All the little lost boys and girls (Update: 26/5/12)

[Bladed_Crescent]

In this chapter: the line between an oasis and a mirage is fuzzier than you might think

Coming up: crossing the line

Chapter 63:

Shannon stirred groggily, murmuring something unintelligible before passing out again. “It’s okay, Shannie,” Abigail said to her squadmate, ignoring the burning in her arms. “We’re almost there. We’re almost there.”

In response, Shannon mumbled something in a language Abigail didn’t know before dropping back into unconsciousness. The Darkknell wasn’t a medic, but she hoped that was a good sign, Shannon’s Halo physiology working to repair the damage of the near-miss. “We’re almost there,” Abigail repeated. “We’ll get there, Shannie. I promise.” She didn’t even know what there was, only that she’d get her ‘little sister’ to it no matter what.

Cynthia hissed softly through her faceplate. “Alive?” she asked. “It’s still alive?”

“Yes, she is,” Abigail snapped without looking back the Ghost. She wasn’t comfortable having the trooper at her back, but she knew she was safer with Black between her and any followers they might pick up. She almost laughed at the thought that having a bugged-out killer on her six was the safe option.

Black made a considering noise. “Lucky girl. They never leave you alive.” she observed. “There aren’t any wounded. Not usually. Only corpses and bait.”

Abigail swallowed, Mackenzie’s last words coming to mind: No one calls for help. “Yeah, well this time we’ve got one,” she grated out. “So show a leg.”

“Private thinks she’s funny,” the trooper commented. “Still funny without a tongue?”

Before Abigail could answer, Jane put a hand on the other trooper’s pauldron. “Remember your orders, Five.”

“I remember.” There was a challenge in the way Black’s head came up, her visor meeting Jane’s own – but it was a challenge that faded quickly. “I remember,” the renegade Ghost repeated, somewhat meeker in tone.

Score one for the alpha psycho bitch, Abigail thought gratefully. “Has there been any contact with the rest of your squad?” she asked instead.

Black’s helmet shifted from side to side. “No. Whispers and static. Some killsites. No bodies. Died in space or dragged off. Survivors are probably still hunting.” She nodded towards Godfrey. “Lieutenant survived. I survived.” There was a wet sound. “Everyone’s so upset. Masks are agitated. Arming up. Radio backscatter from Whiteface positions. Possible transmissions from forward Red Hand positions; jamming too intense for conclusive analysis. Occasional detection of local, mobile power source. Unknown contact. Moving parallel to me, falls back, appears again. Think I lost it.”

“What type of power source?” Abigail demanded, refusing to give up the initiative in the conversation. It took her mind off Shannon, off her own body’s weakness.

“Radiological. Thermal. No clean read.” Black made another noise as she thought. “Rogue drone. Cracked power armour reactor. Maybe a ‘borged Lost.” She giggled, the sound the utter opposite of what an expression of amusement should have sounded like. “Remember those, lieutenant? Came snooping for salvage, tried to cut Primal open? Wasn’t static they were broadcasting.”

“No,” Jane agreed. “It wasn’t.”

“You can have a new eye,” Cynthia called out to Louis. “Something shiny. Infrared and ultraviolet. See sound. Interested?” Again, that awful laughter. “Just let a Lost cut on you. And cut. And cut.”

“Fuck you,” Nine said over his shoulder.

The Ghost made another noise, a liquid purr. “Promise?”

Abigail felt her skin crawl. Jane was bad enough on her own; Black was all but feral. Whatever orders she was clinging to, they appeared to be the woman’s only lifeline to sanity... and that wasn’t saying much. We have to get her out of that armour, Abigail thought to herself. Somehow. Maybe she could get Louis to actually fuck Black – granted, he wasn’t in the best of condition, but if it got one psychopath out of her armour, he’d just have to suck it up.

Hell, if it means I don’t have to worry about our heads hanging from her belt, I’ll fuck the crazy bitch’s brains out myself.

“Contact,” Jane whispered, raising her disruptor into a guard position. With the soft growl of synthetic muscles, Cynthia’s weapon-arm came up, a round chambering into the barrel. Abigail’s own motion tracker started to ping with movement. The scratching of claws on metal, the soft clangs of bodies moving through air vents and maintenance tunnels. Hushed laughter and sobs whispered through the broken speakers set in the walls and Abigail’s skin crawled as she recognized Mackenzie’s deranged giggle among them.

“I guess you got hungry, Gemma.”

“Petty Officer Gemma Mackenzie. Missing in action,” Cynthia rasped, slurring her words through strings of drool. “Body never recovered. Infected. Terminate. Contain the breach. Kill the infected.” Her helmet twitched slightly towards Godfrey. “Protect.”

Jane’s sword slid out with the snap-hiss of an energizing disruptor field and she moved towards the head of the group. “Protect.”

The noises were coming closer, but Abigail still had no target. The map marker was close. “Double-time!” she shouted, praying that their destination was actually salvation. It would be. Shannon believed it was and Abigail trusted her. The Halo will save us.

They ran as fast as they could.

It wasn’t nearly fast enough.

~

It wasn’t a blur; its movement was too jerky, too rapid even for that. Instead, it flitted from position to position like it was under a strobe light, caught between motions. “Soldier!” Abigail shouted, recognizing the twitching pattern of its motion. “Take it down!”

It danced, flickering around the hail of fire roaring down on it, impossibly quick. What it couldn’t evade, it ignored, shot and shell ripping its flesh with as little effect as on the soldier as it had on the hunters. Then, it was among them. A slash cut through Louis’s armour as if it were paper, inhuman strength driving onyx bone through the mercenary’s cuirass in a disembowelling strike that would have opened his guts were it not for that same armour. The soldier flicked its arm and hurled Hernandez away, freeing its blade.

Half its head disintegrated as a glancing shot from Black’s Hammertong took it in its skull. The soldier staggered back, wobbling as a ravaged nerve net issued contradictory commands, inhuman resilience already compensating for the damage. Its remaining eye focused on Abigail, she and Emily still holding Shannon, unable to properly defend themselves. It took a step, killing blades fully extended...

...and Jane’s disruptor came down in a glistening arc, from shoulder to hip, the Ghost just as freakishly fast as she had ever been, the only one of them who could meet this thing’s speed. Even then, she wasn’t quite quick enough and it twitched back from the blow. It should have been cleaved right through; instead Godfrey’s strike simply left a scorched scar across the Turned’s torso. It leapt at her, stabbing with its blades and slashing with its talonned fingers, trying to rip through the Ghost’s armour and get at the meat inside. Though its blades might be hard enough to cut through standard mudfoot gear, the Turned wasn’t strong enough to breach Godfrey’s thick plate mail. Frustrated, it gargled through its own drool before flickering away, dancing amongst them, chased by the searing arcs of Godfrey’s disruptor.

The soldier was on the defensive, fast enough to avoid the trooper’s assault, but not fast enough to take the initiative and not strong enough to kill her. Abigail shrugged Shannon’s arm off her soldier, leaving her ‘little sister’ to slump to the floor, Delphini going to one knee as she found herself supporting Shannon’s weight all by herself.

As it dodged a blow aimed to take its left leg off, the Turned’s head snapped towards Abigail. It was regenerating. Even as it fought them, twitching and flicking like a crude stop-motion toy, it was rebuilding itself, frond-like tendrils reaching out from its ruined brain, lacing together as bone, skin and nerve tissue grew before Abigail’s eyes. Its black tongue licked over a mouth full of needle teeth.

The range was too close for her carbine, much too close for the rifle and Abigail thumbed the activation stud on her purloined disruptor. “I’m going to fucking cut you,” she promised the soldier-thing.

Emily raised one of her pistols as Louis groggily pulled himself up, blood weeping from the bandage over his ruined eye.

With so many targets to choose from, it went for the most helpless one of their group, a blink of movement as it dove down on Shannon, too fast for Abigail’s killing stroke to catch it-

-a gunshot sounded and the soldier staggered, a spray of blood describing an arc as its head snapped back, its remaining eye neatly holed-

-Emily’s expression was set: fierce and cold, as she executed the demon-

-Louis fired and Betsy roared, the shotgun’s drum emptying as it tore the lurching soldier apart-

-Abigail took its head from its shoulders with a single sweep of her blade and Jane cleaved it down the middle, the disruptors’ cauterized wounds ending any chance of regenerating from those injuries. Flesh crackled and smouldered, ashen meat spilling to the floor. Lumps of muscle twitched uselessly, unable to repair themselves. That was when Abigail had an ugly realization.

Black hadn’t fired.

Abigail turned towards the other trooper, about to snap at her-

-and she saw that Cynthia was dead.

The points of four very long, very sharp claws were sticking through her neck. Her arms hung uselessly at her side, the joints of her shoulder and elbow slashed through, tendons severed and blood vessels opened. She was still standing, a pretty young woman sitting on her shoulder. It was this girl’s hand that had pierced Black’s neck, driving in from behind. Red eyes gleamed back at Abigail.

There was additional movement, silhouettes shifting behind Cynthia’s bulk: another young woman, little more than a child, wrapped her talons around Black’s forearm, like a frightened girl holding onto her mother. There was malice in her eyes: playful, innocent and awful. And to the right... Gemma. There was horror in her face, her lips twitching as if she couldn’t decide on which emotion she was feeling, but her tongue was licking hungrily over her teeth.

Three of them. They’d killed Black in her armour without anyone even knowing, before the Ghost could even defend herself. “Jesus Christ,” Abigail whispered, backing away and fighting the urge to start running. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m hungry now,” Gemma said softly, her voice shifting between child-like simplicity and despair. She licked her lips again, biting them almost coquettishly. Her head came up. “You should run.”

A gunshot sounded and the smallest of the three girls crumpled, a neat hole right between her eyes. Emily was on her feet, somehow managing to hold Shannon up as well. “Come on!” she all but screamed at her companions. “Run!”

~

Kiyomi twitched on the deck, pulling herself back to her feet as the bullet was pushed out of her skull, dropping to the deck with a soft thunk. Tabitha pulled her claws out of the prey’s throat and the armoured woman crashed to the floor with a reverberating impact, blood pooling around her opened wounds.

Tabitha shared a quick glance with Gemma; her younger sister’s blood was up. She smelled like excitement, hunger and fear, her face twitching with contradictory emotions, her claws flexing with the atavistic need to rend. She was drooling and Tabitha felt wetness drip down her own chin.

She screamed.

~

The location marker on Abigail’s HUD was less than a hundred meters away, coreward off a nearby T-junction.

Run.

Behind them, Abigail could hear Gemma and her ‘sisters’ scream, a ululating war call far too similar to the one the soldiers had used. She wanted to fight. She wanted to run. She wanted to plant her feet on the deck, turn and face her enemy with a gun in her hands. She wanted to drop Shannon and flee into the darkest, furthest corner, into the deepest hole there was.

Ninety meters.

She did neither, focusing on putting one foot ahead of the other as quickly as she could. Without Cynthia, Louis was the only member of their group with a gun. It wouldn’t be enough. Abby spared a quick glance over her shoulder and immediately wished she hadn’t. Three pairs of eyes glinted in the dark as Gemma and her ‘sisters’ stalked forward with a measured, predatory gait. Their talons twitched, fingers moving slowly. Their lips were moving, a soft overlapping cadence of nursery rhyme just on the edges of her armour-augmented hearing. They knew the group was ripe for the plucking too; each step was a little faster, their movement a little more jerky as they worked themselves into a killing frenzy. What distance there was between the groups was rapidly being eaten up; soon there’d be none at all.

Eighty meters.

They weren’t going to make it.

Seventy.

The rustle of movement was so subtle that Abigail hadn’t noticed it until it was too late. So worried about her pursuers, she hadn’t paid any attention to what was ahead of them. It burst from a vent – another of the clawed girls, it was the one that had found them at the tram station. Emily let out an aborted shriek as those awful talons flashed across her midsection and the doctor fell-

-the girl was already moving, wickedly fast-

-Armin’s face had gone slack as dawning horror tried to form, but there wasn’t any time and she raised her claws to cut him open, just as she’d done to Emily-

-a massive grey boulder stampeded in front of the petty officer and the Turned was suddenly wrapped around Jane, slashing, spitting and screaming as the Ghost struggled to pry the slight woman off-

-behind them now, Betsy roaring and Louis was screaming, darting figures caught in muzzle flashes, clothes torn and flesh holed-

“Move!” Abigail shouted, hefting Shannon onto her shoulders, her legs almost buckling under the weight, but somehow she stayed upright. She grabbed Delphini, dragging the doctor to her feet. Blood was splashed across her stomach and she was pale, but whether it was from blood loss or fear, Abigail couldn’t tell. “Keep moving!”

Jane slammed her opponent into the wall. Abigail heard the cracking of the crazed woman’s bones and she spat a mouthful of bloody drool into Godfrey’s visor, screaming as the Ghost impaled her with her disruptor. “Forget her!” Abigail screamed at the trooper. “Move, Godfrey! That’s an order!”

“Compliance,” the Ghost whispered in a soft, almost lightheaded voice as she wrenched the blade free. The Turned fell to the deck, sobbing and clutching at her holed innards, unable to stand.

As they ran, Abigail could swear she heard the girl whimper: “I just wanted a party...”

~

Jacquelyn was badly hurt, ugly steam wisping from the cauterized hole in her chest. Kiyomi crouched next to her injured sister. The woman let out a pained shriek as her older sibling started to rip at the wound, cutting and pulling away the burned tissues, stimulating regeneration. Tabitha let Kiyomi tend to her sibling, loping after the prey. Gemma was beside her, panting with contradictory needs, but the hunger was on her – it was on them all – and any thought of shame, dismay or hesitation was swallowed by that simple, insatiable need.

Those would come after.

Gemma screamed and leapt, vaulting onto the largest prey, the one that had impaled Jacquelyn. It tried to repeat the manuever, but Gemma was faster, twisting in mid-air and clutching its arm, trying to slash through the joints. The armoured prey was quick and it swung fiercely, punching Gemma in the face with its other hand. Tabitha heard her sister’s nose break. Startled, Gemma let go and was hurled into the wall, catching herself at the last instant. With a shrill hunting cry of her own, Tabitha slashed at the armoured prey, ducking beneath a cleaving strike of its blade. She tried to slash into its throat, but it grabbed her face in one massive hand and hurled her bodily down the corridor.

Tabitha rolled to her feet, hissing in challenge. Gemma had slunk out of range of the prey’s weapon, pacing back and forth just out of its reach. Behind her, Jacquelyn spasmed as holed organs knitted, sucking air into ravaged lungs, snapping and slurping at the pieces of the butchered soldier Kiyomi was feeding her. The armoured prey backed away, watching both of the young women, holding its disruptor up in a guard position. Tabitha had killed such prey before, but surprise was the best weapon. Facing them directly was too risky and she crept forward again, moving to the other side of the hall, Gemma mirroring her action, forcing the prey to divide its attention, knowing that they were watching for an opening.

Once Jacquelyn had healed, they would be four again and then they would feed.

hunt/kill/revenge

The prey were getting closer to the oasis. That was all right, too. They had their scent now. Even if they escaped today, Tabitha and her sisters would find them tomorrow. Or the next day.

It would be fun; Jacquelyn would get her party.

~

It wasn’t enough, they weren’t fast enough, they weren’t going to make it. Emily could barely stay on her feet and Abigail’s strength was giving out. Too much over too long. She couldn’t run any further and sunk down to her knees, sprawling over the deck. Behind her, she could see Gemma and her ‘sister’ slinking forward warily, moving on all fours like hungry wolves, their black talons clicking against the deck, red eyes glinting in Abigail’s blacklight. They made soft yowls, ropes of drool spilling over their teeth.

They had been women once. Girls. Born here or come here to learn, to plunder, explore or maybe just survive and instead DROP 47 had consumed them, taking everything they were and ever would be and turning them into this. There wasn’t even the mindless oblivion of the Turned for them; Abigail remembered Gemma’s sobs of laughter, the hunger in her furtive eyes. Now she was stalking them, red eyes flicking between Godfrey and the limping group. Louis was whispering to himself, Betsy shaking in his grip.

“Hold,” Jane rasped to Nine. “Hold until they’re closer.”

Emily staggered, her legs wobbling. Abigail snarled at Armin to help her, the petty officer letting the injured doctor lean on his shoulder the last few meters between them and their destination.

Behind them, the two women had stopped in their tracks, watching the survivors with a curious gleam in their eyes, their sudden hesitation worrying, but Abigail had no time to consider what it might mean. From further up the corridor, there was the soft purring whine of charging capacitors. Targeting beams stabbed through the darkness, tracking each of the few survivors. At the end of the corridor, Abigail could see the hulking forms of armoured sentry turrets unfurling, coolant valves hissing and energy cannon humming as the weapons came on-line.

“Please hold position,” a mellow voice said from the darkness. “You are in proximity to Oasis-009. Quarantine systems are activating and preparing for bio-scans. If you are deemed free of infection, UCWS Duty Before Glory welcomes you. If not, you will withdraw immediately. This facility is a clean room and lethal force is authorized to maintain the quarantine.

“Please stand by.”

[Grimnosh]

“Please hold position,” a mellow voice said from the darkness. “You are in proximity to Oasis-009. Quarantine systems are activating and preparing for bio-scans. If you are deemed free of infection, UCWS Duty Before Glory welcomes you. If not, you will withdraw immediately. This facility is a clean room and lethal force is authorized to maintain the quarantine.

“Please stand by.”

Intreasting, seems like they may have found a haven of sorts.... mind that while the system sounds like it is in good condition, the other entrances to the oasis may have been breeched and the "clean" area may have been taken to a whole new level as its been around for a guesstimate of 600 years or so...

Also the bio scan is unlikely to detect the long/short term Mist symtoms as it is not a biological effect ....

[LadyTevar]

I am seriously hoping that the Halo Blood will once again save the day.

However, I don't think everyone will make it inside. Someone got infected, had to with all the damage they've taken

[General Trelane (Retired)]

Methinks this isn't a "safe" oasis. UCWS Duty Before Glory is/was a Coalition warship mentioned in snippets of back-story (and I've been eagerly awaited more about them). It may well be that Halo blood will be seen as a threat by them. . .

[Nuts!]

"If you are clean of infection, UCWS Duty Before Glory welcomes you.

Poor Louis, we hardly knew ye...

[Bladed_Crescent]

Intreasting, seems like they may have found a haven of sorts.... mind that while the system sounds like it is in good condition, the other entrances to the oasis may have been breeched and the "clean" area may have been taken to a whole new level as its been around for a guesstimate of 600 years or so...

Well, there were some questions raised as to whether or not the oasis would be sane, so I think rampancy is a bit of a concern...

I am seriously hoping that the Halo Blood will once again save the day.

I'm not so sure. Ideally, we want to keep our blood inside us at the best of times and Shannon needs hers more than most right now...

However, I don't think everyone will make it inside. Someone got infected, had to with all the damage they've taken

Perhaps so, perhaps not - if there is an infection, and if the scan can detect it at this stage... It's entirely possible the group is just going a bit crazy and no one's actually been infected.

Yet.

Methinks this isn't a "safe" oasis. UCWS Duty Before Glory is/was a Coalition warship mentioned in snippets of back-story (and I've been eagerly awaited more about them). It may well be that Halo blood will be seen as a threat by them. . .

We'll be seeing more of Duty Before Glory shortly. Their story, and the impact they have on DROP 47 and the inhabitants is yet to be told, but there's still a part of the Coalition to play, oh yes...

Mwa ha ha ha ha.

Poor Louis, we hardly knew ye...

Louis Hernandez, Beta Nine.
Toy of the Gods.

[Bladed_Crescent]

In this chapter: Sanctuary

Coming up: Eyes in the dark. Hunters and prey; the foundations of empire.

Chapter 64:

No sooner had the voice finished speaking than some other device activated, a flattened bulb atop a thin stalk rising up from behind the defence turrets and tilting towards them. Abigail recognized it as a type of bioscanner, albeit one that had seen better days. There was no dramatic sweep of green light or glowing nimbus as the scanner slowly swept over them, several diodes blinking unevenly on its flattened top. Abigail’s attention flickered between the silent guns ahead of her and the retreating forms of Gemma and her ‘sisters’, two of them helping the one Jane had impaled away as the third watched the survivors, ready to alert her fellows if one of them had a mind for attacking the retreating Turned.

In any other circumstance, such camaraderie might have been touching.

“Alert,” a new voice interjected and Abigail felt a drop of sweat run down the inside of her bodyglove. That was Vigil. “Alert. Biological contaminants detected. This is a secure area.”

“Scanning,” the first synthetic voice – the ‘male’ one with the mellow tones – said as if speaking to a senile cousin. “Scanning for infection.”

One of the turrets twitched, the barrels starting to glow as waste heat ignited years of dust and grime, the stink of burning filth and ozone filling the air. “Biological contaminants detected,” Vigil repeated. “Security teams unresponsive. Purge systems unresponsive. Ancillary systems detected. Analyzing. Sufficient for neutralization procedures.”

“Scan not complete,” the first voice said again. “Please stand by. We are experiencing technical difficulties. These will be remedied shortly.” The second turret stayed dormant, but Abigail was picking up the bleed from other defences as they came on-line, questing targeting locks splashing her and the rest of the survivors.

“Biological contaminants detected.”

“Scan incomplete. Please hold still.”

Somehow, the technical part of the Darkknell’s mind was still working and Abigail knew she was seeing a conflict between two computer systems, at least one of which was badly damaged and was attempting to wrest control from the other. Knowing the why of her death didn’t make it easier to accept; it wasn’t someone she could spit back at, it was just a broken computer carrying out its orders. Abigail started to sink down to her knees, determined to shield Shannon as best she could. The hum grew louder, then started to fade away as the active turret reached peak charge.

“Override,” Shannon murmured as she briefly drifted back to consciousness. “Vigil. Override autonomous security mode.”

The turret shifted, tracking back towards the Halo. “Awaiting authorization,” the stationmind demanded.

Shannon passed out again and Abigail jostled her, forcing her “little sister” awake, her limbs hanging slackly over Abigail’s shoulder. The Halo was whispering nonsense in a dozen different languages, bits and pieces of conversations that her eidetic memory had kept for years and were only now coming to the surface. “Shannie, focus. Focus, please or we’re all going to die...”

Shannon was nine years old and going through a chest. It had been locked, but locks were just another type of puzzle and she was proud of herself for solving this one so quickly. When she opened it, everything went black, but there were words – she didn’t know if someone had said them, or she had read them, but pieces of them were stuck in her mind. I’ve left you everything, more than I should have. It might put you in danger, but I need to you know. I need someone to remember. I need someone who can see everything I’ve done and, I pray, forgive me.

What did he do? What did great-grandad do?

Nothing! Nothing, it’s not any of your business. It’s not worth remembering, child. You understand?

No.

You have to forget it, forget you ever saw it. Can you do that for me, Shannon? Can you do that?

A moment passed. Another. “Awaiting authorization,” the Oasis said again. “Please provide override authority immediately. Failure to comply will be considered an attempted security breach. In the absence of security personnel, this system is fully authorized to respond with lethal force to attempted breaches.”

“Shannie, now would be a good time...”

“Authorization,” Shannon said, just barely loud enough for the sentry systems to hear her as she slurred the killers’ dialect through her helmet, the strange language mingled with Imperial security codes that she couldn’t have possibly known.

There was a pause from the system as it processed this information. “Authorization insufficient,” the original mellow voice announced, but its statement was cut short by a screech of static as Vigil’s aloof feminine tones interrupted the other computer. “Processing,” the stationmind said.

“Authorization insuffic-” the first computer tried again.

“Processing,” Vigil interrupted once more. “Analyzing. Links to primary core severed. Analyzing stored databanks. Wait one. Yes. Authorization accepted.”

“Authorization insuffic-”

“Authorization accepted,” the Imperial computer announced haughtily, as if it were speaking to its counterpart. “Access to Oasis 009 granted. Please be advised that quarantine procedures remain in full effect; detection of R-3 contamination will result in immediate termination.” Ahead, a door chime sounded and a green diode blinked on, a seam of light appearing as security doors unlocked, spilling intense light into the corridor.

Louis winced as the glare fell over him and Abigail blinked against it, despite the protection her visor offered. Her skin itched. “Oasis,” she repeated. “Sure. Why the hell not?”

The last few steps seemed to take forever. As she stepped through the threshold, both voices were talking; the first one a reminder of the oasis’s “clean” condition, words that Abigail barely listened to. The second was from Vigil again. It was welcoming them back to DROP 47. No, that was wrong. It wasn’t welcoming them. It was welcoming someone called Senior Researcher Hayes.

~

The evolved strains were new; only a handful of decades. Tool-users. Planners. To fight one of them was a challenge; their psychosis was an illusion. Normally timid and shy, when they hungry, when they were cornered or roused to anger, just one of the seemingly frail creatures was the equal of a full-blooded soldier, or an entire squad of New Ones, and she could identify six different scents here.

-hunt and kill-

She let out a low, hungry hiss, the aroma of Ribbon kill-scent and agitation stimulating her aggression centers. It permeated the cairn, seeping through every vent and clinging to every surface. Coming here was equal parts trial and memorial: this is what we could have been. Be better than this. Earn it.

-it’s all I ever wanted for you-

“Youngbloods,” the lead reprimanded her and her fellow novitiate; like her, his breath was growling through his helm. “Control.”

It was hard to keep that control. So much blood spilled, so much Ribbon-scent, the encounters with the Old One and its New One compatriots were playing on the instincts bred into their very genes. She closed her eyes and repeated one of the mantras handed down from Father and the Seventh-Born. She closed her armour’s vents, filtering out the odours and took several calming breaths, nodding her readiness to the lead, her fellow youngblood echoing the act.

She felt the lead’s eyes on her and knew he was reconsidering taking them this far from the other novitiates and the kill-teams sweeping the cairn. His mission was to supervise their first hunts and safeguard them. Both of his wards had taken damage – her injury was still slowing them down – and they had already beyond normal protocols. The presence of the nadane illya strain was a risk above normal Ribbons; injuries could quickly become fatalities, especially if his young wards lost control of themselves.

“We can do this,” she said, almost pleading. “The Old One has to die.” If it got access to the cairn’s central core or, worse, the East Sector... “We are the closest.”

A moment passed as the lead looked from her to the other novitiate. “A while longer,” he granted.

She bowed her head in grateful supplication.

~

As the doors slammed shut behind her, Abigail fell to her knees, Shannon sliding off her shoulders. The Darkknell could barely move, but she could see. “Oasis,” she whispered, feeling tears well up in her eyes. “You got us here, Shannie. You did it.”

It was if they’d stepped six hundred years into the past. The walls were a pristine off-white, computer monitors and data screens chimed as they booted up to full functionality, maintenance drones unfurling from alcoves. The air was dusty and lifeless. Abigail knew that smell. Recycled air, sifted through filter after filter to remove any possible contaminant, leaving it with that stale odour.

She heard the bubbling sound of running water and heard the clicks and pops of security systems activating, homing in on the survivors that had entered their range, ready to make good on the threat to ‘cleanse’ any infected individual.

Abigail looked up, taking in her surroundings, though she could barely see for the tears obscuring her vision and she laughed.

~

The Oasis was alive.

Alive, and sane. Well. Not for much longer, if Vigil’s telltale flickers were any indication. “Hmm,” the Watcher mused, tapping his fingers on the computer dashboard. “My girl’s hand is a blessing and a curse, you know. She offers so much... but can barely say her own name. Duty’s been holding on to his own mind, but he’s slipping. Now because of you, Vigil will pull him all the way down.” A scowl interrupted the pleasant revelation; the Oasis might go mad eventually, but right now it was a safe harbour that the treacherous little vermin didn’t deserve.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

Other sanctuaries had fallen; to siege, to infestation, to madness and ruin. A few still clung to defiant life in a vain attempt to safeguard other wayward fools and trespassers. Some of these were little more than heavy bulkheads, cots and whatever useful salvage good Samaritans decided to leave there. Others were more elaborate. Oasis-009 was one of these. It was the oldest sanctuary aboard the DROP and had shown a persistent refusal to lay down and die much as its the other oases had. It would fail eventually. All of them did. But until it did, it granted any survivors a respite from the nightmares of Acheron and, even worse, put them out of his reach.

“I’ll find you again,” the Watcher promised, switching his attention to the approaching tram and the firefight that was sure to break out once it arrived. “I will. I promise you that, daughter. You and the little moth.”

~

There was someone else here.

A man in a red suit.

No, that was wrong – his suit wasn’t red. He was red. And translucent. A hologram. “Welcome to Oasis-009,” the figure said, hands clasped behind its back in a martial pose, regarding them with a mixture of indifference and annoyance. “I’ll have to have a talk with Vigil about appropriate boundaries, but be that as it may, you’re here now. We’ll deal with the matter of infection later. How may I assist you?”

Before anyone else could speak, Abigail pointed at Shannon, her arm shaking. “Help her.”

“Of course.” The man looked to one side and nodded. A medical android stepped out of a nearby doorway. It wasn’t an Imperial design: it was Coalition-built, but it looked well-maintained and it was a full-up diagnostic and surgical unit, not just a servitor with a first aid subroutine or repurposed combat unit. Gently, the surgeon knelt beside Shannon, lifting her up as easily as a man with a child.

“I will examine each of you in turn,” the surgeon announced calmly. “However, my triage protocols are active and I must treat the most severe cases first. Please be patient.”

Abigail forced herself to her feet. “Godfrey,” she managed to rasp, so exhausted she could barely get the words out. “Sweep the area.” She shrugged the anti-material rifle off her back, letting it clatter to the floor. “Lutzberg, go with the doc and Three. I’ll be there in a moment. Until then, you see anything you don’t like, holler. Louis – how are you doing?”

“Five by five,” the man drawled, not looking at her, his attention fixated on the holographic figure, mumbling under his breath.

“Delphini,” Hutchins knelt beside the doctor. Her torso was splashed with blood and there were deep rents in the knife-resistant vest she’d been wearing. “How are you?”

The petite doctor smiled weakly. “I’ve been better, but I’m okay.”

“Let me see,” Abigail said. The surgeon had claimed it was in triage mode, but it had only given the doctor a cursory scan. Maybe telling the system to help Shannon made it skip Delphini.

“I’m fine, really.”

“I saw what that thing did to you, you’re not fine. Let me see,” Abigail wasn’t a doctor. Not even a corpsman, but she knew some first aid and she’d helped Shannon when the Halo needed an extra set of hands. Right now that made her the senior medical officer – and wasn’t that incredibly fucked up? Despite the doctor’s protests, the Darkknell managed to pry the smaller woman’s arms away from her midsection, doing so carefully just case anything was going to spill out. Nothing did. Emily was bleeding rather more than was healthy, but the cuts were nothing like the lacerations Abigail had seen the Turned girl inflict. Maybe she’d thought Emily was tagged worse than she was, or maybe...

“Augmented, huh?”

Emily pulled her hands out of Abigail’s grip, putting them back over her stomach. “Yes,” she snapped.

“Lucky you.”

“Yes, I feel ever so blessed.”

“You should,” Abigail said, too tired to be angry at the smaller woman’s dismissive tone. “You’d be holding yourself together if you weren’t.” She slumped back against the wall, not even sure how she’d gotten over to it and pulled her helmet off. The feel of the stale air on her skin was the sweetest thing she’d ever felt and she greedily sucked in a lungful of it. A moment later, Godfrey came prowling back, looming over the private. “Area secure.”

Abigail nodded, forcing herself back to her feet. It was harder than it looked. “I have to check on Shannie,” she said.

The Ghost looked down at her for a moment, then nodded once as if granting permission. If she ever remembers that she outranks us and is wearing a suit of walking fuck-you, we’re in trouble.

~

Whatever this place had been, it had obviously been repurposed into a well-equipped sickbay. Several medical beds were folded up against the wall, bracketed by a mis-matched conglomeration of medical equipment from more nations and time periods than Abigail could identify. First aid kids and portable generators were stacked in corners, and in the center of the room a spider-like Imperial Surgical Entity was anchored to the ceiling, hanging over an operating table, dormant save for the lights it helpfully shone down.

With deft fingers, the surgeon had managed to get Shannon out of both her armour and clothes. An attending ‘nurse’ drone – little more than a wheeled cylinder with a forest of extendable surgical tools and utensils – remained close to the android, while another such unit worked on Shannon’s leg.

Hovering next to the table, chewing on his lip, Armin watched the goings-on, his eyes darting over Shannon’s prone form. Abigail grabbed him by the shoulder. “Get out.”

“But you said-”

“I know what I said. Now I’m saying get out.” Abigail’s voice softened into a threatening whisper. “Don’t let me catch you looking at her like that again.”

Armin opened his mouth in a denial, then closed it with a click when he saw the expression on Abigail’s face and remembered the rumours about her. Meekly, the petty officer squeezed past the mercenary back into the oasis’s main chamber. There was a bench nearby and Abigail sat on it, watching as medical machines six centuries old worked to save the life of the only person she gave a damn about.

The Halo saved us.

As her eyelids sagged despite her best efforts to keep them open, Abigail drifted off to sleep with a single thought in her mind.

Now save her.

[dragon]

Yay finally caught up start from beginig last week. Makes me wonder what Shannon would mutate into.
But excellant writting.
Also how many danm breeds are there seems like everytime they turn around they encounter a new one. So many questions unaswered.

[Grimnosh]

I find it intreasting that security on DROP47 would be so lax as to let even Senior Researcher Hayes send out classified information to his home. We are after all talking about the secret DROP where the Imperium is developing bioweapons that would make SinEater and what it did look like a walk in the park.

[Bladed_Crescent]

Makes me wonder what Shannon would mutate into.

Depends on how (and by what) she's infected...

Also how many danm breeds are there seems like everytime they turn around they encounter a new one. So many questions unaswered.

Not so many, but let's see:

scouts: these are formed from small animals/children
hunters: our most commonly-seen breed, the first infective breed that develops, highly variable in form
proto-hunters: a rare form, seen between the time a host resurrects and the time the infection re-works their body
gardeners: a developed form, only used to tend gardens, a Mother and freshly-born Turned
honeypots: a specialized form used for food storage
soldiers: evolved breed, only created by a Mother
infector: developed form, unknown host, carries advanced strain of the pathogen
embryo/larvae: short-lived pathogen factories intended to spread the infection as fast and far as possible
Leviathan: evolution of the spread
sentry: developed form used to defend nests
Mother: evolved form, produces more advanced breeds
praetorians: variable in form, can be like Unity or created from a single host like the Charger
Crying Girls: evolved breed, tool-users
[???]/brothers: evolved breed
Flytrap: Leviathan variant, unknown development path

I find it intreasting that security on DROP47 would be so lax as to let even Senior Researcher Hayes send out classified information to his home. We are after all talking about the secret DROP where the Imperium is developing bioweapons that would make SinEater and what it did look like a walk in the park

...no?

To expand on that, there's a difference in being able to do something and to do it easily. To whit, Mt. Everest and K2 can both be climbed. It's not easy and rather hazardous. If just one person in all the world managed to climb either of those mountains, it would be premature to say that mountain-climbing is easily done. It's a comparable situation here. If one person with enough resources and drive can do something, it doesn't necessarily follow that that something can be easily repeated.

DROP 47's security is very good; outside the Imperium no one has even heard of it; Duty Before Glory's entire mission is based on rumours and possibilities - the Coalition has nothing substantial, only a circumstantial pattern of maybes and what ifs to work with, albeit deeply teriffying ones. That's with routine personnel transfers and supply runs; the Imperium has kept not only DROP 47's location a secret but even the fact that it exists. It hasn't been until Gemini Pax and Sanskrit Atoll that the Coalition had the barest suspicion of something going on and even then, that wasn't enough to do more than send one ship...

Internally, Chief Alvadotter has been running a tight ship station, as she points out to Everett during their lunches, even with the rising tide of F2 incidents, but she's starting to lose ground. There's been minor security breaches as personnel twigging out or some of the experimental subjects temporarily getting loose, but despite that for the entirety of its existence, there's been nothing leaked on DROP 47's side of things - remember, its Coalition sniffing around Imperial files that's caused the "recent" lockdown, not something that slipped from the station's end of things. And when there's tens of thousands of personnel of varying psychology, technical ability and mental health to keep from causing major security breaches (each one is a potential security risk, given the effect the Mists have on visitors), you can see just what a struggle it can be to keep the station running, let alone securely.

It hasn't been a matter of "I've got some material I want sent home. There's no need to do any customs checks, scans or even the most cursory of examinations on it." "Okay." Everett is one of the highest-ranking personnel on the station, he's friends with the security chief and it's been shown that he's been looking into security procedures. If anyone could get something off the station surreptitiously, it would be him. We've seen his crisis of conscience developing slowly over months, so it hasn't been a snap decision on his part - this is something that he's been working on for a long time and will continue to do so.

Summarizing, just because Hayes managed to smuggle a single case off the station through unknown circumstances, I believe it would be jumping the gun to say that 47's security is lax.

[Grimnosh]

Summarizing, just because Hayes managed to smuggle a single case off the station through unknown circumstances, I believe it would be jumping the gun to say that 47's security is lax.

I ment more in the fact that he was allowed contact with his family before being "discharged" from the DROP. It seems to be the sort of place where the Imperium sends someone and tells thier family that they cannot say where he is but they can send messages to them and vice versa... after checking the messages both ways, if they don't send summerized versions of the message instead of the original.

[xt828]

I just caught up on the whole story again and it's good to see that you're still going strong.

One thing I've been curious about - you've mentioned that the Halos are modified from baseline humans, as are the station security chief's people - the new nordics or something. Is that sort of thing common in this universe? Given all the comments that have been made about Darknells, are they a reflection of modifications - iirc the female I series aspirant/hunter said something about Abby not being a baseline human - and what modifications were made to Darknells?

Cheers

[Themightytom]

I just caught up on the whole story again and it's good to see that you're still going strong.

One thing I've been curious about - you've mentioned that the Halos are modified from baseline humans, as are the station security chief's people - the new nordics or something. Is that sort of thing common in this universe? Given all the comments that have been made about Darknells, are they a reflection of modifications - iirc the female I series aspirant/hunter said something about Abby not being a baseline human - and what modifications were made to Darknells?

Cheers

Oh I dunno about still... I think this is going the way of the Children Of Heaven sequel.

And by the way Bladed, when are we gonna see action on turning that into a book, if fucking 50 Shades can do it, it should be cake for you, you've already got a fan base.

[Bladed_Crescent]

One thing I've been curious about - you've mentioned that the Halos are modified from baseline humans, as are the station security chief's people - the new nordics or something. Is that sort of thing common in this universe? Given all the comments that have been made about Darknells, are they a reflection of modifications - iirc the female I series aspirant/hunter said something about Abby not being a baseline human - and what modifications were made to Darknells?

There is a fair amount of dabbling in genetic improvement of Homo sapiens, although Halo level modifications remain high end of the high end. Ferskt physical modifications are on the high of the spectrum as well, although as we've seen they have some resulting psychological issues. Genetic modification itself pretty common, particularly amongst the more developed and/or ideologically driven worlds. The Imperium did quite a bit of this; universal genetic engineering to member populations was something they offered to allied (but not conquered) populations.

Mostly, you'll see minor adjustments - better immune systems, eradication of genetic disease, reduction of cancer, longer lifespans - the average human lifespan is ~200 now, which is still much shorter than a Halo's 5-600 years. These are all the basic packages most populations have to one degree or another. In others, you might see 'natural' blue/purple/pink hair, changes in skin/eye colouration, designer babies.

The most extreme types of modification involve a great deal of biological and chemical alterations (i.e. turning yourself into a devil/angel/wolfman) and these are very hit or miss as far as heredity goes - not that various populations haven't tried to create their own flavour of humanity, with mixed results.

Cybernetic enhancement is common on richer worlds and nations, but it's not very widespread and what there is tends to be limited in scope. Some civilizations have embraced the idea of transhumanism. They are not well-liked by more human nations.

As far as Darkknell goes, it's very much a mixed bag of genotypes. Abby is, for lack of a better term, a "mutt", with parentage from several different genotypes. She's got an above-average resistance to disease (and part of that is simple natural selection from growing up on Port Royal's streets), can heal fairly quickly, has excellent reaction times and is slightly faster and stronger than normal, although not to Shannon's extent. She's got a bit of everything, but it's her immune system where she's most blessed.

Certain elements in galactic society (most notably members of previously-mentioned developed worlds) tend to look down on the unimproved; it's very much a 'haves' vs. 'have-nots' situation. Unimproved humans are more likely to come from poorer worlds, or those with a philosophical objection to genetic modification, so you get an attitude of "poor, benighted barbarians".

Darkknell itself is rather infamous as a shithole, notable for gang warfare, poverty and particularly violent mercenaries. The colony collapsed several generations ago and it hasn't yet managed to pull itself together. Right now, the Darkknell population survives on foreign aid (at least what isn't stolen), its fisheries, and crime. There's no government worth the name so criminal cartels have happily moved right in, using the planet and system for, well, anything they want since there's no one to stop them.

The only way to get off the planet is to sign on with a cartel or mercenary outfit. The former of which have no incentive to improve conditions on Darkknell and the latter don't care. As you can imagine, this leads to a general impression of Darkknells as poor, uneducated thugs.

Oh I dunno about still... I think this is going the way of the Children Of Heaven sequel.

And by the way Bladed, when are we gonna see action on turning that into a book, if fucking 50 Shades can do it, it should be cake for you, you've already got a fan base.

Actually, I'm still working on this, but I'm also working on a Masters program, additional writing projects and some other non-writing projects, which has chewed up a lot of time. I have 2 chapters just in need of a final edit and a third about halfway finished; I was planning on finishing that one and then putting up all three as a trifecta, although since there are rumours of story demise, I may go ahead and put up the first two instead...

Funny you should mention 50 shades... I have a friend who uses that as an example to me as a prod to continue submitting, but the aforementioned other issues have also slowed down that end of things.

[xt828]

Interesting explanation. I have to admit that I find that Darkknell bit somewhat unsatisfying, though, as the initial reactions of others seem to me to be too visceral for it to simply be a reaction to the place being a shithole. Much of africa is a shithole today, but you wouldn't liken having filth injected into your veins to African blood - yet iirc that's a reaction from earlier on in this story.

Another part or two would be excellent. I found the I-series perspective very interesting so I hope there's more of that.

[Bladed_Crescent]

Interesting explanation. I have to admit that I find that Darkknell bit somewhat unsatisfying, though, as the initial reactions of others seem to me to be too visceral for it to simply be a reaction to the place being a shithole.

A shithole known for producing large volumes of particularly violent criminals. By and large, the common man on the street of Darkknell never gets off-planet. They can't afford it. The only people from Darkknell whom the galaxy interacts with on a regular basis are those who've gotten off-world.

If you ever meet a wealthy Darkknell, then he's a ranking member in one of the criminal syndicates and therefore someone who's schemed/murdered/betrayed his way up the ladder or "merely" impressed those who have enough to be given a position of power. Even amongst their peers, they're considered wild dogs in expensive suits. An appreciation of art and high culture isn't rewarded on Darkknell, so even the ones that make it up the food chain can safely be sniggered at (out of hearing distance) for being uncouth and uncultured.

Any Darkknell who isn't super-wealthy has had their passage paid for them, usually by people who want them to shoot other people in the face. They're very good at it and more than a few have a taste for the violence. These would be the dogs that need a firm hand on their chains, lest they run amok. It's not even too far from the truth; there is no effective law on their homeworld - only what the gang that controls your neighbourhood says not to do. By and large, this isn't a lot unless it impacts their business. Most gangs will 'protect' their people to some degree (although this is usually from outside predation), simply because if they don't, they look weak and others might move in on them. That's about the extent of social safety nets and behavioural constraints you're likely to find.

You can see where this leads to problems when you have people who are used to achieving their goals wholly through violence and have had little to no reason to restrain themselves are suddenly placed into a more regimented society. Abigail has been lucky in that regard; she's naturally more cold-blooded than many of her countrymen and she signed on with Artemis, who are one of the more disciplined mercenary outfits. Her friendship with Shannon has also helped, but the fact remains that she is a rather damaged person and a very violent one at that.

For anyone who wants one, there's plenty of reasons to consider Darkknells a lower form of scum than most. They're poor, they're violent, they have little appreciation for high culture, they tend to have a nihilistic outlook on life, their population is a genetic grab-bag with very little in the way of breeding or expensive improvements. Culture, class, race, breeding; Darkknell is a perfect storm of ways to be looked down upon.

There are some Darkknell governmental officials or 'success stories' who don't fit these molds, but on the short of it you're more likely to be murdered by a Darkknell than shake their hand. Again, there are exceptions to every rule, but the rest of galactic civilization has generations of experience with Darkknells gleefully committing brutal acts.

Hopefully that explains the visceral reactions. A shorter version to all that would be "bigotry".

Much of africa is a shithole today, but you wouldn't liken having filth injected into your veins to African blood - yet iirc that's a reaction from earlier on in this story.

I wouldn't, no. You wouldn't either. But...

(there's an obvious parallel here that I really really want to make, but it'd too blatantly reflect on something in the story that I'd prefer to leave off in the shadows for now, so I'm going to make you puzzle it out in silence)

[Bladed_Crescent]

Two chapter: Nostalgia and reminiscing.

Chapter 65:

Then:

+Interrogation Transcript: 23/04/81+

+Interrogator: Questor 2nd Grade Jillian Richards+

+Subject: Lieutenant Commander [former] William Timon+

+Recorded at: Precinct 27, Sentinel Station Westward Star+

+JR: Hello, Mr. Timon. I’m Jillian Richards, an attaché from Asset Tracking.

WT: Christ, another one of you? How many more of you people do I have to talk to?

JR: It won’t take much time, William – may I call you William?

WT: Sure, I guess.

JR: Thank you. You can call me Jillian.

WT: Uh, great. Say, do you think you could let me out of this thing?

JR: I’ll see what I can do, but first I have some questions for you, William. It shouldn’t take long, then we can see about getting you out of there. Before we begin, would you care for a bite to eat, maybe something to drink?

WT: No. I’m, uh, I’m good.

JR: All right. Let’s start at the beginning, then. You were the first mate on-

WT: Again? Haven’t we been over this enough?

JR: Let’s go over it again, if you please. You were the first mate on Colonial 43-7, also known informally to its crew as Lucky Sevens.

WT: For three years.

JR: For three years. And how many runs did you make in that time?

WT: Forty-one cargo runs, thirteen passengers runs, four courier runs.

JR: You were busy.

WT: Yes.

JR: And how many of those were... what did you call them? ‘Mist Runs’?

WT: Nine. Nine Mist runs.

JR: And what’s a Mist run?

WT: You know. You knew before you ever came in here. Why do I have to do this again?

JR: We just want to make sure we have everything on the record. Please continue.

WT: Fine. A ‘Mist run’ is when we have to skirt the edges of the Twilight Fields. It’s something some asshole in a desk came up with when they were planning the most ‘efficient’ warp routes through the Expanse, cutting a few hours or days off a slip just to save a few bucks. Instead, you get-

JR: That’s fine.

WT: No, it’s not fine! Have you seen any of the stats, lady? I have. Every damn freight hand in the Expanse knows them by heart. Loss of ships doing Mist Runs is 53% higher than all other runs across five sectors combined! And it keeps climbing! The Colonial Authority’s lost three ships this year so far. That’s more than we’ve lost in the last two years and every other government and company around the Expanse is seeing the same thing – ships are going missing, crews are getting butchered, just so some fucking pencil-pusher can see the numbers go up a bit faster in his spreadsheet! It’s insane! There’s no reason to do-

JR: We’re not here to discuss government policy. This was the ninth Mist Run Colonial 43-7 was making, correct? Your destination and cargo.

WT: Well, why are we here? You keep asking me the same things over and over, like-like you expect another answer. Well, fuck you! Fuck you, you little bitch and fuck everyone behind that window and fuck everyone listening to this, all of you can go to Hell, right after you suck my-

[subject continues in this manner for some time; for full transcript, see Appendix A]

JR: Your destination and cargo, please.

WT: ...we... we were headed towards Understone. We were resupplying the colony there; primarily foodstuffs that they couldn’t grow yet, but we had some industrial equipment as well.

JR: Industrial equipment?

WT: Components for pre-fab factories, replacement parts, construction equipment – the usual mix. Understone wasn’t fully self-sufficient yet, so they needed regular supply runs until they were.

JR: And the value of the industrial equipment?

WT: A lot. We’d had more valuable cargos before, but the pre-fab factories were pretty juicy. It wouldn’t take much to get them cranking out whatever you wanted. ‘course, that’s how they’d been designed, for frontier colonies that might need cars one month, shuttles the next and harvester combines the month after.

JR: What were the security arrangements for this cargo?

WT: The bean-counters thought hiding the pre-fabs and industrial equipment in a shipment of food was good enough, but... [subject pauses]. Uh, no offence to our government officials, but nothing gets shipped star-to-star unless it’s worth a bit. Even the food was in bulk enough that it would be worth hitting Lucky Sevens. ‘course, pirates don’t always care about the cargo. Might just take the ship and crew and ransom both of them back. Plus, fresh colonies need regular supplies, which means pirates have a pretty reliable timetable and volume of space to sweep in.

Cap’n wanted to wait until we had two or three ships all ready to go – nothing we had was essential, see – and I backed ‘im up, but the bean-coun- uh, local administrators said that it would throw their ‘intervals’ out of alignment. Cap’n and I tried to get an escort, but we were told there was nothing to spare.

JR: It seems your captain had some concerns about Colonial 43-7’s safety.

WT: Aye. Month before we sailed, an Indigo Lines bulk cruiser went missing in the Deeps-

JR: The Deeps?

WT: Area around the Mists, ma’am. That’s actually where we go on a ‘Mist Run’. I been saying we should call ‘em Deep Runs, but the other name seems like it’s stuck.

JR: I see. Proceed.

WT: Where was I... oh, yeah. Indigo Lines. They build their ships tough; lower cargo volume but heavier armour, bigger guns. Pirates don’t often tangle with Indies, but the pirate clans in the Mists have balls.

JR: There are no pirate clans in the Mists.

WT: Yeah? Says who?

JR: Simple logic. The Twilight Fields render any and all navigation virtually impossible. Anyone who establishes a base within them – even in the thinner ‘nebula’ shell surrounding the denser Mists – would be taking an enormous risk for little gain. Pirates do not operate on that kind of principle. They are motivated strictly by money. The concept of basing in the Mists is diametrically opposed to that goal. Therefore, there are no pirates in the Mists.

WT: Then who’s hitting the ships?

JR: If we assume that there is a coordinated raiding clan or clans in the area, they are not based out of the Mists.

WT: Look, you can believe whatever you want-

JR: We’re not here to discuss flights of fancy, William. There are no pirates in the Mists. No ghosts or goblins, no disembodied souls of the damned, no aliens or spirits. As I said, if we grant the existence of a pirate organization within this sector of the Aegean Expanse, they would still not operate out of the Mists. Now. Please, continue. The loss of the Indigo Lines bulk cruiser – ILSS Walking Monk – had caused your CO, Captain Benjamin Dreyfus, some concern.

WT: Well, uh, as I was saying... the local raiders had been hitting the shipping lanes in the Deeps hard lately. There was a lot of talk about it, but nobody had ever put a name or face to the clan responsible. Normally that kind of thing doesn’t stay quiet for long. I’d heard they were going further afield, but who knows, right? I mean, the pattern fits.

JR: Pattern?

WT: You know. No survivors. I mean, lots of pirates like to brag about how bad-ass they are, how they never leave anyone alive, but these guys...

JR: You were worried about being attacked by pirates.

WT: Yes.

JR: I see. Continue.

WT: Cap’n tried to stretch out the layover as long as he could, but the local pencil-pushers were getting antsy and wanted us to get on the road. Fortunately, there were a few other ships berthed at Westward Star, each with their own runs. You know, I don’t care what you say – us backing out of the Safe Trade Agreement was completely idiotic. They were all in our space, they deserved some protection, but the assholes in Colonial One-

JR: No editorials, please.

WT: Yeah, heaven forbid someone say a bad word about the asinine policies our worthless fucking elected officials are-

JR: William.

JR: Fuck you, you little cunt. If it wasn’t for- Ah, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. You’re just doing your job, a bitch on a leash. No? Nothing? Fuck. Fine. We left port on schedule, reached the warp point without incident and our first 2 slips were neat as you please. It was on our third spool-down that we came across the ghost.

JR: The ghost?

WT: That’s what we called it. A sensor ghost. For the first few days, we thought it was just the instruments playing up. None of the other ships saw it.

JR: You’d had a full maintenance check before leaving port.

WT: Yeah, and the cap’n was steamed up because of it, planning on tearing the work crews a new one for messing up Lucky Sevens’s scopes. Our next warp took us into the Deeps, beacon 4789. No one else was there, but that’s not unusual. Our ghost was still there. Hanging about twenty-seven million klicks off the starboard stern.

JR: Was there a significance to that distance?

WT: Yeah. It used to be thirty-two million. Cap’n didn’t think it was a glitch anymore, started putting us on random course changes. It was quick to respond, but not always quick enough. And every time we changed course, it came a million klicks closer. Never responded to a hail, never made one of its own. Just clung to our asses.

On our fourth slip, it was at twenty million. On the fifth slip, fifteen. Everyone knew it was there by then, even if they didn’t know what it was.

JR: It was tracking you.

WT: And that’s impossible, right? I mean, you can get a vector if you’re right up someone’s tailpipe when they warp, but there’s no way to pull that off a ship that far away.

JR: Some Imperial ships could calculate slip vectors from greater than five light-seconds.

[further information on Imperial capabilities re: slip vector tracking can be found within Diamond database. Theta-Four Security clearance and above may be necessary to access some restricted files]

WT: ...ain’t that a fuckin’ thing. Well, we didn’t know what was going on here. Some were saying it was a sensor malfunction, but the cap’n had the chief [Chief Engineer, Senior Petty Officer Lucille Garret] go over the sensors with a fine-tooth comb and had Flairty [Senior Petty Officer, (Technical Support) Jonas Flairty] do the same with the software. There wasn’t any bug. So it had to be either one ship after us, or a bunch of ‘em. Every slip it was getting closer and we couldn’t get any kind of hard reading off it. None of us could, not even mass or decent thermals! Just this little spike on a graph telling us that there was something hot out there. I mean, we should have at least gotten a read on what weight of drive it had, but nothing.

Cap’n started thinking that it might have been some other nation’s warship running an op on us, testing out some new gear. Sent another transmission, for all the good it did, telling them to back to back off that we were a Delsian Colonial Authority ship, this was our territory, interference with our mission could lead to diplomatic repercussions, continue behaving in this manner and we’ll consider it a hostile act – you’ve got the comm log.

JR: And they responded.

WT: Yeah. Squirted a datafile to us. Just a small one.

JR: What was it?

WT: Why do you need to say it? You know. You and every other badge that’s walked in here knows. What do you get out of asking me the same things over and over? Why do I have to go through this again and again and again?

JR: What did the datafile they sent you contain?

WT: It was a list, all right? It was a list of registries, hull-numbers and ship names. Every one of ‘em – every last one – was a ship that’d been hit by pirates around the Mists or just gone missing. And-and just above the bottom few entries, that Indie Liner was listed. Walking Monk. And below that one, below it... there, uh, there were...

JR: Yes?

WT: ...they’d listed the ships in our convoy.

JR: What happened next?

WT: Panic, what do you think? Some of the captains wanted to charge them down, all of us at once. Others wanted to make a run for it. Some wanted to split up, others wanted to stay together. Our formation started to come apart as everyone started pulling their own way. The cap’n tried to keep everyone together, but no one was listening. That was when we lost Night Bloom.

JR: Yasmine Pride Heavy Freight 2-248653.

WT: So the registry says. We were still arguing, screaming at each other over what to do. No one saw the missile until it was too late. You have to- I mean, Night Bloom was inside our formation. There were at least three other ships between her and the missile, but it threaded its way right through them, took her right in the engine and blew her slip drive apart. One missile.

You have to understand, she was still mobile. Her hull was still in one piece and her sublights were fine but... but, uh...

JR: She couldn’t warp out like the rest of you could.

WT: No. No, uh... no, she couldn’t. And-and-and... what made it worse, what made it even worse?

JR: Yes?

WT: In that list, just under Walking Monk? The next name – the very next name was Night Bloom. They weren’t just telling us that they were going to kill us. They were telling us who was going to die next. So we did, we did what, uh...

JR: You abandoned Night Bloom.

WT: Yeah. Yeah, we did. They were begging us, pleading, cursing. But we couldn’t stay. That ghost had just punched out a 5-billion tonne freighter with one hit. Who has hardware like that? We ran, just waiting for the drives to spool back up. And that ghost was right on our heels, Night Bloom screaming for us not to leave them behind. Then, just like that, they went quiet.

JR: They were destroyed?

WT: No, uh, no that’s not it. We would have seen a missile from the bogey. I mean, I think we would have. But they just... got all wobbly and their signal cut out. Like... like someone pulling a cloak over them.

JR: A second hostile?

WT: That’s what we thought.

JR: What happened then?

WT: Five days. Five days of running, trying to get away. Five days of jammed communications, of lost beacon drones and sensor ghosts. Five days of herding us towards the Mists, pinning us against them with nowhere to slip. Some of the ships in our convoy... they, uh, they went their own way. Thought it’d be safer that way.

JR: Did you see them again?

WT: No. No, but... uh...

JR: Go on.

WT: We picked up transmissions. Recordings. They... I mean, the ghosts, they sent us...

JR: Yes?

WT: They were screaming. Begging. Pleading. Cursing. Just like Night Bloom. We heard them die. Every time a ship cut loose and tried to warp back to the safe lanes, tried to get out of the Deeps... we heard them die. Each and every one. Five days, then the Cap’n had his idea.

JR: The Mists.

WT: Yeah, they’d been careful about it. Keeping us close to the Mists without actually getting into them, putting our backs to the wall...

JR: The Twilight Fields is the size of a small nebula. There are clear warp lines through the outer reaches. It’s only the hyperdense innermost section that disrupts navigation.

WT: Well, thank you ever so-fucking much. I had no fucking idea how to fly a ship. Don’t I feel like an idiot, doing all those Deep runs and not knowing that you can slip through the Mists! Boy, is my face pretty fucking red, let me tell you!

JR: I was merely pointing out-

WT: That I’m, what? Incompetent? That not one single person on each of those ships didn’t know that? Fuck you. We tried to lose them. We tried everything we could think of, but they were always there, always on our necks. Taking their time and picking us off one by one, just like their damn list said they would. We didn’t have any choice, you get that? We had to get them off our backs.

JR: You went into the Twilight Fields. Into Acheron.

WT: We did.

JR: Whose idea was it to do so?

WT: Cap’n gave the order.

JR: That’s not what I asked.

WT: Mine. Happy? It was my idea. Nobody could have followed us in. If they did, they would have lost us in hours. I don’t care what toys they had – everyone’s blind in the Mists. Everyone’s... supposed to be.

JR: How many ships were left?

WT: Five. Fat Ralph’s Ugly Wife, Hapsberg Lucielle, George W. Carlin, Collection’s Agency and us.

JR: Fat Ralph was a privately-owned vessel.

WT: Yes.

JR: Hapsberg Lucielle was registered to Myazuki-Hapsberg TransStellar. Agency and Carlin were merchies. Merchant marine vessels. Islamic Republic of Nomir and Hardlanding Dynasty.

WT: Yes.

JR: Did any of the other captains suggest an alternate course of action?

WT: They had lots of ideas. None of them were good ones.

JR: Be specific, please.

WT: There’s not much to say; a lot of vague ideas about ‘going for help’, or running a certain direction or doing this or that. They didn’t want to go into the Mists, but they’d seen what happened to the ships that ran. Me and the Cap’n managed to get them on board. We’d go in just deep enough to lose our tails and sneak back out, then slip back to Westward before they could find us again.

JR: That was your plan? The plan you proposed to Captain Dreyfus?

WT: Yeah.

JR: What happened next?

WT: We were closing in on the Mists and our shadows were dropping back; it didn’t look like they wanted to go in there any more than we did. It even looked like they were giving us openings to run for it, but the cap’n figured that those were snares.

[‘snare’ is a merchant colloquialism for a seemingly-secure area or route that an attacker attempts to lure a harried vessel or convoy into in order to ambush them]

It took us four days to before we started to run into any real problems. Deeper into the Fields we went, slower we were going, but our friends were dropping further and further back. At least, we thought that’s what was happening; we were getting real sensor ghosts now as we went from a few grains of dust every ten thousand cubic kilometers to hundreds of thousands every cubic klick. Like I said, though – it looked like it was working.

JR: What happened next?

WT: You have the reports.

JR: Please.

WT: [sighs] Fine. Lucille and Moneyshaker. Their captains were getting nervous. Lucille had never done a Mist run before; they’d only just been assigned to the region. Agency had done... too many. They were nervous and only getting more antsy the deeper we went. After a four-hour comm blackout, they decided that they’d had enough. They were leaving.

JR: Did you try to convince them to stay?

WT: I did, the Cap’n did, the other skippers did. They wouldn’t hear it. They were spooked and wanted out of there. So they took off. Never, uh, never saw either of ‘em again.

[Hapsburg Lucille was found adrift seven weeks later off Beacon 17741, stripped of parts, cargo and virtually all crew; for full details on the recovery operation, please consult ‘Roanoke’ database. To date, no trace of Moneyshaker has been recovered]

JR: Continue.

WT: We were in the thickets now; our scopes were hash and only getting worse. Comm was just about dead, too. Only made out every second word. We thought we were clear. We thought we were safe.

JR: You weren’t?

WT: No. No, uh... they, uh... they came out of nowhere, whipping by at full-drive speeds. They should have been getting shield-burnt, but it was... it was like they were in open space, not getting splashed by particulates at c-fractionals!

JR: ‘They came out of nowhere’?

WT: Three contacts. I think. We were tracking the distortions – the wake their drives were making in the Mists and it seemed to be three. Carlin broke formation, tried to run. They didn’t make it. Fat Ralph was broadcasting, trying to surrender right up until they were boarded. They never went off-air. Someone panicked, forgot to close the channel. We heard everything. Sounds you don’t think men and women could ever make.

JR: What were you doing?

WT: We were running, just like Carlin. They were saving us for last,

JR: Colonial Heavy 43-7 wasn’t the last ship indicated on the datafile you said they transmitted.

WT: Well, they’re already had that fun, hadn’t they? Don’t see that they’d need to be obsessive-compulsive about everything. Do you?

JR: What happened next?

WT: We were running, for whatever that’s worth. Two of the contacts went off scopes, and we figured they were moving in to board Fat Ralph... which is pretty much what happened.

JR: Did you get any visual feeds from Fat Ralph?

WT: You know we didn’t. Nothing that wasn’t nonsense. Screams and shadows. Static and splashes. And, I guess... that one image.

JR: Let’s talk about that.

WT: What’s to talk about? There’s barely anything there. Just a face, really. Nothing but a face and a shadow. And... those eyes. That’s all there is. I’m not saying any more.

JR: Then let’s talk about what happened next. Colonial 43-7 abandoned its compatriots.

WT: For what good it... wait. Wait, fuck you. No, really: fuck you. “Abandoned” them? We abandoned them? You sanctimonious little cunt! We tried to save them! Everything we did since we left Westward was supposed to save as many people as possible! That’s what we did! That’s all we did! And... and... and what, you think you can sit here and judge me for it, you and everyone else who....

[subject continues at length; complete remarks are appended to full transcript]

JR: What happened after Colonial 43-7 left Fat Ralph and Carlin?

WT: We ran, all right? I already said we did. We ran as fast as we could, hiking the drives and getting shield-burnt from all that shit out there.

JR: You sustained damage?

WT: The burn started from the prow shields, just like you’d expect, so the forward comm array, prow sensors, the few popguns we had up there – we lost it all. We were running blind, but the lateral scopes were up and we could see the bogey slipping back and forth through the Mists, circling around us, a little bit closer with each pass. It couldn’t... it shouldn’t have been able to do that! Then, uh...

JR: Then?

WT: We were hit. The whole... the whole ship just bucked like we’d been kicked by a mule. Fore of the engines, close to the engineering decks. The primary network went down soon after; they’d infected it. Ship-wide comms cut out next... at least I wish they did. They started... they started playing static and whispers, you know? Distant screams and... other stuff. Bad things.

JR: Please, continue.

WT: Cap’n sent a squad of security down to check it out. You know what security guards on a freighter do? Smack hands and break up drunken brawls. If you’re being boarded, something bigger and nastier than a freighter is usually standing right beside you and won’t like it if you start shooting at their prize crew. When you’re boarded – if you’re smart – security basically forms a half-assed ‘honour guard’ for the conquering pirate lord, master of the universe. Plus, it lets a captain know what kind of people are saying hello without getting into murdering distance at the get-go.

JR: And then?

WT: We never heard from them again. Last status we got was Ermie [Lieutenant (j.g.) Sandra Ermine] saying that she thought she heard something. Then nothing. Cap’n tried to raise Ermine again... all he got back was an acknowledgment blip. The kind you make just to tell someone that you’ve heard them... I know it wasn’t Sandra telling us. It wasn’t.

The captain... he tried to organize a response, but without shipwide comms, we were down to pocket radios and without the computer, we were blind inside. Lighting went down. They planned that. They did. Damage control teams trying to restore power, panicked hands blundering around in the dark. It was a slaughter. We were poking around in the dark with flashlights, pistols and stun wands.

JR: You were?

WT: Yeah. Cap’n sent me and a couple security grunts out to... Hell, I don’t know. I don’t think he did, either. None of us had any ideas at that point. But I went. Just as dead on the bridge or in the halls, right? Least I had a chance of slipping by whoever was out there instead of sitting on command, waiting to get killed. You know... heh. I think you were right, before.

JR: How’s that?

WT: You said there weren’t any pirates in the Mist. You were right. Pirates don’t do that.

JR: Continue.

WT: There’s not much else to say. I ran. I don’t even remember when. I just... there was blood on the walls and I saw this... this thing hunched over [Ensign Drew Peterson], oily and black like... like I don’t even know what. There was nothing solid, like... like it wasn’t even really there. It was hunched over her and it was... it was... it looked up at me – at me – and... I ran. I ran. God help me, I ran and I left the others behind. I heard them die. I don’t even know how I got away. I ran for an escape pod, I got into it and I blasted away from the ship. I... uh... I left them. I left them all behind. They’re all dead. They’re dead now, aren’t they?

JR: The Ludweigian patrol cutter NSX-1886 located your escape pod three weeks after Colonial 43-7 was reported lost.

WT: Yes.

JR: You told the Ludweigian crew something that you omitted from your reports to Colonial authorities. What was it?

WT: I didn’t-

JR: Yes, you did. What was it?

WT: I...

JR: Please.

WT: I didn’t escape.

JR: What was that?

WT: I didn’t escape. They let me go. They let me go. They wanted me to survive. They...

JR: Yes?

WT: They told me something.

JR. What was it?

WT: It had its hand on my throat. Blood was running down my beck, under my collar. It wasn’t mine. None of it was mine. It was dragging me, like... like I was nothing. I fought, I swore and I kicked and... everything else. Everything else. It dragged me to the escape pod and lifted me up. It was wearing a helmet, but it like looking into nothing. There was nothing there. Nothing but black. Except for its eyes. Heh. Eyes in the dark. It told me something then, just before it threw me away. The only thing we ever heard from any of them.

JR: What was it? What did it say?

WT: It said... it said... ‘This is not your home.’ It’s voice was... it sounded like-

JR: That’s all it said?

WT: That’s it.

JR: I see. Thank you for your candor, William. I’ll get someone to show you to your quarters and bring you dinner.

WT: Nobody really believes me, you know? They – I mean, everyone knows that the convoy was lost, but the details... It happened. It happened just like I said. All of it.

JR: I believe you.

+Session Ends+

+24/04/81: Interrogator’s recommendation: submit Lieutenant Commander Timon to Colonial Justice for his freely admitted culpability in the loss of Colonial 43-7 and accompanying extranational merchantmen. Further recommend that pursuant to this indictment, Lieutenant Commander Timon be remanded to high level mental institution for treatment of obvious psychological damage until such time as the state deems him rehabilitated and no threat to himself or others.+

+25/04/81: Recommendation acknowledged. We’ll keep Timon comfortable and quiet. Tie up your investigation and forward all related documents through appropriate channels, standard black-boxing. Good work, Richards.+

~

Chapter 66:

Words.

Words on pages.

Secret words. Some words she didn’t even know, but wanted to learn about. It was a secret, it was a big secret and it was all hers.

Nine years old, Shannon’s hands shook with excitement as she looked over the contents of the locked trunk, each page filled with more secret words. Her prize for getting the chest open. It had taken her a month, but she’d cracked the encryption. The lock was old and it used a recombinant fractal algorithm coupled with a genetic scanner. It was keyed to her family’s DNA. Her great-grandmother, her grandfather, her mother and their siblings could have accessed it and so could Shannon. But none of them had known about it, she was sure of that. It was buried in the deepest reaches of the attic, covered in dust and boxes filled with knick-knacks and rubbish.

She’d been playing explorer, surveying the ancient ruins of Way Gg’natha for treasure, dodging poisonous darts and hostile natives, solving riddles and defusing booby-traps (but most of all watching out for the Horror of the Ruins), when she’d found the chest. Every explorer knew the best stuff was always in the darkest, spookiest parts of the tomb. Braving toxic dust and Lurking Horrors, Shannon had delved deeper into Way Gg’natha than anyone else ever had, and she’d uncovered the treasure. Here, in a forgotten corner of a forgotten part of great-gran’s estate. No one really came up to this part of the house any more. She’d been told that it used to be great-grandad’s and after he was killed in the war, great-gran had simply closed it up.

Grandfather hadn’t said much about it other than that, and neither had her mother. Shannon didn’t understand. Weren’t they curious? Didn’t they want to know? She’d been told that great-gran would tell her about it, ‘when she was ready’, but it seemed great-gran hadn’t been ready to tell grandfather or mother, so Shannon doubted that she’d be the one great-gran confided in.

Still, she hadn’t been outright forbidden from this part of the house, so whenever great-gran was busy (and she was busy a lot), Shannon donned the pith helmet that was at least a size too big for her and became Shannon Hayes, Explorer Extraordinaire.

She was very quiet and very careful not to disturb anything. Explorers never left any trace of themselves behind, after all. Not until they found the treasure. And there was treasure up here, just waiting to be found.

And found it she had.

It was better than she’d ever imagined. Blueprints of something called an Elysium-class star fortress, biological datafiles, medical reports... but it was the languages that caught her attention the most. She skimmed through file after file of childrens’ drawings and scrawled letters, delighting in the challenge as she tried to translate them.

So enraptured was she by her treasure, that Shannon never heard the elevator ding as it stopped at the third floor, never heard the approaching footsteps or the creak of the neglected door’s hinges.

“Shannon Melinda Hayes!”

That, she did hear and her head snapped up and she caught sight of great-gran, the older Halo frozen rigid as she looked past Shannon to the sprawl of ‘scrolls, datapads, papers and data drives scattered around her.

Shannon looked at the expression on her great-grandmother’s face and took an uncertain step back. It was an expression she’d never seen before.

Suddenly, exploring didn’t seem so fun.

~

Sorry. I’m sorry.

The injured screamed behind her as she fled from the concourse, abandoning them to the Turned but unable to save them...

The saw whirred and shrieked as it cut bone, Dr. Ramone screaming in panic...

The feral’s eyes bulged behind his ridiculous avian mask, his fingers scrabbling at her thighs as she choked the life from him...

Her fingers traced the lines of an unknown script, part of her mind struggling to interpret those symbols...

Bujold, smiling and tired, nodded at her, the last time she’d see him...

Gemma’s butcher claws glinted as she twitched, whispering to herself...

Crouched on a broken catwalk, a murderer’s shadow whispered to her in words she shouldn’t have known...

Shannon opened her eyes, looking up at the dull sensor domes and blank diodes of an Imperial Surgical Unit set into the ceiling above her, its spidery limbs tucked up against its black shell. She heard the whirr and click of additional machines, the soft thrums of inbuilt power systems. She could hear the steady beating of another human heart at rest, with the off-tempo cadence of a circulatory system under stress and the inconstant breaths of fitful sleep.

She could smell dust and antiseptic; she could smell herself – blood and sweat and she could smell another person, a familiar scent; excitement and violence. Abigail.

And she could feel pain. Shannon touched a hand to her temple, feeling a seared line of scar tissue cutting along her scalp. An inch to the left and she would have died.

There was movement and for an instant Shannon’s heart quickened at the motion in her peripheral vision, but she calmed when an ancient surgical drone strode into view, accompanied by a chirring medical assistant unit. “Please remain still,” the surgical unit announced as it reached one hand out to cup her chin, another holding a small flashlight. The synthetic flesh pads of its fingertips were long since worn down and she could feel cool metal on her skin. “You are recovering from surgery.” It shone the light in her eyes, checking her response. “No sign of neurological damage. Excellent. You are very fortunate, Ms. Hayes. Local weapons are extremely lethal and are often modified to cause secondary damage. Usage of such weaponry is a violation of the Pax Ultimata Accords, although it is unlikely that an effective prosecution will ever be mounted.” The surgeon gestured for Shannon to get off the operating table. She did so gingerly, testing her injured leg.

“It feels better,” she said.

“I have repaired the damage,” the android informed her. “Anticoagulants are a common secondary modification. This particular toxin appeared to be a refinement of a form I have analyzed before.”

Shannon raised her head. The surgical drone was not a true artificial intelligence, but like all medical automations, it was programmed with a certain conversational delicacy. “Analyzed,” she said, “But not cured?”

There was a brief pause as the surgeon considered how to phrase its response. “No,” it said at last. “None of the patients I attempted to treat had your robust physiology.”

“They bled to death,” Shannon said quietly, turning herself to look at the scar on her leg. It was an ugly red seam. She didn’t know if it would heal. Given time, a Halo’s physiology usually erased all traces of an injury. They couldn’t re-grow entire limbs, but anything short of that would eventually vanish. This, though...

“Yes,” the surgeon replied, responding to Shannon’s blunt statement with directness. “Amputation and cauterization of injured areas are only a stopgap solution. The anti-coagulant contains a compound that reacts with high concentrations of fibrous tissue, such as is found in scars, forming in reaction to injury. Any attempt to clot or heal the wound is broken down by the toxin – including cauterized tissue. Small doses of the toxin are manageable, but anything more than then trace exposure invariably results in death. It has been hypothesized by other visitors that this toxin was initially created for use on the infected inhabitants.”

Shannon shook her head. “Not if my physiology was able to slow it down. Their regeneration is...” Impossible. It should be impossible. “...beyond the limits of any human. That poison is meant for us.”

“A likely hypothesis,” the surgeon noted. “During my time of operation, I have catalogued several hundred different instances of violations of the Pax Ultimata Accords, most involving the unfettered use of chemical or biological weapons.”

“I don’t think anyone here’s a signatory to that treaty,” Shannon replied as she pulled her clothes back on. Her bodysuit stank of blood, sweat and ichor.

“A pity,” the surgeon replied.

Shannon regarded Abigail. Her ‘big sister’ was a light, fitful sleeper – a survival trait growing up in Port Royal, but she was so exhausted that she didn’t notice when Shannon knelt next to her, or the sisterly kiss Shannon planted on the Darkknell’s forehead; she only murmured and twitched in her sleep.

“When you get the chance, I would recommend speaking with Red One,” the android said. “Many new arrivals find him very informative. As an addendum, while you were undergoing treatment, I treated your comrades for their injuries. I understand you are their attending physician.”

“Near enough,” Shannon answered, suppressing the sudden itching curiousity the surgeon’s offhand mention of ‘Red one’ sparked. Her people came first.

“With the exception of some bloodwork still undergoing analysis, I have created a summation of their injuries, physiological condition and treatments. With two exceptions,” the surgeon’s oval head turned to regard Abigail. “This one refused any treatment until you awoke.”

“And the second?”

“The heavy infantry soldier. This oasis possesses a ‘morgue’ for extricating operators from powered armour, but she has so far refused to disembark.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Shannon reached out and scratched the top of Abigail’s head, gently waking the mercenary.

Abigail opened bleary, bloodshot eyes, focusing on Shannon. They widened in surprise and the Darkknell sat upright, her expression like that of a child catching sight of a long-lost and beloved family member. She stood up, grabbing the smaller Halo up in a bear hug. “God-damned Halos!” she shouted exultantly, setting her ‘little sister’ back down.

“We’re harder to kill than most people think,” Shannon said with a smile.

“That’s what I’ve been saying all along.”

Shannon put an hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “I’m fine now, Abby. The surgeon wants to take a look at you.”

Abigail nodded choppily. “Yeah, I know. I wanted him to make sure you woke up okay first.” Unlike everybody else. She didn’t say it, but Shannon read it in her eyes anyways. She gave Abigail’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“How long was I out?”

“About seven hours. The rest of the crew’s okay. You should see this place, Shannie. It’s-” she broke off as she looked at the expression on Shannon’s face. “Right. Check-up first.”

“Right.” Without looking at the surgical unit,” Shannon said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to assist.”

“Of course,” the android answered. “Please, this way.”

~

The night sky was orange, low clouds lit by the flames devouring the city, distant screams and gunshots rippling through the oppressively humid atmosphere. A dog ran by, howling in blind, agonized terror as fire licked over its fur and skin. Wilhelm loomed over him, clutching the anti-material rifle he’d used to put down the silver killer. “You got a hearing problem, rook? I said we are pulling out.”

He couldn’t have heard right. Louis shook his head. “We’re done here? Sir, they’re being slaughtered! All of them!”

Wilhelm shook his head. “It’ll happen with or without us, Hernandez. Best we not be part of the final tally.”

They’d come here to help these people. “Sir... Sir, we can’t just leave them!”

A skimmer reared up over the skyline, clawing for altitude before a crackle of high-caliber rounds stitched through it, sending it plummeting back down out of sight.

“You have your orders, soldier. Landing City is done. That’s a full division of Union heavy troopers in there and we got reports of armour moving in. This op is scrubbed, you hearing me? We got us a very small window to evac before we get some very unfriendly skies. We’re not being paid to kill ourselves with the Union’s guns. The rest of the unit is falling back, soldier. You can leave with us, or stay here and be a hero.”

They were leaving. They’d been supposed to support the rebels against the government, to topple the Union bastards. And instead... instead they had this. Louis forced himself to meet the gunny’s eyes and nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m falling in.”

Louis jerked awake, twitching his head about him as he came to his senses. This wasn’t Landing City. For a moment he was relieved and then realized where ‘here’ actually was. DROP 47. “Motherfucker,” he whispered as he bounced his head against the wall, ignoring the dull ache he earned as a result. He sat up on the cot. The sheets smelled. They weren’t dirty; just old. Washed and washed and washed again here in the oasis, providing succor for God-only-knew how bands of survivors over the centuries. He and the rest were just the latest. It wasn’t safe here; it wasn’t safe anywhere. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Landing City.

His eye socket ached. It was ruined, just as Four had said it would be. The surgeon had no prosthetics to replace it, only a glass eye it had acquired from someone, long since discoloured from someone else’s attempt to clean it in alcohol. He wanted to scratch at the bandages; his entire scalp itched and he worried at the back of his head, scraping at the scabs that had formed there.

Louis heard the door to the ‘operating room’ open and stood on trembling limbs. The surgeon had given him a shot that was supposed to ‘stimulate erythrocyte production’ and compensate for his blood loss, but he still felt off-center. Emily was already up; he didn’t know if the doctor had slept at all. Lutzberg was twitching, nodding off to sleep for a few seconds before jerking awake. Godfrey... he had no idea what the Ghost was doing. She was still in her armour, crouched and immobile like a golem. He thought she was speaking, but it was very faint. As he walked by, it seemed like she was repeating the names of her unit.

His skin crawled as the angle of her blood-stained helmet turned slightly as he walked by, a hiss of breath purring through her helm.

“And how are you?” she asked. The question was a near-mechanical growl through her helmet’s speakers, but he knew she was smiling.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s good,” she rolled each syllable down her tongue, the sound rendered even more grotesque by her helmet. “I’m glad you’re doing well.” She said nothing else, merely watching him and Louis forced himself to walk more evenly. Any sign of weakness, and she’d kill him. Any of them.

They needed to find a way to deal with her and soon, before-

Louis’ train of thought derailed as he caught sight of Hayes, moving without a trace of her former limp, a flash-burn cutting across her temple. It almost made her look like a real soldier and the mercenary forced himself to keep a sneer off his face as he looked into her two good eyes. There was movement behind her; Hutchins, standing behind the Halo as always, like a watchful hound. Both women were dressed only in their bodygloves, the sleek black weave dotted with interface ports for their armour, clinging to them like a second skin and leaving just about as much to the imagination.

Louis laughed, though he didn’t quite know why. His head was fuzzy; even the drugs the surgeon ‘Serge’ had given him weren’t quite enough to take the edge off. “Looks like you’re up again, Four,” he said with another little chuckle. He nodded at the scar that cut across her right temple. “You’re even starting to look like a real soldier.”

Abigail scowled, but Louis laughed again. Delphini was up, standing in front of Shannon, reaching hesitant fingers up towards the scar. Shannon caught her hands, entwining her fingers with the doctor’s own. “Does it hurt?” the petite woman asked.

Shannon shook her head. “No, not really.”

“Will it heal?”

“Maybe,” Shannon seemed uncomfortable with the question, switching to Emily’s condition. “How are you? I’d heard you were hit.”

“Good. It wasn’t too deep. No poison; I got off lucky.”

“Yeah, you’re all so lucky,” Louis snorted, turning away. “Everyone’s lucky.”

“Nine,” Shannon’s voice froze him in his tracks and he looked back. There was a hint of reprimand in her eyes, but also concern. He wanted to scream at her for that, for the same reason he’d laughed earlier, but he kept his mouth shut, looking back at the Halo. She looked like she wanted to say something, but changed her mind. “Have you slept?”

“Yes,” he ground his teeth together.

“Not well,” Godfrey rasped, coming to her feet with the growling purr of powered joints. “Not well at all.”

“Fuck you,” Louis hissed at the lieutenant.

Wet laughter buzzed through Jane’s helm. “Is that what you want?”

“Enough,” Shannon stepped between them. And just like that, she was back in charge. Louis laughed again; it was funny, it really was. Irony, right? He grinned at her, all teeth.

“Sure. It’s enough.” He flashed the same smirk at Godfrey, but got no response, the dark lenses of her helm simply staring back at him. “It’s definitely enough,” he said, wandering away.

Godfrey turned to go, but Shannon caught, resting one hand on the trooper’s spent cannon. “The surgeon wants to examine you too.”

Jane was still for a long moment before responding. “I’m fit.”

“I know you are,” Shannon replied. “I know you’re capable of handling yourself; without you, we’d all be dead. You’re a survivor. You’ve made it this far. But you need to eat. You’ve been running on adrenalin and drugs for too long, just like us.” Godfrey stared down at Hayes, unreadable. Shannon pressed her point home. “It’s not weakness to accept help. You’ll keep us safe, just like you said you would. You made a promise, remember?”

“I made a promise,” Godfrey said after a moment. “I have a mission.” Her helmet moved across the other survivors.

“I’ll be with you,” Hayes promised, reading the mistrust the trooper had of the others. She’d impressed Godfrey before and she played on that now. “I’ll watch your back.”

In the background, Louis mumbled something to himself and laughed at his own joke. Godfrey tracked him until he disappeared back into the ‘barracks’, then returned her attention to Shannon. “Okay.”

~

Oasis 009, it seemed, had been heavily modified from its original function as a combination security office/armoury/murder box. Designed as a bunker within the station itself, it was intended to provide a firebase against any invading force that had taken North arm. Consequently, its bulkheads were reinforced to deter cutting, its ventilation system could be isolated as they were now and ran through a local filtration system and it had a small medical annex – originally little more than two beds and a cramped office for a corpsman, it had been expanded into something that could meet the needs of injured survivors.

The entire complex was two levels high, with stockpiled food, medical supplies and munitions left and used by various bands of survivors. The sullen eyes of a handful of Coalition security and combat drones deterred looting; despite their age and that they were a poor copy of an Imperial combat unit, the automatons were still deadly enough to protect the oasis from any attempt at sacking. A variety of point defence weapons, most showing some degree of modification and customization, had been set up throughout the complex: flechette guns at hallway intersections, flamers pointing into air vents, grenade launchers at stairwells.

“Beta Nine,” Godfrey said, her tone thoughtful. “I think I might kill him.” There was a pregnant pause as she waited for Shannon’s response. The young corporal said nothing. “No questions?” the trooper inquired. “No demands, no comments, no entreaties?”

“No.”

“Because you know,” the Ghost said. “How long?”

“Long enough.”

“He’s listening to it, feeling it crawl inside him, sitting in the filth of his own thoughts, poisoned by them. I know what that’s like. To see someone that used to be a friend. They wear your friend’s face and they might sound just like them, but the words that come out of their mouth...” Jane was silent a moment. “Then they die. Scratching, spitting at you until they’re only just meat and blood that used to be a friend.” Her voice was distant, and very quiet. “Was Nine your friend?”

“I want to believe he still is.”

“You shouldn’t have to kill your friends,” Godfrey said. “I’ll do it. Four shouldn’t have to. You’re all from the same unit. When the time comes, I’ll do it. It’s what I promised. Shelby and Meyers.”

“I don’t want it to come to that.”

“None of us do.”

“There has to be a way to stop it, to turn it back.”

“There is,” Jane answered. “Maybe you’ll find another. If you don’t, you’ll have me.”

Strangely, Shannon didn’t find much comfort in that.

[xt828]

Very nice. The interrogation transcript was well executed, and it's appropriately creepy, though the reveal that they let him go didn't really have that much of an impact on me - I think I would almost have preferred that he escaped on his own, to preserve the mystique of the raiders. It reminded me a little of the Inquisitorial interrogations that crop up from time to time in Warhammer lore.

The chapter was also good. I like Jane, because she's so damaged but trying to focus solely on her mission to stay (relatively) sane and under control. Louis, the poor bastard, is going to come to a sticky end unless he's amazingly lucky - not a theme of this story - which suggests that it's just a matter of how many people/valuable things he takes with him. Shannon seems to have a knack for collecting damaged people - it'll be interesting to see what Emily's damage is.

[Themightytom]

Yeah I'm feeling the grad school pinch too, keep up the good work though crescent, it looks like you're rounding bases.
Godfrey's starting to trust again, coming out of her armor is a sign of the apocalypse.



Like they needed more...

[Bladed_Crescent]

Very nice. The interrogation transcript was well executed, and it's appropriately creepy, though the reveal that they let him go didn't really have that much of an impact on me - I think I would almost have preferred that he escaped on his own, to preserve the mystique of the raiders. It reminded me a little of the Inquisitorial interrogations that crop up from time to time in Warhammer lore.

The original draft of the story did, actually have him escaping on his own and then being executed, but both of those aspects really bothered me. Escaping didn't really seem plausible, given Timon's situation - there's no way none of the raiding ships wouldn't have noticed it and it would hardly be the first time someone faster and/or more cowardly than the rest of their crewmates ran. So then, why let him go? To send a message.

What kind of message? Well, we know it's not intended for other freighter crews. As we've seen, everyone who sails the Aegean Expanse already knows about a particularly brutal "pirate" clan in the area, so there's no need to use the old "leave a single survivor to tell the tale and spread fear" trick... which only raises more questions.

What message are they sending? To whom? And why - why now, why like this? What kind of answer are they looking for?

To me, those are very interesting questions - that the "pirates" are operating their own agenda and are not just in it for profit and simple slaughter. It's all well and good to panic and disorder their victims, but they have something else in mind too.

The chapter was also good. I like Jane, because she's so damaged but trying to focus solely on her mission to stay (relatively) sane and under control.

Each character's degeneration is fun in its own way. For Jane, it's been a small step from focusing on "staying strong" for her people until help comes to despising and destroying any sign of weakness - particularly since almost anything can become a vector for madness here. Louis' jealousy and guilt, Armin's fear and shame, Abigail's violence and protectiveness. Each of them can and is being twisted, each has their own special corruption. If she lets weakness fester, everyone suffers. So the solution is simple: purge any and all weakness.

And yes, Warhammer interrogation transcripts were a big influence on this installment.

Godfrey's starting to trust again, coming out of her armor is a sign of the apocalypse.

Let's hope no one takes advantage of her current vulnerability...

[Grimnosh]

Godfrey's starting to trust again, coming out of her armor is a sign of the apocalypse.

Let's hope no one takes advantage of her current vulnerability...

Just because she is out of her armor doesn't mean that she is defenseless.... she may not have its protection but I would expect that she is quite nasty in close combat especially as she is one of the people qualified to use the armor of an elite unit and considering the amount of time she has spent on DROP 47.

[Themightytom]

Godfrey's starting to trust again, coming out of her armor is a sign of the apocalypse.

Let's hope no one takes advantage of her current vulnerability...

Just because she is out of her armor doesn't mean that she is defenseless.... she may not have its protection but I would expect that she is quite nasty in close combat especially as she is one of the people qualified to use the armor of an elite unit and considering the amount of time she has spent on DROP 47.

Yeah you're talking to the Author so he would know...

[Swindle1984]

So is this story dead now, or what?

[Esquire]

The way to find that out would be a PM, not thread necromancy on this scale.