Halo: Evolutions - Essential Tales of the Halo Universe

by Eric Nylund

  Parabum looked annoyed. Ceretus watched as the Chieftain wandered over to where the hulking young warrior stood, his head returning to a humble and fearful bow.

  “A find indeed,” Parabum added, assessing the now frightened Hammadus, who stood almost a foot taller and wider than his Chieftain. Parabum brought his hammer from his shoulder to the ground. Ceretus knew that once Parabum caught a whiff of fear he would dig in deep, just as he had just done to him.

  Ceretus watched as Parabum tried to intimidate Hammadus. He knew the young warrior was getting stronger, and this was his another attempt to scare him into servitude. Perhaps the smartest move Parabum had yet to pull off. Ceretus would have to be smarter.

  Once Parabum felt Hammadus was sufficiently cowed, his tone took a celebratory note and he addressed the rest of the pack. “Tonight we feast on three of the pathetic creatures. May we consume their flesh as an offering from the gods. Enjoy, my brothers; once again we dine like kings.” Parabum looked out to the others as they cheered obligingly. Ceretus, clutching his pierced throat, gave the vainglorious Parabum’s back a secret, hateful stare as he walked away; he loathed his Chieftain’s awful benedictions more than anything. They were empty words and not at all inspiring or meaningful. A facade of faith. There was no way he was going to endure another pathetic attempt at prayer like that. The gods were truly laughing at them. He could eat his shame. But he hoped Hammadus could not.

  BRIEN WATCHED as the Brutes gathered for their meal. But the sight of watching human flesh being served, let alone enjoyed, was too much for him to handle. There was no surviving this. Even if he had enough time to establish some kind of communication with the Brutes, it would be in vain. He had to escape. By his count he had less than forty-eight hours until the exfiltration craft would arrive. He felt a hand on his hunched back.

  “You never get used to it,” Dasc said quietly. “You just hope someone will get here soon before they pull your card . . . Thought you were the first of a cavalry, but I guess not.”

  “I’m Dr. Connor Brien. I came down here to gather some intel on them,” indicating the Brute dinner party with his head, “but this . . . this is . . .” Brien couldn’t even complete the thought.

  The two shook hands. “I’m . . . Francis.”

  “So this is transcendence?” Brien used his eyes and bushy brows to compliment his sarcasm, making sure his tone called out the man’s lie. The smell of the man, of the whole human pen, was not easy getting used to. He jerked his head back slightly to keep a good distance.

  “Hmmm, my being betrays my guise. It was, for quite some time . . . So you came in here alone?”

  “I was supposed to be here for just a short time, assess the situation. Communications with the port AI were destroyed almost immediately upon the siege. No one knew if there were any survivors.” He turned to watch what appeared to be a ceremonial prayer before the meal, Big Boy sitting majestically above the pack.

  A woman prisoner crept over. Long, straight, gray hair flowed down her shoulders, her body so thin her raggedy clothes swam on her. She would’ve been pretty under better circumstances. She looked hours away from dying.

  “Are you here to save us?” The look in her eyes was enough to break Brien’s heart. She was holding on to any hope she could find.

  Brien couldn’t answer. “Has anyone tried to escape?”

  “Almost every day . . . someone makes a run for it.” This came from another prisoner, a brown-skinned man with the remains of an athletic build. “But look at those monsters; they cover more ground in one step than we do in three.”

  Brien suddenly became extremely self-conscious of his girth. He was the only one of the remaining prisoners who had any meat on his bones. He knew his time was short. “Do they eat anything else, besides . . . well, us?”

  “They did eat the little frog-looking aliens they brought with them, and they have brought back game from the forest, but . . .” Dasc gestured a thumb over to the feast. “They seem to like us the best.”

  Brien watched in silence as the Brutes gnawed meat off human bone. He’d studied cannibals before, but he always knew they had some sort of doctrine behind their reasons for eating flesh. Not that it made it any better, but he understood it. These animals killed for the sake of killing. Even killing and eating those who shared their faith and alliance. Brien wondered if this was representative of the whole Brute mind-set or just this single pack. Regardless, these beasts were natural human predators, even beyond the war.

  He moved his eyes from Brute to Brute beforing returning his gaze to Big Boy. The beast gestured and growled wildly from his makeshift throne. Unlike the battle footage he’d watched and the Brutes he’d encountered personally on High Charity, Big Boy didn’t wear the highly decorative armor of most Chieftains. He was barely outfitted in armor at all: a few protective shards in key places, but nothing like he’d seen on the other leaders. Big Boy now sat listening to one of his captains as he growled out a tale, riotously laughing time and again, but at the same time suspiciously eyeing another crowd that had formed near a campfire. Brien followed his worrisome gaze.

  Six was hovering over a fire, holding court for eight of the other Brutes. They too tore at the human flesh, but remained transfixed on whatever story Six was telling. His shaven face stuck out in opposition to Big Boy’s gruff visage, as if Six took pride in grooming himself on a daily basis. Surely a sign of aesthetic difference, and judging from their encounter earlier and the way they eyed one another, definitely a sign of conflict. He guessed Six was either from a smaller clan vying for power or simply found himself outnumbered among this more barbaric group, but he seemed to be gaining the attention of more and more of them, especially Butch and Ludo. He sensed hostility before; now he smelled the beginning of an inevitable clash.

  “Stomping on the heels of a fuss . . .” Brien said to himself, but loud enough to confuse the others who heard him.

  They all looked oddly at him. He caught their eyes.

  “It’s from an old song my mother used to sing to me. ‘Hold no court, know no rust, just stomp, stomp, stomp, on the heels of a fuss.’ ”

  “What’s it mean?” Dasc asked.

  “It means I think we might have chance to get out of here.”

  THE NEXT morning Ceretus woke with nothing but challenging Parabum on his mind. The one thing that this awful predicament provided him was the discontent of some of his fellow Brutes. While Parabum and his cronies felt like they had finally achieved a kingdom on this planet, a few of the others truly longed for home and were getting impatient with Parabum’s excuses for not departing. He knew this retreat would be met with severe punishment from the Covenant, most likely sentences of death when presented to the tribunal. As soon as they powered up the Valorous Salvation, they would be discovered, hunted, and destroyed. He needed witnesses and allies to expose Parabum’s and his captains’ treachery and blasphemy.

  The young naive Hammadus was the only one here strong enough to defeat Parabum in a challenge, but it would take a lot to push him to attack, even in the wake of the Chieftain’s shameful treatment of him. He followed the chain of command to a fault, betraying himself with his own fear constantly. But Ceretus thought of one powerful tool to fire him up: Hammadus’s brother and best friend, Facius. He was older, more assured, and could control his emotions a bit better. The two were inseparable, and though he did not like the idea of using a devout Jiralhanae like Facius as a means to an end, it was the only hope he had.

  He walked over to the two who were once again eyeing the remaining captives.

  “Not many of them left, my brothers, none with meat to savor, except for the new one.” Ceretus said.

  “Chieftain was out of line last night. Hammadus was merely excited to entertain him with a great hunt.” Facius stated the obvious.

  “He will use any attempt he can to dig into our fear. We need to leave this place, return home. The Chieftain is disgracing us in the eyes of the gods with his cowardice.�
�� Ceretus appealed to their honor as best as he could.

  “But he is Chieftain, what can we do?” Hammadus pleaded, excreting fear again.

  “He’s no real Chieftain. He’s a barbarian who would surely choose to stay here forever rather than suffer the shame the San ’Shyuum will inflict on him. Shame he deserves, and we’ll deserve it, too, if we don’t stop him. He’s a faithless savage, just like his bloodline has proven to be in the past.”

  “What do you suggest, Captain?” By his tone, Facius suspected he was leading him into something.

  “My clan has been at odds with Parabum’s long before the great civil war. I’m surprised I survived last night. And any subordination from me will surely be met with a deathblow. I think you, Facius, should make a request on behalf of the pack. Your two clans have much more in common with one another. He may listen to a cousin like yourself if the argument is presented properly. I have been thinking all night on the matter, and perhaps this could work . . . Suggest to him that we reboard the Valorous Salvation and stow him away, as if he were killed in combat. Perhaps suggest yourself to act as Chieftain. We throw ourselves on the mercy of the Prophets, blame faulty coordinates, mutiny, anything that we decide is feasible . . . and if they don’t hunt us down and blast us out of the sky, we set coordinates for Warial; it is the farthest-flung of our colonies. There we attempt to assimilate, asking the gods for forgiveness and serving them entirely. It’s our only hope, other than dying slowly here with the gods’ backs to us.”

  Ceretus watched the eyes of Facius and Hammadus as they assessed the idea, exchanged glances. Ceretus knew that neither of them was very smart, but they were among the most devout in this pack . . . and the idea of being left behind on the Great Journey brought about true fear in them. He could smell it. “At least the gods will know you tried,” he added.

  Ceretus watched as those words sunk deep into their minds.

  “Do you think it will work, that he’ll listen to me?” Facius asked rather dubiously.

  Hammadus grabbed his brother by the shoulders. “If he doesn’t, I’ll be there to protect you, brother.”

  Ceretus nodded gravely, concealing a pleased smirk.

  BRIEN’S PLAN was a long shot, but it was their only hope. Haunted by the memory of the rampaging Brutes he’d barely escaped, and what he knew from studies and his experiences so far here, these aliens were pack creatures and followed alpha males. Eliminate the alpha males and you’d have a bunch of thugs. Pit those thugs against one another somehow and you’d get a chaotic brawl. Then they could make a run for it. The exfil point was about five miles up through the thick forest, over the hill. If his guess on time was correct, they had about eight hours before the Calypso hit the rendezvous point, which meant they needed to act at the first opportunity and hope for a miracle.

  He had waited until the Brutes were mostly asleep before feeding the others the plan. Judging by the health and shape of his fellow captives, he knew if any of them made it with him off this planet it would be a miracle.

  But his plan was based on one necessity. He needed a confrontation between Big Boy and Six. As best as he could gather, these two were the alpha males of this pack: Big Boy by force, Six by brains. If he could tranq the two of them just after they started fighting, the others would be lost and hopefully argue and battle amongst themselves, creating enough of a distraction for them to make a run for it. He had about two miles until he made it back to his camp, where he had the M6 in case the Brutes did come following. Then he’d have at least a few hours before the exfil craft came for him. It was the best he could come up with.

  The entire hostage camp was on alert for Six and Big Boy. The morning was relatively slow, and Brien was completely transfixed by an impromptu meeting between Six, Ludo, and Butch. If Brien had to guess judging by the events of last night, they seemed to be conspiring. This could be their chance.

  “Dasc, I think we got something cooking . . . look.” He moved only his eyes toward the hovering trio of Brutes.

  The three conspirators seemed reserved as they walked quietly toward where Big Boy and his entourage were gathered. The whole Brute camp diverted their attention from what they were doing to bear witness.

  Dasc waved the others over, and they hovered around Brien.

  “Okay, this is it. Look for my okay and then, you two”—indicating the woman, Nixaliz, and another withering prisoner with a turtle face, named Vern—“run to the front of the pen and start screaming your asses off. Once they look toward them, the rest of you clear me a path and I’ll send two tranq darts at Six and Big Boy as fast as I can, then we run like hell. Up toward the tree line at the hill. No turning back, like the dickens.”

  “Like the what?” asked a stick of a prisoner whose thin face barely escaped his puff of hair and beard.

  Brien caught his eye. “Like you’ve never run before.”

  CERETUS WATCHED in amazement as Parabum actually entertained the words of Facius. He actually looked like he was considering it. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as he seemed. Then he saw his tone quickly change.

  “Cousin, we live like kings here, and judging by the fleet back on that human planet, there will be no Covenant to return to. We need not cower at the thought of their displeasure. We wait until I say we can return. You disgrace yourself with this plan, brother.”

  “So staying here is the will of the gods?” Hammadus asked, confused from behind his brother. Ceretus caught a whiff of his fear.

  “Will of the gods, boy? There is no will of the gods. If there is anything I’ve learned from all this is that no gods answer our prayers, they do not care what we do. They abandoned us long ago.”

  “Blasphemy!” Ceretus erupted; he couldn’t hold back. “All you spout is selfish blasphemy, Chieftain.” He spat the word at him, making sure his disdain shined through.

  Parabum’s captains tensed up at the outburst, and Ceretus could sense the fear rise in both Hammadus and Facius. Parabum raised and swung his hammer just as a wild scream distracted them all.

  IT ALL happened in the blink of few seconds. After Six raised his voice, Nixaliz and Vern shouted like mad, and the captives cleared the view and Brien popped off two shots. One hit Big Boy right in the chest, just as his hammer struck the face of Six. The second shot meant for Six wedged itself into the shoulder of Butch. All three monstrosities hit the ground within seconds of one another, and just as he expected, chaos erupted. Ludo tensed up as one of Big Boy’s captains leapt for the hammer, and then attacked him with all he had. Brien didn’t waste much more time watching the melee; he ran like mad for the hills, firing tranq darts at any Brute within fifty yards of him, the other captives at his heels. Or so he thought. When he turned around only Dasc was behind him.

  “What happened to the others?” He turned, panting, eyeing the commotion behind him. He saw Nixaliz, Brute spiker in her hand, firing shots into the face of Big Boy. Her revenge didn’t last long, as another Brute simply smacked her head clear of her shoulders. Some of the others were trying to make their way up the hill slowly, but the Brutes were quick to follow, snatching them up, ripping them to shreds, some tearing into their flesh with their teeth.

  “Come on. We gotta move, Dasc.” And they took off in the direction of Brien’s camp, turning every so often to make sure that they weren’t leaving anyone behind or that some Brute wasn’t on their tail. Their adrenaline died very close to the camp, and the two men collapsed as soon as it was in eyesight.

  “I think we’re safe for now . . . shit, I need a break.” Brien panted, throat dry and hoarse. He looked up at the sun. “Exfil should arrive in a few hours or so. We still got another two and a half miles to the rendezvous point. We got time.”

  “I can’t believe we did it.” Dasc barely was able to get the words out; his mouth looked dry and brittle beneath his matted beard.

  “There are some hydro packs near the tent up there. Help yourself, bring me one, too . . . .” He looked up into the sky, smiling, knowing that
he survived another one. What he witnessed here was of severe interest to command, but there was no way they could fold these Brutes into their fight. They seemed beyond control. How the Covenant kept them at bay and of service to them was something he wanted to know more than anything. He heard Dasc coming up from behind him.

  “Here you go, Doc.” Dasc handed him the hydro pack. “Never tasted sweeter.” Brien could hear Dasc’s slurping. He laughed to himself. Dasc Gevadim. He couldn’t wait to tell his peers about this.

  “So how far to the rescue?”

  “About two and a half miles, we should get moving in—”

  A bullet from Brien’s M6 seared right through Brien’s head.

  DASC KNEW he would never meet that rescue craft. He devoted his entire life to Triad; to return to the public eye would prove him a phony, and the hearts and minds of millions would be broken, shattered. What was one man’s life for the comfort and faith of countless others? He thought he heard the Calypso arrive, and imagined the recon team as they surveyed the area, the camp, laying all Brute survivors to waste. And it was days before he decided to head down there again.

  He strolled through the human and Brute carnage, taking the opportunity to kick a few Brute corpses as some sort of revenge. With each kick he cried, harder and harder until he crawled up tucking his knees into his chest, and wept himself to sleep. He awoke hours later, the smell of all the death around him striking him anew. He turned over to his back to stare up at the night sky. He’d never felt so alone, even knowing that all his followers were still out there.

  “Transcendence.”

  The word may or may not have come out of his mouth; it didn’t matter.

  MIDNIGHT IN THE HEART

  OF MIDLOTHIAN

  * * *

  FRANK O’CONNOR

  ONE