The Fall of Reach h-1

by Eric Nylund

  He had been reassigned to the Archimedes Sensor Outpost, and had been there for the last year, an unheard of length of time in such a remote facility.

  Commander Keyes reviewed the logs when Lovell had been on duty. They were careful and intelligent. So the boy was still sharp... was he hiding?

  There was a gentle knock on his door.

  “Lieutenant Dominique, I said I was not to be disturbed.”

  “Sorry to intrude, son,” said a muffled voice. The pressure door’s wheel turned and Admiral Stanforth stepped inside. “But I thought I’d just stop by since I was in the neighborhood.”

  Admiral Stanforth was much smaller in person than he appeared on-screen. His back was stooped over with age, and his white hair was thinning at the crown. Still, he exuded a reassuring air of authority that Keyes instantly recognized.

  “Sir!” Commander Keyes stood at attention, knocking over his chair.

  “At ease, son.” The Admiral looked around his quarters, and his gaze lingered a moment on the framed copy of Lagrange’s original manuscript in which he derived his equations of motion. “You can pour me a few fingers of the whiskey, if you can spare it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Keyes fumbled with another plastic cup and poured the Admiral a drink.

  Stanforth took a sip, then sighed appreciatively. “Very nice.”

  Keyes righted his chair and offered it to the Admiral.

  He sat down and leaned forward. “I wanted to congratulate you personally on the miracle you performed here, Keyes.”

  “Sir, I don’t—”

  Stanforth held up a finger. “Don’t interrupt me, son. That was a helluva piece of astrogation you pulled off. People noticed. Not to mention the morale boost it’s given to the entire fleet.” He took another sip of the liquor and exhaled. “Now, that’s the reason we’re all here. We need a victory. It’s been too damn long—us getting whittled to pieces by those alien bastards. So this has got to be a win. No matter what it takes.”

  “I understand, sir,” Commander Keyes said. He knew morale had been sagging for years throughout the UNSC. No military, no matter how well trained, could stomach defeat after defeat without it affecting their determination in battles.

  “How is it going planetside?”

  “Right now don’t you worry about that.” Admiral Stanforth eased back in his chair, balancing on two legs. “General Kits has his troops down there. They’ve got the surrounding cities evacuated, and they’ll be assaulting Côte d’Azur within the hour. They’ll paste those aliens faster than you can spit. You just watch.”

  “Of course, sir.” Commander Keyes looked away.

  “You got something else to say, boy? Spit it out.”

  “Well, sir... this isn’t the way the Covenant normally operates. Dropping an invasion force and leaving the system? They either slaughter everything or die trying. This is something altogether different.”

  Admiral Stanforth waved a dismissive hand. “You leave trying to figure out what those aliens are thinking to the spooks in ONI, son. Just get the Iroquois patched up and fit for duty again. And you let me know if you need anything.”

  Stanforth knocked back the last of his whiskey and stood. “Got to marshal the fleet. Oh—” He paused. “One more thing.” He dug into his jacket pocket and retrieved a tiny cardboard box. He set it on the Commander’s desk. “Consider it official. The paperwork will catch up with us soon enough.”

  Commander Keyes opened the box. Inside were a pair of brass collar insignia: four bars and a single star.

  “Congratulations, Captain Keyes.” The Admiral snapped a quick salute, then held out his hand.

  Keyes managed to grasp and shake the Admiral’s hand. The insignia was real. He was stunned. He couldn’t say anything.

  “You’ve earned it.” The Admiral started to turn. “Give me a shout if you need anything.”

  “Yes, sir.” Keyes stared at the brass star and stripes a moment longer then finally tore his gaze away. “Admiral... there is one thing. I need a replacement navigation officer.”

  Admiral Stanforth’s relaxed posture stiffened. “I heard about that. Ugly business when a bridge officer loses their stomach. Well, you just say the candidate’s name and I’ll make sure you get him... as long as you’re not pulling him off my ship.” He smiled. “Keep up the good work, Captain.”

  “Sir!” Captain Keyes saluted.

  The Admiral stepped out and closed the door.

  Keyes practically fell into his chair.

  He had never dreamed they’d make him a Captain. He turned the brass insignia over in his palm and replayed his conversation with Admiral Stanforth in his mind. He had said, “Captain Keyes.” Yes. This was real.

  The Admiral had also brushed aside his concerns about the Covenant too quickly. Something didn’t quite add up.

  Keyes clicked on the intercom. “Lieutenant Dominique: track the Admiral’s shuttle when he leaves. Let me know which ship he’s on.”

  “Sir? We had an Admiral aboard? I wasn’t informed.”

  “No, Lieutenant, I suspect you weren’t. Just track the next outbound shuttle.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Keyes looked back on his data pad and reread Ensign Lovell’s CSV. He couldn’t take back what had happened with Jaggers—there could be no second chance for him. But maybe he could somehow balance the books by giving Lovell another chance.

  He filled out the necessary paperwork for the transfer request. The forms were long and unnecessarily complex. He transmitted the files to UNSC PERSCOM and sent a copy directly to Admiral Stanforth’s staff.

  “Sir?” Lieutenant Dominique’s voice broke over the intercom. “That shuttle docked with the Leviathan.”

  “Put it on-screen.”

  The screen over his desk snapped on to camera five, the aft-starboard view. Among the dozens of ships in orbit around Sigma Octanus IV, he easily spotted the Leviathan. She was one of the twenty UNSC cruisers left in the fleet.

  A cruiser was the most powerful warship ever built by human hands. And Keyes knew they were being slowly pulled out of forward areas and parked in reserve to guard the Inner Colonies.

  A piece of shadow moved under the great warship, black moving on black. It revealed itself for only an instant in the sunlight, then slithered back into the darkness. It was a prowler.

  Those stealth ships were used exclusively by Naval Intelligence.

  A cruiser and an ONI presence here? Now Keyes knew there was more going on here than a simple morale boost. He tried not to think about it. It was best not to go too far when questioning the intentions of one’s superior officer—especially when that officer was an Admiral. And especially not when Naval Intelligence was literally lurking in the shadows.

  Keyes poured himself another three fingers of Scotch, set his head on his desk—just to rest his eyes for a moment. The last few hours had drained him.

  “Sir.” Dominique’s voice over the intercom woke Captain Keyes. “Incoming fleet-wide transmission on Alpha priority channel.”

  Keyes sat up and ran his hand over his face. He glanced at the brass clock affixed over his bunk—he had slept for almost six hours.

  Admiral Stanforth appeared on-screen. “Listen up, ladies and gentlemen: we’ve just detected a large number of Covenant ships massing on the edge of the system. We estimate ten ships.”

  On-screen the silhouettes of the all-too-familiar Covenant frigates and a destroyer appeared as ghostly radar smears.

  “We’ll remain where we are,” the Admiral continued. “There’s no need to charge in and have those ugly bastards take a shortcut through Slipspace and undercut us. Make your ships ready for battle. We’ve got probes gathering more data. I’ll update you when we know more. Stanforth out.”

  The screen went black.

  Keyes snapped on the intercom. “Lieutenant Hall, what is our repair and refit status?”

  “Sir,” she replied. “Engines are operational, but only with the backup coolant system. We c
an heat them to fifty percent. Archer and nuclear ordnance resupply is complete. MAC guns are also operational. Repairs to lower decks have just started.”

  “Inform the dockmaster to pull his crew out,” Captain Keyes said. “We’re leaving the Cradle. When we are clear, fire the reactors to fifty percent. Go to battle stations.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  0600 Hours, July 18, 2552 (Military Calendar)

  Sigma Octanus IV, grid thirteen by twenty-four

  “Faster!” Corporal Harland shouted. “You want to die in the mud, Marine?”

  “Hell no, sir!” Private Fincher stomped on the accelerator and the Warthog’s tires spun in the streambed. They caught, and the vehicle fishtailed through the gravel, across the bank, and onto the sandy shore.

  Harland strapped himself into the rear of the Warthog, one hand clamped onto the vehicle’s massive 50mm chain-gun.

  Something moved in the brush behind them—Harland fired a sustained burst. The deafening sound from “Old Faithful” shook the teeth in his head. Ferns, trees, and vines exploded and splintered as the gunfire scythed through the foliage... then nothing was moving anymore.

  Fincher sent the Warthog bouncing along the shore, his head bobbing from side to side as he strained to see through the downpour. “We’re sitting ducks in here, Corporal,” Fincher yelled. “We have to get out of this hole and back onto the ridge, sir.”

  Corporal Harland looked for a way out of this river gorge. “Walker!” He shook Private Walker in the passenger seat, but Walker didn’t respond. He clutched their last Jackhammer rocket launcher with a death grip, his eyes staring blankly ahead. Walker hadn’t said a word since this mission went south. Harland hoped he would snap out of it. He already had one man down. The last thing he needed was for his heavy-weapons specialist to be a brain case.

  Private Cochran lay at the Corporal’s feet, cradling his gut with blood-smeared hands. He’d caught fire during the ambush. The aliens used some kind of projectile weapon that fired long, thin needles—which exploded seconds after impact.

  Cochran’s insides were meat. Walker and Fincher had filled him up with biofoam and taped him up—they even managed to stop the bleeding—but if the man didn’t get to a medic soon, he was a goner.

  They had all almost been goners.

  The squad had left Firebase Bravo two hours ago. Satellite images showed the way was all clear to their target area. Lieutenant McCasky had even said it was a “milk run”. They were supposed to set up motion sensors on grid thirteen by twenty-four—just see what was there and get back. “A simple snoop job,” the ell-tee had called it.

  What no one told McCasky was that the satellites weren’t penetrating the rain and jungle canopy of this swampball too well. If the Lieutenant had thought about it—like Corporal Harland was thinking about it now—he would have figured something was wrong with sending three squads on a “milk run.”

  The squad wasn’t green. Corporal Harland and the others had fought the Covenant before. They knew how to kill Grunts—when they massed by the hundreds, they knew to call in air support. They’d even taken down a few of the Covenant Jackals, the ones with energy shields. You had to flank those guys—take them out with snipers.

  But none of that had prepared them for this mission.

  They had done all the right things, damn it. The Lieutenant had even gotten their Warthogs five klicks down the streambed before the terrain became too steep and slippery for the all-terrain armored vehicles. He had the men hump the rest of the way in on foot. They moved soft and silent, almost crawling all they way through the slime to the depression they were supposed to check out.

  When they had gotten to the place, it wasn’t just another mud-filled sinkhole. A waterfall splashed into a grotto pool. Arches had been carved into the wall, their edges extremely weathered. There were a few scattered paving stones around the pool... and covering those stones were tiny geometric carvings.

  That’s all Corporal Harland got a look at before the Lieutenant ordered him and his team to fall back. He wanted them to set up the motion sensors where they had a clear line of sight to the sky.

  That’s probably why they were still alive.

  The blast had knocked Harland and his team into the mud. They ran to where they had left the Lieutenant—found fused glassy mud, a crater, and a few burning corpses and bits of carbonized skeleton.

  They saw one other thing—an outline in the mist. It was biped, but much larger than any human Harland had ever seen. And oddly, it looked like it was wearing armor reminiscent of medieval plate mail; it even carried a large, strangely shaped metal shield.

  Harland saw the glow of a regenerating plasma weapon... and that’s all he needed to see to order a full speed retreat.

  Harland, Walker, Cochran, and Fincher fell back, running—blindly firing their assault rifles.

  Covenant Grunts had followed them, peppering the air with those needle guns, mowing down the jungle as the tiny razor shards exploded.

  Harland and the others stopped and hit the deck, splashing into the thick, red mud, as a Covenant Banshee passed them overhead.

  When they got back on their feet, Cochran took the round in the stomach. The Grunts had caught up to them. Cochran flinched, his side exploded, and then he crumpled to the ground. He fell into shock so fast he didn’t even have time to scream.

  Harland, Fincher, and Walker hunkered down and returned fire. They killed a dozen of the little bastards, but more kept coming, their barks and growls echoing through the jungle.

  “Cease fire,” the Corporal had ordered. He waited a second, then tossed a grenade when the Grunts got closer.

  Their ears still ringing, they ran, dragging Cochran with them, and not looking back.

  Somehow they had returned to the Warthog, and gotten the hell out of there... or, at least, that’s what they were trying to do.

  “Over there,” Fincher said, and pointed to a clearing in the trees. “That’s got to lead up to the ridge.”

  “Go,” Harland said.

  The Warthog slid sideways then raced up the embankment, caught air, and landed on soft jungle loam. Fincher dodged a few trees and ran the Warthog up the slope. They emerged on the ridgeline.

  “Jesus, that was close,” Harland said. He ran a muddy hand through his hair, slicking it back.

  He tapped Fincher on the shoulder. Fincher jumped. “Private, pull over. Try to raise Firebase Bravo on the narrow band.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fincher answered in a wavering voice. He glanced at the near-catatonic Private Walker and shook his head.

  Harland checked on Cochran. Private Cochran’s eyes fluttered open, cracking the mud caked onto his face. “We back yet, Corporal?”

  “Almost,” Harland replied. Cochran’s pulse was steady, although his face had, in the last several minutes, drained of color. The wounded man looked like a corpse. Damn it, Harland thought, he’s going to bleed out.

  Harland placed a reassuring hand on Cochran’s shoulder. “Hang in there. We’ll patch you up as soon as we get to camp.”

  They had dropships at Bravo. Cochran had a chance, albeit a slim one, if they got him back to the combat surgeons at headquarters—or better yet, to the Navy docs on the orbiting ships. For a moment Harland was dazzled with visions of clean sheets, hot meals—and a meter of armor between him and the Covenant.

  “Nothing but static on the link, sir,” Fincher said, breaking through Harland’s reverie.

  “Maybe the radio got hit,” Harland muttered. “You know those explosive needles throw a bunch of microshrapnel. We probably got slivers of that stuff inside us, too.”

  Fincher examined his muscular forearms. “Great.”

  “Move out,” Harland said.

  The tires of the Warthog spun, gripped, and the vehicle moved rapidly along the ridge.

  The terrain looked familiar. Harland even spotted three sets of Warthog tracks—yes, this was the way the Lieutenant had brought them. Ten minutes and they’d be back o
n base. No more worries. He relaxed, took out a pack of cigarettes, and shook one out. He pulled off the safety strip and tapped the end to ignite it.

  Fincher revved the engine and shot up to the top of the ridge—crossed over, and skidded to halt.

  If not for the haze, they would have seen everything from this side of the valley—the lush carpet of jungle in the valley, the river meandering through it, and on the far set of hills, a clearing dotted with fixed gun emplacements, razor wire, and pre-fab structures: Firebase Bravo.

  Their platoon had partially dug into the hillside to minimize the camp’s footprint and provide a place where they could safely store their munitions and bunk down. A ring of sensors encircled the camp so nothing could sneak up on them. Radar and motion detectors linked to surface-to-air missile batteries. A road ran along the far ridge—three klicks down that was the coastal city, Côte d’Azur.

  The sun broke through the haze overhead, and Corporal Harland saw everything had changed.

  It wasn’t fog or haze. Smoke rose in columns from the valley... and there was no more jungle. Everything had been burned to the ground. The entire valley was blackened into smoldering charcoal. Glowing red craters honeycombed the hillsides.

  He fumbled with his binoculars, brought them to his eyes... and froze. The hill where the camp had been was gone—it had been flattened. Only a mirror surface remained. The sides of the adjacent hills glistened with a cracked glass coating. The air was thick with tiny Covenant fliers in the distance. On the ground, Grunts and Jackals searched for survivors. A few Marines ran for cover... there were hundreds of wounded and dead on the ground, helpless, screaming—some of them trying to crawl away.

  “What have you got, sir?” Fincher asked.

  The cigarette fell from Harland’s mouth and caught on his shirt—but he didn’t take his eyes off the battlefield to brush it away.

  “There’s nothing left,” he whispered.

  A shape moved in the valley—much larger than the other Grunts and Jackals. Its outline was blurry. Harland tried to focus the binoculars on it but couldn’t. It was the same thing he had seen at grid thirteen by twenty-four. The Grunts gave it a wide berth. The thing lifted its arm—its whole arm looked like one big gun—and a bolt of plasma struck near the riverbank.