landscape was a veritable maze, bordered on three sides by sharply dropping cliffs, beyond which vast seas and grassy plains stretched out as far as Mopht could see.

The most notable landmark set in the spectacular view was a wide, open clearing amongst the bare shelves of bedrock on the very edge of the cliff face, in the middle of which sat a large, round platform, a purplish dot at this distance. It was a gravity lift, and shooting up directly from it was a shimmering tube of light more than three hundred of Mopht’s pod mates tall (by his reckoning), which cast the surrounding area in a pale glow. Connected to this transport tube’s upper end, a massive starship hung suspended in midair, its turquoise hull still vibrant even in the waning light. Kilometers long, the ship was elegantly shaped with a curved, teardrop outline, and looked like some vast, armored sea creature. For a moment, Mopht was overwhelmed by the majesty of the distant vessel, his fears and pains forgotten. He couldn’t recall ever seeing his mother vessel, the Truth and Reconciliation as the Elites called it, from this vantage point before, hanging there as if the gods themselves were holding it.

The Grunt’s brief religious reverie was broken abruptly as Fris shoved him from behind, almost tipping him onto the bare ground. “There. Movement,” the Jackal hissed, pointing to the rocky path that wound below them.

His heart beating faster, Mopht strained his eyes against the dim light, following Fris’ indicating finger to a narrow pass into a rock face. For a moment nothing was visible beyond the narrow gap, but even as he began to calm down slightly, a tall figure flashed past the opening and disappeared beyond the other side.

The Grunt jumped back from the crest, letting out a yelp of dismay. “They found us! We’re doomed!”

The look on Fris’ face made it clear that he was in a state of mixed fear and anger, and of a far fouler mood than usual. The bird-like soldier scanned the hill once more with keen eyes and then shoved Mopht back towards the path they had just exited. “Shut up, cowardly worm thing. Stand at the path mouth with me, it is coming this way, alone. We can make an ambush here; it will not be able to escape us. I am tired of running, time to fight!”

Jackals were just as devout as the other species of the Covenant, and most were braver and more skilled than their Grunt counterparts, but, Mopht reflected, they lacked any trace of good sense. “Maybe we should keep running,” he suggested hopefully. “There should be a Banshee patrol out here somewhere. If we find them, they can take us back to the home ship, to safety.” Seemingly alarmed at being questioned, Fris hit Mopht across the head with his pistol, the polished material of the device thudding dully against the Grunt’s dense skull. The blow was not particularly painful, it seemed that Fris was too tired to carry out his rebukes with the usual ferocity, but Mopht got the message, and reluctantly moved to one side of the pass exit.

It did not take long for their pursuer to round a distant bend in the walled path, but in the increasingly dim light, neither of them could make out more than a huge, muscular shape. Mopht’s heart stopped, and almost before Fris had barked the order to open fire, the Grunt’s stubby finger depressed his weapon’s firing stud. A livid thread of green light split the dusk air and a patch of loose soil behind the approaching figure exploded into a cloud of muddy steam. Fris opened fire opened fire as well, small globs of glowing plasma pouring from his pistol in an erratic stream.

Fortunately for the target, Mopht had never fired a weapon of the size and make of the carbine before, and so his faltering aim caused all of his shots to miss by a wide margin. Fris however was proficient with his sidearm, and his keen eyes allowed him to land two hits on the target before it disappeared behind a large fallen rock.

“Did you kill it?” Mopht whispered hopefully. “I don’t know. Could have been enough,” the Jackal snarled uneasily. “Go check.”

Mopht froze. He had seen how big that thing was, and now that he thought about it, it wasn’t likely that Fris’ two hits would have been enough to bring it down. Staring at the rock that hid the creature from view with terrified eyes, Mopht shook his head violently. “You go. You’re the one who shot it.”

Rather than reply, Fris kicked Mopht forcefully, propelling him several feet down the darkened path and knocking him on his stomach, again. Hating Jackals more than ever, the little Grunt picked himself up, and brandished his weapon tightly. Sparing one last contemptuous look at Fris, he began to creep towards the rock, muttering inarticulate curses as he went.

As quietly as he could manage in the ungainly environmental gear, the Grunt reached the near side of the obstruction and paused, listening closely for any sound from behind the rock. Aside from the low howl of the wind above, nothing alerted his small ear nodes to any movement, and he began to take in more measured and calm breaths. It was dead, it had to be. Emboldened, he checked his weapon, braced himself, and then leapt out to the side, carbine swinging to bear on the rear of the rock barrier.

Something very hard collided with Mopht’s chest, and he flew backwards, blinded by the sudden concussion. Then there was a crushing pressure on his torso and he felt his body be wrenched into the air, his chest plate creaking as something slowly began to crush and warp it. Knowing his end was near, Mopht began to struggle madly, legs and arms flailing as he tried to fend of the growing force on his body. It was no use though, and after a moment of hopeless failing, the crushing weight on his chest and waist pulsed, causing the Grunt to shake violently and drop his borrowed carbine. The tremor also seemed to clear Mopht’s vision, and a blurry shape began to register in his concussed eyes. As the dark form sharpened, the Grunt’s jaw dropped. Before him was the bloodied, angry face of an Elite.
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Hechsan’talkee was a wall of a creature, more muscular and bulky than most of the Elites who populated the Truth and Reconciliation. Mopht had seen the major only once or twice during his service on the cruiser, but he was widely known for his unquestioned obedience to the Prophets, as well as his skill at hand to hand combat. Even though Grunts were bred to obey and revere the Elites without exception, some of the older soldiers were embittered by the condescending distain and arrogant discipline that their kind was often forced to endure under them. However, Hechsan’talkee’s reputation as a fair and level headed commander, as well as various rumors that had been spread about him (like an incident involving the unarmed defeat of three simian Brute warriors) ensured reverence from the lesser Grunts and Jackals.

So when, that very morning, Mopht learned he was to be deployed into a patrol unit under Hechsan’talkee’s command while the Truth and Reconciliation berthed in atmosphere for repairs, he had been ecstatic. Their superiors had not deigned it necessary to inform the lower rank soldiers where they were berthed, but a rumor had reached Mopht’s ears that they were over a world the gods themselves had forged, and this news elevated the Grunt’s elation to a point of almost animalistic revelry. It was not difficult to please Mopht.

However, the assignment was not what he expected it to be. For one, there were only two other Grunts in the patrol, neither of them his pod mates. Four irritable Jackals were with them, Fris included, and the group was lead by Hechsan’talkee and a Blue-armored Elite Minor Mopht did not recognize. The Major was in a bad mood, perhaps irritated at having to command such a small and unimportant unit, and thus was prone to snap at and abuse any of his subordinates that fell behind as the patrol traversed the rocky cliffs and highlands that stretched out far below the sky-anchored starship. Mopht’s delusions about the Major dissolved quickly as the Elite’s mood grew fouler and the sun above grew hotter.

He was used to sharp discipline and was rarely resentful of the treatment he received for long, his kind were deserving of no better after all, but it made the long trek unpleasant nonetheless. The Grunts had difficulty keeping pace with the longer legged Elites and Jackals over the uneven and treacherous terrain, and the heat radiating from the sun-baked rock around them was excruciating. Mopht was from an arctic world, and had never been able to get acclimate himself to the sweltering climate present on seemingly all alien worlds.

As what he guessed to be midday passed, Hech’san’talkee had ordered a halt to the patrol and allowed his underlings a brief rest. They were in a deep bowl of rock, intersected by several paths that funneled down into the depression. Mopht and the other Grunts, brothers he gathered from their scattered breathless conversation during the long trek, had sought shelter from the blazing sun under an overhang that sat a dozen meters above the center of the basin. The Jackals also clustered together, hunting for small prey that dwelt in a narrow ravine which scored one side of the dip, slinging the occasional insult at the exhausted Grunts. Mopht did not mind though, he was simply glad for the cool and a chance to rest his sore feet. It would not last.
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Jolted back to coherence by a shake of the Elite Major’s massive hands, which were clamped over his waist and chest, Mopht attempted to speak, but his first whimpering words were cut short by a low, dangerous growl. “Why did you fire upon me, brainless wretch?”

Squirming miserably, Mopht tried to speak again. “I’m…I’m sorry, Excellency. We couldn’t see you well in the dark, thought you were the enemy. There was…” he trailed off. The Elite did not look convinced. Desperately, Mopht pointed up the path, where Fris stood nervously, unable to see what was occurring behind the boulder. “It was his idea! He ordered me to attack!” Hech’san’talkee glared at the barely visible Jackal, a low snarl emanating from his throat like the engine of a war machine. From this vantage point, Mopht could make out a huge dent in his superiors red skullcap, which increased his level of agitation and did nothing to improve the Elite’s toothy visage, pale and feral, rimmed with a pasty coating of purple blood, some of which still flowed from the hidden head wound and onto an extended, dripping jaw mandible.

After one last angry squeeze, Hechsan’talkee cast aside Mopht, who tumbled to the ground in a miserable heap. Noting the Grunt’s fallen weapon, the Major scooped it up and looked it over with an appraising eye. Satisfied that it was in working order, he turned an irritated gaze on the Grunt once again. “This is the weapon of an Elite. Remind me to have you punished for this breach of protocol upon our return to the ship.” Struggling to right his bruised and aching body, Mopht nodded weakly. “Of course Excellency.”

The two stood in the gathering darkness motionless for a moment, until Hech’san’talkee made an impatient gesture towards the distant Jackal. Gulping nervously, Mopht scurried around the boulder, and into Fris’ field of vision. “It’s okay, it was our superior,” the Grunt shouted, waving his arms, but before he could finish, a fist-sized ball of glowing plasma impacted the rock face to his right, melting a charred hole in the stone with a loud hiss. For what seemed the tenth time that day, Mopht’s survival instincts took control of his body and he found himself face down against the hard ground, the heat of several more blasts whizzing through where he had been a second before. The idiot Jackal was shooting at anything that moved now! Mopht fervently wished that the Major had not taken his carbine; the image of Fris’ ugly head in the crosshairs of a scope was especially appealing at the moment…

From behind, he heard an angered roar, and felt heavy footfalls race past as the Elite Major leapt over the Grunt’s prone form and charged full tilt at the trigger-happy Jackal. Clearing his eyes of dust and dirt, Mopht could make out the Hech’san’talkee’s huge silhouette running between streams of plasma fire, the occasional pulse impacting harmlessly against the Elite’s personal shielding system. Seconds later, the ominous boom of weapons fire was replaced by a brief screech and a low thud, and picking himself up, Mopht could see the Major pinning Fris to the ground with his knees and yelling something incomprehensible at him. The Jackal began to squirm and whimper, but Hech’san’talkee did not remove the weight, instead smashing the butt of his weapon on the frightened and bewildered creature’s armored chest over and over as he spewed curses and violent rebukes in his own tongue.

Mopht grinned behind his breath mask, relishing every distant squeal of pain. Fris’ comeuppance was well overdue, and the Grunt was just glad he was there to witness it. Filled with a new energy, he began to half walk, half limp towards the two soldiers, eager to get a closer look at the beating.

For some unknown reason though, before he had moved five steps, a cold chill ran down his spine. Mopht shivered uncomfortably and focused on the world outside Fris’ punishment with his sense, trying to locate the source of his sudden discomfort. From above, on the tops of the rock walls to either side perhaps, a sound drifted down; a strange and out of place sound, like some large insect scrambling through wet sand. His unease growing, the Grunt craned his neck and backed up against one side of the pass, trying to get a view of the top of one stone face. There was nothing there he could see, and when he focused on the sound again, he could no longer hear it, verbal abuse filling his ear nodes once again. Smirking, Mopht was about to turn back towards the other two, but a motion caught his eye, and the sound suddenly returned, louder and far more distinct. Barely visible over the wall’s crest, several small shapes, like the domed tops of food containers appeared, glistening eerily against the night sky. Then more appeared, and the mass of shapes began to move steadily across the wall’s top, streaming towards the two figures causing all the noise that split the silence of the night. As a faint squelching began to accompany the other sound, Mopht’s eyes began to widen, his brain rousing itself all too slowly.

The Grunt froze, pure terror consuming him. He had heard that sound before.
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“Look down there,” one of the Grunt brothers, Ichit, said, pointing curiously at the knot of Jackals who stood at the center of the rock basin. Mopht and Chmut, the second sibling, roused themselves from the shadowed rocks they were basking on and moved alongside their comrade. The four lanky soldiers below were conversing with each other excitedly, crouched around a narrow crevasse set in the bedrock. The rift, a few inches to half a meter at its widest point, split one side of the steep basin from brim to midpoint, stretching down into blackness. One of the Jackals, their commander judging by the colorful ornamentation on his armor, was kneeling on the ground with his arm jammed into a narrower section of the fissure, groping for something in the abyss.

“What are they doing?” Chmut mused, lazily balancing his plasma pistol on a leathery palm. “Don’t know,” Ichit replied, standing up straight to get a better view. “Jackals are always scavenging for things. Food maybe.”

“Perhaps one fell down the hole,” Mopht commented hopefully. The other two snickered; they disliked Jackals just as much as he did.

A cry from below turned their back to the lead Jackal, who was now leaning back from the crack, tugging on something beyond sight as he gibbered excitedly. The other Jackals began to shout in encouragement, and the growing commotion attracted the notice of Hechsan’talkee and his minor, who had been perched upon the opposite brim of the depression, monitoring the surrounding highland and checking their coordinates. The Major gestured to the excited Jackals, and the other Elite obediently gathered up his energy carbine and stalked down the smooth incline towards the group.

A second Jackal now had its arms jammed into the narrow crevasse, and the few words that wafted their way up to the Grunts on the wind indicated that they were close to extricating whatever they were after. “Maybe we should go see what they found,” Chmut said, reaching for his needler, a shell-shaped weapon covered with faintly glowing pink crystals, which exploded with devastating effect when fired. Ichit had lost interest in the affair however, and waved his hand dismissively, turning back towards the stone upon which he had been resting. “It’s probably just some bug, let them have it.” He flopped down upon his stone. “I like it just fine here.”

The other two moved to join him, but as soon as they had turned away, a piercing scream split the afternoon air. A cry not of happiness and anticipation as the last one had been, but one of pain. Rushing back to the edge of the overhang, the three Grunts could that the three lesser avian soldiers were stumbling back from the rift and their leader, who was writhing on the ground in pain, clubbing an object that was attached to his chest in desperation.

The blue-armored Elite sped his descent and began to lope towards the other warrior, who had begun to mouth something wordlessly, struggling reduced to muscle spasms. Tearing past the other soldiers, who looked on in confusion and shock, the Elite knelt down next to the stricken Jackal and placed his large hands on its bloodied chest. The object that had been attached to it was now gone, hidden by a large, gory hole which had appeared in the Jackal’s uniformed torso. Pausing only briefly, the minor Elite plunged a fist into the gapping wound and wrenched out an almost gelatinous orb of grayish white, which still clung to the limp body with an array of sinuous strands. The thing began to squirm, and a few strands lashed towards its attacker, who barked angrily and forcefully threw it away, the strands snapping. The orb fell to the ground several meters away, shook monetarily, and then began to deflate, thick liquid oozing from the points where the strands had snapped.

Even though he could barely make out what was happening, Mopht was suddenly frightened. Though his sympathy for the Jackal was minimal, he had never before witnessed such a strange and sudden death. The Major had also seen the incident, and was scrambling down the far wall towards his subordinates, plasma rifle at the ready. “What happened?” Ichit breathed, similarly effected.

“I don’t know, but the Elites seem worried. Maybe there is an attack coming,” the second brother said, glancing over his shoulder nervously. Fear of being separated from the group at such a time overriding the need for rest, Grunts quickly gathered up their gear and scrambled out from the shaded hollow, heading directly for the milling remnant of the Jackal squad.

When they reached the rest of the Covenant force, Mopht noticed that the Elite was cradling the hand he had used to expel the tentacle thing; it was covered in a dozen cuts and discolored bruises. That and the grizzly corpse of the Jackal leader made him increasingly nervous, causing him to being glancing over his shoulder as well, scanning the perimeter of the bowl and the length of the ravine for potential attackers.

The Grunt had only seen actual combat once before in his life, a small riot on some outer territory food processing world, the name of which he had never even bothered to learn. He and several of his pod mates had been part of the second assault wave against a small group of heretics, towering simian Brutes who had entrenched themselves in an equipment storage structure. He had seen many of his comrades and friends die on that day, blown apart by explosive ordinance and crushed by the muscular beast’s final berserker charge. Mopht did not resent the fact that Grunt casualties would always be the highest in any engagement, it was the will of the Prophets, but he did realize that if fighting came to him again, death would likely follow soon after. This consideration seemed lost upon the other two Grunts though, who were now too absorbed in the dead Jackal to worry about further attacks. Most of his kind tried not to consider even the possibility of death until battle was already upon them, but Mopht was different that way. He always thought about his own imminent demise.

Hechsan’talkee assessed the scene quickly upon his arrival, and closely inspected the shriveled remains of the grayish orb and the crack it had emerged from. Then, in a commanding and unwavering tone, he barked a short command, and his soldiers snapped to attention. “We are returning to the ship. Kasisan’mechim, take the Grunts and move to point. Secure the exit path for the rest of us.” The blue-armored Elite nodded a stiff salute and ordered the Grunts to arm their weapons and be on the alert. The two brothers quickly removed the fire inhibitors from their weapons and hastened after the already climbing Elite, but Mopht remained immobile, his hand frozen centimeters from his pistol’s control stud, eyes locked on a point behind the red-armored Major.

A half dozen meters away from the dispersing assemblage, from a wider point of the crevasse, two small creatures had appeared, rising from the abyss in an almost bounce-like motion. They were about the size of a Grunts head; rough, ridged, amorphous sacks of pasty, almost translucent white. They were covered in numerous thin tentacles, spongy lumps and blisters, and emitted a low squelching, scrabbling sound as they began to half crawl, half leap towards the unsuspecting Hechsan’talkee, who was issuing orders to the equally oblivious Jackals. As Mopht watched, three more of the things bounced into view, and then four after them. The Grunt was completely frozen, unable to even call out a warning to his superior, fear and confusion filling his mind as if some cerebral dam had just burst. Suddenly, in a moment of clarity, a single thought, an instinct hardwired to his brain, pushed forth, absolute and undeniable. FLEE.

Trembling, Mopht began to back away, and Hechsan’talkee noted his odd behavior. “You heard my orders,” he growled, irritated. “Rejoin your formation or I will…” The scream of a nearby Jackal interrupted the Major, who snapped around just in time to see a white glob rocketing at his face.

Mopht was running now, scrambling up the bowl perimeter, away from the spewing fissure. Weapons fire and confused shouting filled the air, and the soldiers up ahead turned to face the source of the conflagration of sound. The other Grunts hesitated, shocked by what they saw, but the Elite immediately snapped his carbine into firing position, firing emerald threads of energy down the incline with deadly accuracy. By the time Mopht reached them, the other two had begun to fire as well, Chmut’s needler reigning arcs of vibrant crystal that added to the chaos below. His mind still driven by the survival instinct, Mopht tried to push past the firing line, but the Elite stuck out one leg, halting his progress.

“Turn and fight, Grunt coward,” the warrior growled, still firing his weapon in short, controlled bursts. Mopht’s senses screamed at him, told him to keep on running, but this was the direct order of an Elite, and he could not refuse. Drinking in cold methane to calm his nerves and steady his hands, he reluctantly released his pistol’s safety and turned back towards the fray.

There were now dozen of the ridged ball creatures in the basin, many more in shredded fragments on the ground or pouring forth from the ravine. Hechsan’talkee and tow of the Jackals were fighting the growing horde madly, kicking, clawing, and firing frantic pulses of plasma when they got the chance. The creatures jumped forward in large groups, ignoring the bursts of energy that liquefied their brethren and limbs that crushed others as they tried to gain purchase on the struggling forms with their flailing tentacles. One of the Jackals had already fallen, and was being engulfed by a cloud of the grayish beasts, one of which was hunched over its victim’s chest. Several rapid bursts from an appendage hidden under the thing’s mass of tentacles tore the soldier’s armor back, and the ball quickly burrowed into his chest cavity, blood bubbling out in carnal torrent as it dug.

Two of the blobs flung themselves at Hechsan’talkee’s personal shield, and exploded with surprising force, causing the barrier to flicker uncertainly. He stumbled and fell back, firing at a new group of the creatures even as he tried to regain his balance. The Elite’s weapon spewed a hail of blue bolts of plasma into the incoming back, destroying seven of them before its power cell overloaded and was forced to pause as jets of overheated waste gas poured from the rifle’s side vents. “Fall back!” the Major roared, bashing another of the creatures with his bare fist. The two Jackals were already scrambling backwards up the slope when the order was delivered, but seeing their commander flee as well sped them up considerably.

Trying to keep from hitting one of the retreating soldiers, Mopht gulped and fired another blast into the pursuing pack of orb-things, causing two of them to pop, showering their comrades with viscous liquid. Beside him, Chmut carefully loaded a new clip of luminescent crystal shards into his weapon and steadying himself, let loose. A dozen bright flashes in quick succession sent twelve of the shards into the air, and each one used its own magnetic field to lock onto a bounding orb. Half of the rounds hit a pack of creatures that had just exited a section of the crevasse, and a rippling fireball of small explosions swept through them, vaporizing every one in a chain reaction of detonating crystal and combustible flesh. The other half of the rounds pelted a group of creature that were attempting to overtake one of the Jackals, who’s pistol had been drained and lay discarded some distance behind him.

Several of the orbs exploded immediately, but some of the shards simply stuck in their targets, incendiary energies still cycling to critical. With one last lunge, the doomed beings burst forward, overtaking the fleeing Jackal and exploding with enough force to knock him off his feet. Almost instantly, another ball-thing was upon him, ignoring frantic blows as it latched onto his neck. The thing’s tentacles bunched up around the lanky warrior’s long neck and the appendage amidst them, a long, serrated spike of bone, shot forth and began to gyrate madly. With a spray of blood exiting his gapping mouth, the terrified victim struggled for a few short moments, and then fell silent, allowing the creature to burrow unimpeded as wave after wave of its kin flooded past.

As Mopht’s pistol began to sputter from overuse, Hechsan’talkee and the remaining Jackal reached the redoubt position, but they did not pause there, instead continuing to back swiftly up the incline towards its edge, weapons blazing. The Elite minor paused to shove another energy clip into his carbine and yelled out the order to follow the major, one which the Grunts were happy to obey. As they fled, the minor plucked a small globe from his ammo belt and depressed a control on it, causing it to ignite with a blue, ghostly flame. He tossed the object down the incline towards the nearest pack and turned to run before he could see the results, but grenade flew true, landing on the ground in the midst of the creatures. They paid it no heed, even as it began to course with arching energy, and then detonated, expelling a large cloud of superheated plasma that swept through the creature’s disorderly ranks, killing a dozen of them in an instant. The forward most swarm of ball creatures was dwindling under the combined firepower of the retreating remnant of the patrol, but an ever greater horde was massing around the ravine, and even as more of the skull-sized creatures poured forth, a new menace climbed into view, pushing through the rift’s widest part.

Tall and bulky, it was a mass of the same sickly material that made up the smaller monsters. Its arms and legs were splayed out at odd angles, and its body was covered in various tentacles and protrusions that twitched and bubbled as the thing moved. The abomination had no head, instead sporting an array of long, chitinous stalks tipped with irregular brown clumps which grew out from between its broad shoulders. It thrashed about on unsteady legs, as if gaining its bearings, and then, spotting the Covenant soldiers, burst into an alarmingly fast run. Hechsan’talkee’s rifle pulsed twice, and the creature’s left arm turned into vapor, but it kept coming, seemingly oblivious of the loss.

The other Elite zeroed in one the thing’s badly scared chest with his carbine’s scope, but before he could squeeze of a single shot, the creature’s legs bent slightly, and it leapt into the air with force and speed Mopht had never witnessed before. Both he and the Elite attempted to escape the living projectile, which crossed the remaining distance between them in seconds, but the taller warrior was intercepted nonetheless and forced to the ground by the concussion of the impact.

Desperately, the Elite tried to jam his weapon into his attacker’s torso, but a single powerful swipe from the thing’s remaining arm knocked the carbine out of his hand and then pulverized his head, nearly tearing it free of the spinal column. Splattered with gore, the monster attempted to lash out at the cowering Mopht next, but with a vengeful roar, Hechsan’talkee engulfed it in a hail of burning plasma. Body scored by several charred holes, it twisted towards the major and flailed out at him, but two more bolts burned their way into its chest, and with a final shuddered, it collapsed to the bloodied ground, only centimeters from Mopht’s head.

Staring in horror at the smoking hulk, he noticed a chunk of flesh that hung off the shattered monster’s shoulder that had been hidden from view before its death. It was the mutilated and discolored head of an Elite, jaws wide open, still mouthing a scream of unimaginable agony and horror. Mopht could not tear his eyes away from the abominable visage, and he had to fight to keep the bile forming in his dry throat to keep from vomiting into his breath mask. His near empty pistol slipped from his limp grip, and the Grunt began to back away slowly, oblivious to the chaos around him. Then he stumbled on something hard, and was able to tear his eyes from the unholy image and looked down at what blocked his path; the prone form of a Grunt, his face obscured by a ravenous ball-creature.

Instinct taking over again, Mopht cast around for something, anything that he could put between himself and the terrible creature, and his gaze fell upon the turquoise stalk of the Elite minor’s fallen carbine. Scooping it off the gore-drenched ground, he fumbled blindly for the controls and pulsed a round into the quivering form. It exploded, showering him in a revolting, grayish substance, but the other Grunt, Ichit he saw now, did not get up and offer thanks; the large gash down the side of his neck had seen to that.

That was all that Mopht could stand; all sense of duty disappeared, again replaced with that one overriding instinct: FLEE. The Grunt’s mind locked onto the ridge just a few paces away now, and pushed forward, blocking out the screams and roars of pain and rage from below. Carbine clutched in his fists as if it were a life line, Mopht struggled over the jutting boundary, and slid down the steep embankment he found beyond it. He did not glance back once, fixed on a singular goal, one he had to achieve. The slope ended and Mopht struggled to his feet, and looked from side to side to gather his bearings. A wide path set amongst high rock ledges, prancing off in numerous directions, down many winding, hidden paths. Unconsciously, he selected one and ran off down it.

As he turned the first corner that would block him from view of the rock crater’s ridge, a weight fell onto his shoulder. Heart skipping several beats, Mopht twisted around and almost fell, desperate to destroy the white globs before they could latch on to him. However, none of the terrible creatures were there, just a lone Jackal with a wounded leg. The two stared at each other with weary, shell-shocked eyes, old differences briefly forgotten, and in silent agreement, set off down the winding path away from the setting sun and the waning sounds of weapons fire.
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Fris’ dying scream rang through the night air, and Mopht felt a deep and unexpected sense of sorrow and pity for the miserable Jackal, but he did not pause of look back, there was nothing he could do. Saving himself was all that mattered. The weary, frightened soldier half ran, half fell back down the narrow path, searching for a way out, some place the swarms of ball-creatures could not follow. His eyes ached in the dim light, but at last he found a possibility, a narrow gully to the left side of the path. Barely breathing, he flung himself into it.

Passage here was increasingly more difficult, the rock walls on either side coming far closer together here, a narrowing which caused Mopht’s armor to scrap against the granite loudly as he passed, much to his horror. Still he persisted further in, determined not to have to turn back and face certain capture and death. Finally, after an especially narrow bend in the gorge, he could see open air at the end of the path ahead. Speeding up as much as he could, the Grunt ran towards it, only to find that his survival gear jammed in-between the rock walls a mere meter from freedom. He pushed and struggled frantically, but tired legs and arms could not propel his any further. His breathing scattered and laborious, he slumped backwards onto the hard, dusty ground, and he decided to rest awhile, try and build up strength for another attempt at the pass. As he calmed his erratic breathing, Mopht noticed he could hear nothing but the distant wind blowing through the valley’s many gorges and ravines. Perhaps he had finally escaped them; perhaps he was at last safe.

But alas, as he sat in the darkness, a faint sound wafted to his ears over the low drawl of his respirator, distant scrabbling and squelching. Slowly and hopelessly, he shook his head. He was tired, weak and hungry, without a weapon or any other hope of fighting or distracting them. It would be best to just wait quietly, hope it would be soon, the quick path to death. After all, as a loyal servant of the Prophets, his place in paradise with the gods was assured.

However, this thought did not bring him comfort. He could not put the image of the mutilated Elite’s stricken face out of his mind. Those things, those monsters had taken possession of the body of a high one and turned him against his own kin. What might those things do to a mere Grunt if they reached him? He had seen unimaginable torment in that face; what if the creatures didn’t kill their victims, what if they became one with them? He no longer would be Mopht, not even a real Grunt, just one of those monsters, unholy abominations that could not hope to ever find the gods in death. If one of the creatures was able to get to him, he knew that not only would his life be forfeit, but his chance at salvation as well. And then of course there was the pain. He did not like pain.

Strangely invigorated by the growing terror and revulsion he felt, Mopht rose, and began to strip away what armor he could. Shoulder guards, dull orange breastplate, empty ammunition belt, even the conductive ceramic lining of his methane tank were all pried free and discarded, anything to decrease his width. As he removed a protruding chunk of his stomach plating, a small orb, jarred free of it’s place on his waist, feel to the ground, rolling a small distance before stopping. In the dim light and with his mind in its exhausted and confused state, he didn’t recognize the object, but he picked it up anyway, slipping it back into one of the pockets that lined the insulating material under his now removed chest armor. Even as he did so, the distant predatory sound suddenly gained in intensity.

Pulse racing again, Mopht steadied his tired legs and charged back at the narrow opening in the rock, ungainly arms pressed before him. His profile diminished somewhat over the last attempt, the Grunt was able to push further in, rough skin beginning to bruise and bleed as it scraped against the uneven walls. A meter, half a meter, only a few more footsteps…

But no, again he became stuck, his outstretched fingers actually brushing the outside air. Limbs and torso, while compacted tightly, were not the issue, rather it was the triangular pack that rest uncomfortably on his back; the very object that gave him life on the alien world was about to take it away. He tensed his muscles and closed his eyes, attempting another push, but he did not budge, blocked by one last inward bulge in the pass. Mopht gasped for breath, desperately trying to formulate a new escape strategy, but there was none. Now, he probably wouldn’t even be able to turn back towards the wider part of the passage. All that could be done was to wait and feel the sickly tentacles latch onto his waist and neck.

Several soft thumps added to the growing chatter of his pursuers, and Mopht twisted so that one beady eye could look back. In the darkness, he could discern four small shapes lurching swiftly around the bend in the gully. Simply gray globs, they marched lazily towards him, scuttling along the floor or skimming easily along the lower parts of the steep rock embankments. The one eye widen as much as it was able, and without even turning his head away, Mopht attacked the gap once again, his every ligament and nerve screaming against the immovable rock. He pushed and squirmed and panted, and still the rock did not yield. But the weakened metal of his atmosphere tank did. Slowly, impossible, the obstructed edges of the tanks began to warp and moan, unable to bear the stress being placed on it. The metal’s song brought with it one last glimmer of hope, and the little Grunt grabbed it. Squealing and gnashing his flat teeth, his limbs coiled with a final desperate push…and he was free.

Wonderfully, unstoppably, he stumbled forward, aching and off-balance, but finally free of the entombing walls of rock. Mopht took one step, slipped, and fell flat onto his stomach. Recovering quickly from the impact, he opened his eyes, and looked into nothingness. An abyss yawned out before him, and he could feel it reaching towards him, willing his prone body to tumble into its unending blackness. There was no escape from this monster. At least, he mused in that moment, there would be no need to run anymore.

But the instant of perceived resolution was short, and it didn’t take Mopht long to realize that he, in fact, was not falling to his death. There was a hissing, gurgling noise from nearby, and four globular shapes flashed past the Grunt’s vision, each covered in furiously flailing tentacles. The shapes rapid vanished into the endless abyss, and with them went the noise of pursuit. After lolling motionless on the hard ground for a few merciful seconds, he was able drag himself into a sitting position.

Stretching out before him was a massive sea, a featureless mat of black that extended out beyond Mopht’s vision, to the very boundaries of the artificial world. He was perched far above the endless form, seated on the very edge of the massive rocky plateau above which the Truth and Reconciliation still hung. A thin jut of stone, no more than a meter wide, clung to the plateau’s sheer face, tapering slowly along the exterior surface, angling down into the blackness below. From his place on it, the Grunt could neither see the brim of the cliff far above, or the place where rock met water even father below; he was suspended in the air, trapped, with only two paths left to him. Right, or left along the narrow lip.

He glanced nervously back into the narrow gully, but found it devoid of further attackers. The sound he had come to associate with the fiends was also gone, but Mopht could not believe the hunt was over. He had to keep moving, find some place to hide until he could rest and figure out a way to return to the ship. So, should he take the up-sloping right path, or the downhill left? His legs decided for him.

The trek was not easy. Even with most of his gear removed, the tank on his back was still very unwieldy, and a single misstep could throw him off balance and into the waiting abyss below. The darkness of the night made the task even more difficult, and often Mopht was unsure if there would be any rock at all to meet his next footfall. To compound matters even further, after a few minutes of wary shuffling, Mopht remembered he was intensely afraid of heights, and thus was forced to walk with his stomach pressed to the rough cliff face, mumbling “Can’t look down, can’t look down” to himself out loud.

A gust of cool wind brushed playfully against his naked legs, and the Grunt hugged the wall tighter, cursing his dire predicament and the fear that was impeding his progress. He had not always feared heights, in fact most of his kind excelled at navigating precarious mountain faces and narrow, elevated paths, both common terrain on his frigid homeworld. Instead, the phobia had set on early in his military service, during a training exercise that involved his unit charging up the side of a simulated mesa and reinforcing a listening post at the top before it was captured by a staged strike force. The artificial terrain had been very similar to the path he was on now, save that instead of navigating it by himself, there were a dozen other Grunts with him, pushing and shoving those in front in order to reach their goal before the time limit had elapsed. One soldier behind Mopht, jostled and shoved by those around him, had stumbled and inadvertently forced his out of the way, clear off the narrow lip.

There were few safety measures in place on Covenant training arenas, designed specifically to cull out the weak, and thus Mopht had nearly fallen to his death, barely able to jam his thick right arm into cracked seam of the metallic combat mound and grab hold of a support pylon. He had hung there for what seemed like hours, his stubby fingers giving way one by one to the forces of gravity. A patrolling winged Drone instructor had heard his calls for help and was able to drag him back onto the path before his arm gave way, but the damage had been done. Shivering, Mopht pushed the memory out of his head. There were enough things to be afraid of now without bringing up old terrors.

Another power gust of wind echoed past, catching his dented, triangular methane tank like a sail, and Mopht was forced to steady himself again to keep from falling backwards. For what seemed the hundredth time today, the Grunt reflected grimly, he was mere inches from death. Heat exhaustion from the patrol, then the appearance of the gray abominations, hours of unbearable sprinting, near strangulation at the hands of Hechsan’talkee, more fleeing, entombment in the narrow gully, near escape from more of the bounding terrors, and now the immanent treat of falling to his death. He was sick of it. What he wouldn’t give to be back in his crowded barracks, with the contents of a warm food nipple in his empty stomach and atmosphere filling his lungs that he had not breathed in twenty times that day.

Exhausted and at a loss at what to do, Mopht closed his eyes, inclined his head, and prayed even as he trudged along. He reached out to the Prophets and the great gods they represented, and sent forth a silent plea. He sought clarity, good fortune, physical aid, anything that could remove him from this dire straight. Dogma told him that it was unlikely that the great ones would heed his plea, they were always busy after all, and he was a mere Grunt, but he prayed nonetheless. He knew that the Prophet’s could hear his solemn thoughts, and that they would see it in their noble benevolence to send him assistance. All he had to do was believe.

And then a probing hand fell upon something that was not rock, cold and smooth. Slowly, Mopht opened his eyes, and in the darkness, saw that the wall in front of him was different from the rest of the solid face. A wide strip of gray metal was set into the stone, stretching from the path up far above the Grunt’s head. Shocked that his prayer might have been answered so quickly, he carefully stepped back from the wall, and moved dangerously close to the edge in order to get a better view of the object before him. It was a rectangle of metal, a frame that rimmed a pitch-black hole in the cliff. The opening was tall, tall enough to admit the mightiest of Hunters, but it was also narrow, wide enough to allow only a single Grunt passage with a few hand spans to spare.

What was it? Mopht racked his brain, half remembered rumors about the holy world and bits of sermons flitting in and out of recollection. But of course, the Forerunners! This artificial world was said to have been one of their homes before they had departed this reality for the next, where they even now awaited the time when the true believers would end their Great Journey and join them in paradise. This gateway had to be one of their constructs, touched by the hands of the creators. Mopht now gaped in awe at the simple metal structure, his head lolling into an involuntary bow of reverence. He, a mere Grunt, should not approach such an artifact without the permission of the Elites, much less enter it. Such an act would not be proper, perhaps verging on heresy.

As he stood in breathless revelry, basking in the structure’s presence, the constant winds brought a new, sickeningly familiar sound to his ears. Religious ecstasy forgotten, Mopht stared back up the path he had just traversed. He had taken too long, the beasts still pursued him, could still sense him. Another choice presented itself, either keep edging down the narrow path and hope he could outrun the foul horde, or enter the holy relic and risk sacrilege. If his survival sense had not been so well honed, he would not even consider violating holy right by approaching the Forerunner artifact unbidden, but Mopht was conflicted. The danger of entering the cave was great, he knew not what dwelt in it, and the rebuke of his superiors if they ever discovered such a transgression would be severe, but his gut told him that he must enter regardless. He could not run forever, not out here trapped in the open. Surely the gods would forgive him for this; after all he had been through. Wouldn’t they?

Gulping dryly, Mopht closed his eyes, as if not witnessing the violation would lessen its severity, and plunged into the waiting blackness.

[Ford Prefect]

It's good. I like the point of veiw as well. Grunts are always going to make excellent characters in stories, even if it isn't comedy.