- last post: 01.01.0001 12:00 AM PDT
Here's chapter two:
Chapter Two
November 30, 2525 (Military Calendar)
Onboard Covenant fighter, somewhere in slipspace
When Sam first regained consciousness, he was unsure if he had. His eyes were still dark, and none of his limbs felt responsive. The only indication he had that he was still alive was that his mouth was full of the coppery taste of blood.
He blinked several times. Sight came back to his eyes. He tried moving. His hands clenched into fists. Good. He wasn’t paralyzed.
He moved his arms, then pushed himself off the floor.
He was still onboard the Covenant fighter. He wasn’t dead, but he was a prisoner. No matter. Chief Mendez had taught the Spartans how to escape from almost any situation.
Leaning against the wall, Sam assessed himself. The first thing he noticed was that his ribs were in pain. Good. The pain meant that the plasma wound had not destroyed the nerves just beneath the skin. It could be healed in time. In the meanwhile, the irritation of the pain would keep him alert.
He stood up. He had been dumped in the rear of the ship, in what he presumed to be a cargo hold. His captors did not want him dead. That could be an advantage in a future escape plan.
The room was rectangular with rounded edges. Two large metal crates stood at the opposite corner of the room. Possibly weapons storage. Given enough time alone, he could figure out a way to open them.
Sam’s thoughts of opening the crate brought him to thoughts of his combat knife. He looked down. His supply belt was still strapped around his waist. Very good. He opened the middle pouch. His combat knife was still inside. Even better. Now he needed a plan.
“Why are we carrying that garbage, especially after the destruction of the Silent Contemplator?”
Clearly the two black-armored aliens were not pleased with their leader’s decision to keep the Spartan alive after the annihilation of their cruiser. The gold-plated one turned from the viewport.
“This human is different. All of our data, all our observations have said that the humans were soft, weak, technologically inferior. I watched the holorecord from the camera in the cargo hold. He moves faster than any warrior I have ever seen, Covenant or otherwise. He’s obviously an ingenious tactician to think up a way to destroy an entire battle cruiser on his own. His body mass is estimated to be around double the human norm. And his armor is advanced beyond anything else the humans posses. Were it not for our personal shield systems, I have no doubt that it would be superior to our own.”
One of the lower-ranked aliens spoke.
“Be careful what you speak, ‘Toulamee. Our armor has been spawned directly from technology created by the Forerunners. What you say is borderline blasphemy.”
Dias ‘Toulamee scoffed. “I have no doubt that the two of you would leap at the opportunity to have me stripped of my rank just so one of you could take command. And my execution ceremony would simply be an added perk.
“But which one you brothers would take my post? You, Greeda? You’re a coward. You’ve run from battles where Grunts have stood their ground. Not suitable for a level of command where others’ lives are in your hands.
“Perhaps you then, Siha. You, who led an assault on a rebel Jackal stronghold, certainly you have the courage and the attitude to be a field commander or even a ship master. But didn’t you lose seventeen men in that operation? Out of twenty, was it?
“And if my memory serves me correctly, it wasn’t a stronghold at all, but a mere barricaded hilltop, at night while the disgusting creatures were sleeping. One would think it best to insert quietly, get into the center of their camp, and kill them all silently. Or, if all else failed, at least enter the camp before you started shooting.
“No, the brave Siha ‘Midulee thought it best to assault the camp head-on, come back a hero for his courage. One of the worst tacticians the Elite race has to offer. You won’t ever wear gold armor. Niether of you will. Even if I lose my post, another, better candidate will fill it, and the two of you will remain where you are, left only with your plots to remove him and take his place.” Dias smiled as best he could without lips, his four jaws forming the semblance of a toothy grin.
Siha ‘Midulee looked at his brother. Greeda nodded, pulling what appeared to be a weapon’s hilt from his belt. Siha did the same.
“That may be true, ‘Toulamee, but the Prophets will be pleased to hear of our valor in executing a Heretic in our ranks.”
The brothers pressed the activator buttons on their weapons simultaneously. White-hot envelopes of plasma sprang up out of their hilts.
Dias activated his own plasma sword. “Perhaps.” He smiled again. “And perhaps they will hear of my foiling an attempted mutiny.”
Sam popped the seal on the first storage crate. Rations. He moved to the second crate. He crossed his fingers and pushed his knife through the seal. Just what he needed. A crateful of weapons.
The first item to pique his curiosity was a small, handheld cylinder, with some small bulges on the sides. Probably designed to fit better to the hands of its users. Sam thumbed the activator switch and two scythe-like blades of plasma emerged from each end.
“A sword.” The big man smiled under his helmet. Swords hadn’t been used by humans for wars in over six hundred years. It seemed odd to him that a group of species as advanced as the Covenant would still be using melee weapons. He stabbed the weapon into the side of the rations crate. It melted through everything, leaving a perfect hole in the metal. Archaic, but potent.
Sam deactivated the sword and strapped it to his belt. The other weapon in the crate was a plasma gun that resembled the weapon he had been wounded with, only more solid, substantial. The glow of plasma coming through the intricate designs on its sides gave the alien weapon a ghostly appearance.
He test-fired the gun into the rations crate. It was an automatic weapon. Sam released the trigger, not wanting to overheat it. The metal was obviously made for heat dispersion, seeing as the surface of the crate had not melted, although it left a large patch of carbon scoring on the pearlescent surface.
Sam clipped the weapon to his waist, then reactivated the plasma sword. Time for a friendly hello to his captors.
‘Toulamee knew he didn’t stand much of a chance. But he knew that if he died there, in the cockpit of that ship, the two brothers would execute the human. If the specimen did not survive to be studied, then the Covenant would never take a human planet unchallenged ever again.
With a battalion of soldiers like him, the humans could assure themselves that the Covenant would have trouble in ground battles. He knew the Hierarchs and the Council would want to interrogate the meatbag. He had to kill the Siha and Greeda here and now.
Siha attacked first, attempting a thrust at his chest. Dias used his own sword to slap the attack out to the side, then punched the attacker in the side of the head. ‘Toulamee spun to the right, locking swords with Greeda.
Greeda tried to hit him with the same blow that had just been landed on his brother, but ‘Toulamee reacted faster. He spun again, dropping to the floor and knocking his opponent down with a leg sweep. He blocked another attack from Siha, then vaulted over the captain’s chair.
Greeda rolled in to the side, attempting to cut him off at the knees. Jumping up, Dias kicked Greeda in the chin and turned to face Siha. None of them noticed the door from the cargo hold opening.
Sam leaned in, studying the scene unfolding in the cockpit. Two aliens in black armor were engaged in a fight with a gold-armored one. None of them had noticed him.
The gold one, though facing difficult odds, fought with a ferocity that Sam had only previously seen in fellow Spartans. He felt a certain respect for the alien warrior, and made a choice.
Sam jumped forward, the arm holding the sword drawn back, poised like a snake ready to strike. One shoulder slammed into the skull of the standing black-armored alien, the arm attached to that shoulder driving the sword through his foe’s chest.
As he drove the body of his dead enemy toward the floor, Sam unclipped the plasma gun from his belt. He curled his legs up underneath him, planted on the alien’s back and pushed off.
As he shot backward he leveled the end of his weapon at the second black alien and squeezed the trigger. A steady stream of plasma slammed into the chest of his target, causing its personal shield to flare, then fail. The plasma gun locked up and began spewing steam from its sides. Sam skidded across the deck
“Dammit!” Sam cursed at himself for not paying attention of how hot the weapon became. He tossed it aside and jumped to his feet.
The target roared at him and charged. But it had neglected its first enemy. The gold-armored alien swung his blade, separating the attacker’s head from the rest of its body.
The primary threat was ended, but he wasn’t sure whether he could trust the last alien. Deja had taught him that “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Chief Mendez had taught him that “The enemy of my enemy could just be another enemy.”
He picked up the plasma gun and leveled it at the alien. “Friend or foe?!”
Continued below....
[Edited on 9/17/2006]