Rtas 'Vadum's fleet Extracted Revenge entered normal space beside the partially-glassed planet. Phantom-class troop carriers laden with Sangheili were deployed and entered Sore's atmosphere. Each alien held his breath as the vessels flew in close over the fire fight taking place between the humans and their own kind. The Elites bared their teeth and raised their plasma swords as the Phantoms touched ground. Leaping from their respective sides, the alien soldiers rushed forth to slaughter as many rebels as possible.
Rtas' Vadum watched the battle from the bridge of his assault carrier, Shadow of Intent. A hologram of the Councilor stood beside him, roughly 6ft high. Together they gazed at the various screens before them, watching the carnage take place.
"I must say Councilor, that I am surprised the humans allowed us to land on their planet." The Fleet Master's gruff voice broke the silence. He turned his head to regard the other Sangheili.
"I don't wish to speak badly of the humans, but they can be a most difficult species to work with."
The Councilor turned, silver armor gleaming in the dim light of the Holy Chamber. The holo image was incredibly realistic. The only indication that the alien wasn't actually in the room was a faint transparency and the occasional flicker.
"They are just different." He said softly. "As are we from them."
"Yes, Councilor."
The former Arbiter returned his gaze to the view screens. The Forerunner technology granted him an almost unprecedented view of the battle raging just over three miles away. Sangheili fell and died – the traitors and the loyal together. A deep sigh left him. As the Councilor, it was his duty to unite the Sangheili together as brothers. He wanted to expand trade with the humans and further knowledge of the great Forerunner race. He couldn't do that as long as civil war flamed between members of his own kind.
Moro 'Ptasm nodded to the Fleet Master before cutting the hologram transmission. He turned away from the console and informed Thyne 'Ottomo that he would be in his private quarters. Nodding, the young Sangheili signaled the guards to wait at the door to the Holy Chamber for the Councilor to reemerge.
Once in the comfort of his own privacy, Moro's gaze drifted over to the miniature holo-portrait of a very young Sangheili – no more then ten years of age. His long, slender fingers went through the image, causing it to flicker once.
It would be a few years yet until he could once again see home, and visit his mate and son. He would bare them out patiently.
--
"Listen up, you dogs." Sgt. Jacobson snapped to his group of soldiers. "We got those damned Covenant traitors up north, then a Commander with rebel forces to the east. There are only thirty-five of us, including our Spartans." He sent the Chief a nod. Sgt. Stile's men, although not technically ordered to, were also standing at rapt attention.
Good. He had their eyes and their ears.
"Thirty-five of us and over two-hundred of them, as shone by our last satellite imagery." He saw the men glance at each other. For their sakes, he could not allow one speck of doubt among them. They had to stay a single, unified force.
He stepped closer, demanding his audience's attention.
"Now I know that each one of you has heard the legend of the Spartans. The wars they've fought, and the battles they've won." He came to a halt in front of his men and women.
"The Master Chief has a longer battle record then the rest of us put together. And that's only what's on the record. Which we all know ain't everything." He motioned to the small group of super-soldiers. The Spartans stood silent, unwavering in their posture. Their metallic green suits of armor and amber faceplates made them appear to be almost God-like in stature.
That was exactly what Jacobson wanted. As proud of them as he was, his troops could not get this job done alone. He needed the Spartans to inspire them; to keep them from giving up.
"The battle ahead will NOT be easy. Neither will the coming war. But we will make our mark on the traitorous bastards – scum of the Covenant, and scum of the UNSC." His dark brown eyes were as hard and cold as rock. They would take no prisoners today.
He paused. Perhaps they would take one prisoner. Give him a chance to explain his actions before imprisoning his sorry ass for the rest of his unnaturally short lifespan.
And that was only if he was able to give them the names of his supporters.
"Sir?" The computerized voice of an AI spoke up. Jacobson motioned for his men to stand at ease before approaching the Spartans.
"Yes?" He had been briefly introduced to Focus earlier. Even for a smart AI, he seemed remarkably capable.
More so anyway then a certain military-based AI he was familiar with…
"Updated satellite images are in. I was also able to tap in further and hack into their ground-based computers. I can get a much clearer picture."
"What do you see?"
"A lot of massing to the northeast. It looks as though the UNSC rebels and the Covenant loyalists are engaging each other."
Jacobson cracked a rare smile.
"Always easier to fight a distracted enemy. With them-"
"We could very well be likewise be distracted, Sir."
The smile quickly disappeared.
"As much as I would love to see Covenant blood on my boots again, they are not our fight."
"Sir?" This time is was the Chief. Jacobson realized he had not informed the Spartans of their direct orders from Lord Hood. Sloppy.
"Lord Hood sent us to engage the rebels specifically. The damned loyalists will be dealt with separately." He dug into his right pants pocket, pulling out a roughed-up little cardboard box. From his shirt pocket, he withdrew an old-fashioned black cigarette lighter.
"Sir? By who?"
The Sergeant lit the end of the stick in one easy motion and snapped the lighter shut.
"By your old friend, Chief. Who else?"
--
Commander Marshal Bradford spent most of his time at Alpha Base: the hastily-erected tent in the middle of the jungle-swept plain. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand and ducked under the tent flap.
Even with two fans set up inside, the base was a God-damn oven.
"Report." Bradford growled.
"Sir. You're not going to believe this…" A nervous Lt. saluted his boss. Upon receiving only a cold glare in place of the customary response, he slowly dropped his hand.
"Um, we've lost control of our satellite."
"Excuse me?" Bradford hissed. "Would you mind explaining to me just how the fuck that happened?"
"An – an AI. He's in the system."
"And did you bother to wipe out the little shit?"
"Sir." A nearby technician wearing a lab coat looked up from a second computer. "Attempting to, Sir. He's an advanced one – there is no obvious way to hack into his hard drive."
Bradford shoved the Lt. to the side, going over to the main computer to see for himself. He leaned over the keyboard, staring into the monitor. He pulled the mike closer to his mouth.
"Come out come out, where ever you are." He whispered into the mouthpiece.
"He won't respond. Use the keyboard." The Lt. didn't even bother to turn around.
Frowning, Bradford set his fingers down onto the keys.
Who is this?/
Your game is up./
Bradford licked his upper lip, choosing his words carefully. Dealing with an AI could be a delicate process.
You're here. On Sore./
Correct./
With the Spartan./
You could say that./
I could easily access your data matrix and wipe you clean out. Not even a single memory byte would be left./ He raised his eyes to the technician, who shook his head regretfully.
You can try./
/
Bradford narrowed his eyes. He was a cheeky little bastard, he'd give him that much… The technicians over at ONI made stranger and stranger ones every day.
You will be defeated./
Bradford leaned back, scowling at the screen.
And why is it that you say that?/
There was a ten-second pause before the AI gave his reply.
…Because I know John 117. /
There was a muted beep as the AI cut the connection, followed by a series of explicit curses from the Commander.