Prologue

Saint-B312 hung from the ceiling upside down. Like a hibernating bat. A dark stalactite, animated only by the smallest and briefest of movements. He'd been hanging there for hours at this point... But patience was a virtue he'd learned since before he could remember. How to be quiet. How to be still. And from what he could remember of his earliest years... Well, his master Kurt Ambrose had honed his entire being into a weapon more lethal than a MAC cannon. Had honed Saint into a violent and ruthless shadow warrior. The type of warrior that let nothing stop him from getting his target. Not opposition, not difficulty, not fear, not overwhelming numbers. Not time.

And this time, his target was finally emerging from her chambers.

She'd entered the room early last night. A mere half-hour before Saint had managed to infiltrate the inner spire of the Kazavim Supremacy Order HQ. The KSO wasn't the most powerful insurrectionist group - that title was reserved for the legendary URF - but they had the most capable leaders. Based on what he'd read in her file, Commander Hideki Kaori was among the most efficient. The most careful.

But not careful enough. Not even close.

Kaori stood a few paces beyond her doorway. Early morning sunlight bathed her from within her room, casting an elongated shadow across the cold marble floor. She was still dressed in a nightgown, the flimsy material hugging at her lithe physique in multiple locations. A multi-colored thing, contrasting with her otherwise pale skin. Other than that, she wore nothing. Good. No concealed weapons. Nothing for me to worry about.

Saint had positioned himself inbetween her bedroom chambers and the nearest restroom. He figured she would likely head there first after waking up. Most people did. And that calculation proved accurate when Kaori began heading down the hall.

Until she stopped. Just a few paces away from Saint's killzone. She looked up. Right at him.

"I don't suppose that's a comfortable position?"

Spotted.

Did I trip an alarm? No. I don't do that. I don't trip alarms. Did I expose myself to a hidden camera? Also no. I rerouted this level's security feed network to yesterday's loop with my remote-access rootkit. Plus, I never deactivated my panels. Motion trackers? No, as well. I intercepted their latest tracker shipment last month before I even came to this planet. Without a resupply, their current trackers are operating on the ultra-low frequency KASAR band. I can't have been picked up because I haven't moved fast enough. Unless my physics are wrong. And that's unlikely. And if her security cameras never saw me, then she couldn't have ever seen me. Her eyes can't see across the electromagnetic spectrum.

So the hitch isn't on my end, not with my infiltration. She had to have been aware of me prior to stepping foot in this building. Could she have been tipped off? Rear Admiral Shepard definitely has enemies willing to do that. But that only raises numerous questions...

"You can come down, now," Kaori added. She was smiling. She had to have known he was here all along.

Saint was starting to smell a trap. It wouldn't be the first time he walked into one.

He tapped a button on his TACPAD. His photoreactive panels disengaged, and the netowire strapping him to the ceiling cut loose. Saint fell through the air and landed more gracefully than a cat. Made no sound that could be picked up by even sensory equipment. Slipped his combat knives into their holsters.

"Wanted to see for myself what they were sending to get me," Kaori said. She was still smiling. "Gotta say, I'm impressed. Flattered, even. You're quite skilled. But... This is as far as your game goes."

On queue, several floor panels slid open. In their place came defense turrets. Two on either side of Kaori. And, from what Saint heard, two more behind him roughly five meters back. Saint identified them as auto-magnetic L77 'Vipers'. Automated machine gun cannons more fit for the frontline than for building security. Packing the type of firepower that could shred Covenant banshees. Ambrose would be ashamed if he knew Saint had walked into such a trap.

"But it doesn't have to end," Kaori continued. "I could use someone like you. Serve me... It'll be more than worth your while. Trust me."

Saint smiled.

Kaori had no idea who or what she was talking to. That was a fatal mistake.

"Strong, silent type, huh? Take your helmet off. Let me see you."

Ohkay then.

Saint reached up. Slid his helmet off slowly. Kaori put a hand to her chest.

Her eyes drawn to his face.

"Oh, my."

Saint knelt, his eyes glued to hers the entire time. One hand setting his helmet on the floor, the other hand concealed behind him. "I never liked the UNSC anyway."

Kaori's smile grew even wider, until she let out a laugh. It sounded like small bells ringing together. High-pitched and obnoxious.

That was when Saint's Micro-director marbles activated. They were small weapons, smaller than a pebble. A small-scale, localized EMP delivery system that could defeat electronics systems within very precise omni-directional ranges. The effect could be amplified at will by using multiple micro-directors. The pulse shorted out Saint's photoreactive panels undoubtedly. But it also disabled the Viper autocannons. They began to slump lifelessly in their housings.

By the time they'd slumped all the way, Saint had already closed the distance on Kaori. Faster than a blink of the eye. His hands already closed around her throat.

The delight in her eyes vanished. Replaced with a look of utter horror and terror. Her eyes grew large like golf balls when Saint lifted her from the floor. She gurgled something. Maybe it was a plea. Maybe even a prayer. Some type of last minute attempt at reconciliation. A pathetic grasp at life, in the full awareness that she was now experiencing the last moment of it. The last fleeting moment.

Saint squeezed. Crushed her throat beneath his hands as easy as balling up a sheet of paper. Her corpse went lifeless, and Saint left it on the marble floor.

By the time the HQ security team arrived on the penthouse floor five minutes later, Saint - and all evidence of his ever being there - had vanished. Including Hideki Kaori's multiple datapads.


-Chapter 1-

The Defense of Jericho VII

February 5, 2535

2517 Hours JC Standard Time

Eastern UNSC Occupation Zone, Outskirts of Damask City, Jericho VII

Civilian Billeting Block 117

"That's what I keep telling you, Cyllia! We have to LEAVE! It's not safe for us anymore. Nowhere is safe."

"But we can't do... You've to stop this, Alle. There are better ways."

"I already tried. We both have. But the Tricog has fallen. The world will be lost within the week."

"Then we'll join the resettlement program. Start over in the inner-colonies."

"We couldn't, even if we tried to. Not unless I do this. The UEG never forgets... And neither do I."

There was a metallic clang. A series of clicks. Something slammed shut. An exasperated sigh covered the gap in the argument. And then there were footsteps. They edged closer to the doorway before coming to a pause.

Saint Anekwe instinctively rolled away from his hiding spot right by the threshold. Slipped quietly along his knees and bottom. All hands and feet, fingers and toes. A mere moment in the low-light, a flicker of movement before successfully disappearing into the inky shadow of a broken statue in the hallway. Quiet as a ghost.

Just as the doorway opened.

His father stepped through. A big and dark man; an angry and scarred man. Heavy-set and mountainous were the words that formed in Saint's mind. Decked out in a thick trench coat, thick jeans, thick boots... And an unmistakable metallic glint of a pistol in his hand.

Saint swallowed. His father was an irascible man, and Saint had no business being up this time of night. Had been spanked several times before for doing such. And right now, his father had a look Saint hadn't seen before. It was rage. Desperation. Determination. A small touch of fear in the slant of the eyebrows.

Father turned back one last time, glancing into the bedroom at Saint's mom Cyllia.

"I'll be back by tomorrow evening. Gusman's going to get us our new IDs. I'll make him, if I have to. He owes me."

There was another sigh. "Ohkay. Just... Please be careful. I don't trust him."

"Mhm. I love you, Cyllia. Now, get some sleep. Wake Saint up early tomorrow, tell him to get our ration, and get his things together. We'll be offworld by midnight, God willing."

With that, father closed the bedroom door, standing alone by himself in the hallway. The man pulled out a medallion from somewhere deep within his coat. It was the 9-point starcross of the Freedom League. Saint could've deduced that even if his parents hadn't taught him his heritage. Father lifted the star to his lips and gave it a kiss. A final gesture. Like a goodbye.

And then father sat the medallion on a nearby nightstand, then turned to face the statue.

Looking straight at Saint, it seemed. With that same expression in his face. That same amalgamation of passions... But now, alone and with the bedroom door closed, the fear was more evident. In the shaking hands if not in the face. Saint had never seen his father visibly afraid before, not even remotely so. It was uneasy. Made Saint want to accompany his father, like a team of companions on a quest against the supervillain Overlord Ziborg. But that was a cartoon, and this was real life. So Saint stayed frozen in his hiding spot, partly hoping that his father hadn't seen him, but also hoping that his father had. Just for the chance to ask to tag along.

But Saint would never quite know if his father had seen him. The man simply put on a hat before turning away. Marched out the front door into a storming night.

It was the last time Saint ever saw him.


"Saint? Saint! Get up, sweetie!"

Saint groaned. He didn't want to get up. It was too early, too soon in the morning. Even earlier than usual, and Saint always got up early. Ever since the Covenant aliens took over Rawsie last year. That was when everything got harsher. Harsher than Saint's life had been beforehand, which - from what he could remember - was always spent feeling either hungry or tired.

"I made your favorite!"

Ohkay. Fair enough. So Saint pried his eyes open and rubbed at them for at least 2 minutes. Yawned. He realized half his body was off the bunk, his legs and feet hanging off the side wildly. Saint rolled the rest of his body off the bunk, landing on his bottom in a thin blanket and the same clothes he had on last night. He sat there for probably another minute in dumb silence. His mind going through that strange phase where it had to grasp the fact that he was now awake. Now aware. Then he stretched and stood and made his way down the hall toward the kitchen, past the statue. Along the way, he paused by the single nightstand beside his parent's bedroom door. The Freedom League medallion was gone now. Saint inferred that mom must've moved it.

Hmm.

He glanced up the hall toward the kitchen area. Didn't see anything but her shadow, dancing along the wall as she cooked at a stove. Saint decided to try the bedroom. See if he could find the medallion. But as soon as he went to touch the activation button, -

"Your sandwich's gonna get cold!"

Alright, then. I'll try later.

Saint backed off and finally made his way into the kitchen. It was a small room, barely big enough to fit a countertop and a table. Early morning haze crept in from a single window. There wasn't much to see out there. Seemingly endless rows of other hab-houses - essentially small makeshift homes barely big enough to fit a family. The Jericho Planetary Guard had constructed the hab-houses a couple years ago. "A temporary measure," they'd said, until JPG and UNSC forces could oust the Covenant ground forces from the world.

Things hadn't quite gone as planned.

Now, virtually everyone who wasn't in the military had been assigned to a hab-house in Damask City, the final major stronghold on the planet. More and more people were making the decision to evacuate as part of the UNSC's Resettlement Program. But opportunities were... Limited.

Saint slid into a stool at the single mahogany table, stretching toward the ceiling yet again. A plate with a spadehorn jerky and cheese sandwich on it. It smelled delicious, and his stomach roared in agreement.

"Slept good?" His mom Cyllia asked. She finished pouring a glass of lemonade before turning to face him. Looking at him with a pair of large and brown eyes. Her face was still youthful and belied her age, with soft and small features and that same cut that ran through her left eyebrow. That same tattoo running along her right cheek.

"No ma'am," Saint answered as she handed him the lemonade.

"Nightmares again?"

"Nah. Just couldn't get to sleep. Did, uh... Did Dad go somewhere?"

Cyllia looked at him. "He's out. Now, finish your food. You have a busy day."

Saint hurriedly finished his plate. It was good, but it really wasn't much. Food rations had been getting smaller by the month this past year. In turn, everyone was trying to get used to eating less. Being hungry more often than not. Saint wiped his mouth off, sat his plate in the sink and finished off his lemonade.

"You know what today is?" his mom asked as she lit a cigarette and headed to the single window. She stared out it, her eyes looking up toward an overcast sky.

"The supply ship," Saint answered. "It lands today."

"Mhmm, that's right," Cyllia let out a puff of smoke. "Line's goin' to be long."

She looked back at Saint. "Well, what're you waitin' for? Ship's not gonna be there all day."

Saint sighed. He always had to pick up the supplybox. "Man, damn," he complained.

"Watch your language, boy. Hurry and get yourself dressed before you make me grab my belt."

Saint sighed again as he headed back to his room to change clothes. First he put on a fresh black tanktop, then some fleece sports joggers, and his sandals. Then slid on his wrist-chronometer, his necklace, and finally, his beanie. After that, he grabbed his toothbrush and made it to the bathroom. He spent a minute brushing his small teeth, and had to stand tiptoe to rinse out his mouth. Then, he snatched a clean washcloth from the rack and used it to wash his face. He smiled at himself in the mirror. A bunch of missing teeth, a pair of dark brown eyes, and black hair braided into small dreadlocks that peeked out from beneath his hat.

After that, Saint made his way outside. Stepped into a warm atmosphere laced with the cinnamon-esque smell of pilac grass from hanging plants. A distant scream roared overhead as a pair of Broadsword fighter craft shot by. The sound pierced through the otherwise calm drone of power generators, AC units, barking dogs and the very distant staccato of explosions and gunshots. It was still fairly dark out, and so most of the lighting came from lightpoles interspersed between the many identical hab-houses.

Saint looked around. The supply ship would be toward the south. Near the Billeting Unit Control Center - the BUCC - in the central area of Damask proper. Past row after row of hab-houses and down several stretches of road. But instead of heading that way, Saint decided to go the opposite direction first. He never went to the ship alone. Not without his buddies. So he unlocked his bicycle from the chain tying it down and rode off.

He cruised for a couple of minutes. Steered past a series of potholes in the shattered asphalt. And past other people. It wasn't crowded, but there were more people up and at it than Saint had anticipated. All of them heading back toward BUCC. Saint didn't really know what to make of it, though. The supply ships only came around once per month. Maybe this time, they were doing something special. Maybe more people were trying to leave than usual. It was a possibility. Saint didn't ask anyone... But he did notice a lot more people carrying luggage than usual. So he went with the evacuation conclusion.

Then he wondered how that was going to work. The supply ship could only ferry so many people up to the civilian transport fleet. Even counting the people who'd already registered in the Resettlement Program. Was this what his dad had in mind last night? A way to do a quick registration and skip the waiting queue?

Before Saint could formulate a probable answer, he came up on Hab-House #2174. He rode around the side of the unit until he reached a window near the back. Got off his bike, picked up a pebble and threw it at the window.

"Jamie," Saint said.

He waited a moment. Then tried again with another pebble. "Jamie Locke! Get out here ya dumbo!" He waited another minute. This time, his friend's face popped up in the window. Jamie rubbed at his eyes before lifting his window.

"Hey sleepyhead."

"Are you stupid, cuz? Look how early it is," Jamie's voice was a whisper. Saint inferred he was probably trying to keep from waking his older sister.

"Just get up, holmes. We got work to do."

"Mannn... Where's Owen?"

"We get him next. Just come onnn."

Jamie took a moment to yawn. Then glanced over his shoulder at something in the room before looking back at Saint. "Alright, gimme a second. And be quiet loudmouth 'cause my sister's sleeping."

So Saint waited outside, checking his chronometer practically every minute.. Jamie sure is taking his sweet time. Slowpoke.

Finally, Jamie came clambering out his window awkwardly. He slid to the ground and landed with a plume of dust, then smiled at Saint.

"Cool shirt!" Saint said, and he meant it. Jamie had on one of the limited edition Overlord Ziborg Versus Metalface: Operation DOOMsday shirts that'd been sold way back before the Covenant had even shown up on Jericho VII. The shirt was way too big for Jamie, but that didn't even matter. From what Saint knew, only a thousand had been sold across the whole planet. He'd tried to get his mom to buy one a while back, but she always got mad and talked about it being expensive. "How'd you get that!?"

"It's a secret," Jamie answered as he got onto his own bicycle.

"Lucky... I'll trade you."

Jamie seemed to consider the offer for a moment. Cocked his head to the side. Then lifted the kickstand on his bike and began to ride around Saint in a circle.

"What'ya got?"

Saint considered his belongings. He had pretty much all the major holo-comics... But so did Jamie. One thing he had that he knew Jamie didn't, was the new GBA '35 gravball game. Complete with all the extra team rosters and players, even the new Epsilon Eridani Orbital Habitat team. But that was too important for Saint to trade. He could play GBA '35. Couldn't play a t-shirt.

He had one thing Jamie would love, though. "I have a Freedom League medallion."

"No way!" Jamie came to an abrupt halt, a look of shock on his face.

"Yep. I'ma have to go home and get it when we leave the supply ship, though."

"Then let's hurry up!"

Saint laughed as he hopped on the bike, following behind Jamie closely. The only caveat was that he'd have to find the medallion first. Find it and swipe it without mom seeing. Just in time, too, because today was probably the last time Saint would ever have the chance to get his hands on such a shirt. Was probably the last time he'd see his buddies.

"Follow me, I got a shortcut. Bet Owen's up on his computer," Jamie said, glancing back over his shoulder at Saint.

They pedaled between a number of hab-houses, a lot of which Saint hadn't seen before. He hoped Jamie wasn't getting his shortcuts mixed up.

Overhead, the sun was beginning to creep higher into the sky. Tendrils of light bled through the gaps in the skyline of inner Damask City. Way out here in the billeting block, it illuminated the pasty green colors of the hab-houses and cracked asphalt. But there in the heart of Damask, Saint could just make out the small shapes flittering around and between skyscrapers. It was a combination of aerial UNSC and JPG vehicles, probably transporting troops, equipment, and carrying out patrols. Falcons, pelicans, condors, spearhawks and so on. Back when the UNSC began its occupation, the military forces had cleared out the city in order to fortify it and turn it into the primary command stronghold on the planet. Everyone else had been put out here in the billeting blocks, way up north and furthest away from the frontline.

"Check it out, bro," Jamie pointed up ahead.

Saint looked past him as they rounded a corner. Saw Hab-house #2770... Owen's spot.

"Nice." Saint slid to a halt right outside the rear window of the hab-house. Then repeated the same process he'd used to wake up Jamie.

This time, Owen popped up right away. He'd been awake, just like Jamie had guessed. His big eyes framed behind even bigger glasses.

"You two're always here!"

Saint and Jamie looked at each other for a second, then looked up at Owen in the window.

"Did you forget, stupid? Supply ship's here."

Owen glanced over his shoulder for a second. Just like Jamie had done.

"But it's early. And I'm grounded," Owen whispered. "My dad locked up my bike. You two got me in trouble!"

"Man," Saint started. Owen sucked when it came to dealing with his parents. He was smart, but never knew how to use it when it mattered. "Just... Listen. Tell him you feel sick and you wanna lay down in bed today. Then come back here, climb out the window, and you can ride with me."


February 7, 2535

0900 Hours JC Standard Time

UNSC Battle Group Mastodon, UNSC Halberd-class destroyer Fight and Flight

Captain Bren J. Shepard took a long hit from his cigar. Let the smoke ooze from his mouth like a busted exhaust pipe before he tossed the stub aside.

"Sidewinder reports that the final minefield is in place, sir," COM officer Crest chimed in.

Crest's voice was nervous. As was his facial expression. Him, and the other adjutant and staff officers on the bridge. Bren couldn't blame them, either. Vice Admiral Cole had diverted Battlegroup Mastodon to Jericho VII nearly a year ago as a reinforcing party. The final reinforcing party, after the previous one had been destroyed. Mastodon's fight to save the system had been on since day one. Each time the Covenant sent a new flotilla, Mastodon and the remaining JPG Defense Fleet was able to fight them off. But the losses were beginning to mount drastically... And so the tactics were growing increasingly desperate.

Rear Admiral Kircheis had perished in the first fight way back on that day one; since then, Shepard had taken the unfortunate and difficult role of commanding the fleet. And, after three separate battles over the past 10 months, his ability to protect Jericho VII had reached its peak.

Bren had formulated his current tactic a couple days ago, back when the first reports of new slipspace ruptures had came in. Had sat inside his personal quarters, crunching through the numbers, the physics, the ship positioning. Questioning Nighthaunter and going back over notes and entries he'd written in his journal. His plan would either work, and cripple the 10 encroaching Covenant vessels... Or it would leave Battle Group Mastodon exposed and helpless.

The worrisome part wasn't the prospect of death. It was the fact that he had no precedents to look at.

Bren cursed. He'd long ago requested that the UNSC give up the planet. Let the aliens have it. But according to Cole, Command felt that Jericho VII could be held. They still wanted to show people that the outer-colonies could be protected. They didn't want to dispatch a dedicated evacuation fleet. Didn't want to 'flood the Resettlement Program queue'.

Bullshit. And here I thought that Cole was Command.

On the primary tactical holotable, the small green 3D icon representing Sidewinder flickered twice. The lone prowler was many thousands of kilometers away from Jericho VII. Out there like a fish in the middle of a pond. It began regressing toward its initial position on the far side of asteroid K924. So far, so good...

Until a warning alarm beeped three times on the bridge.

"New slipspace rupture detected," the onboard AI Nighthaunter alerted.

Bren sped across the bridge toward the primary viewport. The external cameras automatically zoomed to ideal magnification.

Son of a bitch.

The 10-strong Covenant flotilla emerged within the asteroid belt out of nowhere. Popping up like ghosts, as if they were part of the void itself. Within extreme weapons-range of the Sidewinder.

"All ships, full-speed ahead! Ready weapons and get Hamrick on the COM yesterday!" Bren shouted the order with a note of desperation and urgency that kicked his bridge crew into action.

"We're down to just 21 vessels, Captain Shepard. A third of which need repairs. Including our own. We're outmatched," Nighthaunter noted as he popped up on the pedestal beside the holotable. His avatar looked more ragged, mad and sleep-deprived than Bren currently did. And Bren hadn't sleep in almost two days. "We'll be dead within the hour. Or, you'll be. I'll be... Offline."

Bren didn't respond to Nighthaunter. Instead, he read the holotable's representation of the star system and the objects within it.

Mastodon was hidden within the system's sole asteroid belt, situated near the vast comet strip inside it so as to help mask the battlegroup's heat signatures. Which was a little less than a half-astronomical unit away from Sidewinder and the minefields. Which, itself, was about 2/3 an AU away from Jericho VII, which sat close to the star Jericho itself. So the Covenant's fleet was now sitting just within the asteroid belt, in-between Sidewinder and Mastodon. They would slaughter Sidewinder... And the only thing to stand between them and Jericho VII was the JPG Defense Fleet.

This was bad. Horrible. Bren had underestimated the Covenant's ability to perform tactical, short-range intrasystem slipspace jumps. Perhaps he wouldn't have made that miscalculation were it not for his sleep-deprivation. Damn. Should've hit the sack when I had the chance. Bren could feel his blood boiling at the mistake. Lives were going to be wasted. If he wanted to win this fight, he'd have to think fast. Put it all on the line. Dig into the depths of his tactical experience and outplay the Covenant. An idea took shape in his mind... But he needed the JPG's help.

"Where the HELL is Hamrick, Crest!?"

"Got 'em in 3... 2... 1..."

Up on the primary viewport, space was replaced by the beard of Hamrick. His eyes had a wild look in them, and his face was both gaunt and determined. In the background was the bridge of the Defense Fleet carrier flagship True Crime. Staff officers moved about with speed and efficiency. And they all had similar expressions of determination. The war for Jericho VII had hardened them.

"What the hell is happening, Shepard? You told me that fleet was hours away! Now they're right in FRONT of me!"

"You need to get your transport barge onto K924, now."

"Are you daft!? That's supposed to be Sidewinder's job... Now you're expecting me to put a civilian shuttle on the line. Get your mind straight, lad."

"Sidewinder won't make it. That barge is the fastest ship we got now. And our best shot at surviving is to go through with my plan... Albeit with some modifications."

Hamrick sighed. He seemed to be agreeable. But he obviously still had reservations, as would any person tasked with defending their people. "Bloody hell, Shepard. Trusting you's gettin' harder and harder, mate."

"You've got to move now, Hamrick. Covenant's not wasting time."

As if on cue, Nighthaunter popped up on the pedestal near the viewport.

"Detecting deuterium buildup and rapidly expanding heat signatures. Covenant are opening fire on Sidewinder. Needless to say, they don't stand a chance." Nighthaunter lowered his voice, this time speaking directly to Bren through his COM earpiece. "And neither do we. A healthy dose of pessimism might prove to be our savior."

Shepard ignored him.

"Very well, Shepard," Hamrick said. "I'm sending the barge to the asteroid. They'll tow it to position. Rest of the fleet's going to form a defensive perimeter outside the skeliopause. We'll fight them back, God willin'"

The viewport COM feed closed off then. Bren took a moment to gather his wits. Take in a series of deep breaths. He fumbled around for his cigar, then remembered he'd tossed it. Damn. Then he turned on his NAV officer, Lieutenant Wong.

"Fleet status?"

"Battlegroup Mastodon is currently maintaining Delta-Claw formation, bearing 020 by 45. Sunskipper is peaking at 5 thousand MPS." The distress was clear on Wong's face. On his eyes and his worried forehead. That speed was slow, and a fleet could only move in-formation as fast as its slowest ship.

Out on the holotable, the battlegroup dispersed from it's hidden position amidst the asteroid belt. The 21 vessels spread out in a dynamic formation, set about in the shape of a 4-pronged claw. The four remaining Thunder-class battleships each spearheaded a prong, followed along by an array of various corvettes, frigates, then destroyers - and finally, Bren's acting flagship situated at the rear. It was an attack formation - one meant to spread around the Covenant fleet, like a hand closing in on its prey. At least, in theory... Which was likely going to be thrown out once put into action, even if Sunskipper's secondary engines were still functioning.

Bren reached out across the holotable. Swiped his hand until the hologram rotated and zoomed back in on the Sidewinder. The icon representing the Covenant fleet had practically swallowed the Sidewinder icon.

"Bring up the prowler," he said to Crest, willing the shakiness out of his voice. "Primary viewport."

Crest shook his head, a grim look covering his face. "It's gone, sir. Bringing up external cam #17 recording."

A camera playback appeared on the primary viewport, the timestamp at the bottom automatically factoring the speed of light against the distance, estimating the event to have occurred just a couple minutes ago. The entire bridge crew watched as tendrils of lightning and crystal-blue stabs streaked from the Covenant. Of course, at this range, they couldn't see the individual ships. Not until Nighthaunter adjusted the magnification settings. The firepower poked the Sidewinder. Prodding at it in a titanic and unnerving display, like biologists prodding and dissecting a dwarka squirrel. One of the plasma beams gorged the prowler straight through from stern to bow; the vessel detonated in a violent eruption of metals and hull.

The video looped back. Bren scanned his bridge... Everyone was still watching. Bren couldn't let them dwell on it. "Crest, put me on the Battlegroup channel."

A second later, Crest looked up from his station and gave a thumbs-up.

Bren cleared his throat. "The Sidewinder didn't die so that we could sit back with our hands tied," he started, marching across the bridge as though he were a drill instructor addressing recruits. "And they did their job despite the risk. Now it's our turn. Every time the Covenant have come here, we've driven them back. Because we have more to fight for. This is just an inconvenient system to them. But to us, this is everything. This is what our lives have led up to, this is our purpose. This is our point, our whole existence... This is our system!"

"Oo-rah!"

"All ships - prepare to fire! Make ready for combat!"


High Admiral Lucas Hamrick wasn't really afraid. Not really. The past decade had virtually eliminated that touch of anxiety he used to get back in his early career. Back when he used to be a younger officer in the UNSC. Now, he was just weary. And it was, in his mind, an obvious thing to his bridge crew. It showed in the slump of his shoulders. In the melancholic tone his speech typically carried. The way he spent most of his time sitting in his command dais. The noticeable lack of pep in his step. Life had gotten hard... And he suspected that it was about to end. Quite soon, too.

A shame, really. Lucas was old, scarred and wrinkled. Experienced. Tired and creaking and back pain and pill bottles. But a death right now would be premature. Untimely. Unjustified, unwarranted. Dishonorable and worthy of an execution by firing squad in the afterlife.

He was still the Jericho Planetary Guard's chief military officer and High Admiral of the Defense Fleet. He still had lives to save. More than a billion. The young bloke from the UNSC couldn't do it alone, and Lucas would be damned if he left Jericho's protection up to the muppet.

Lucas smiled. Captain Shepard reminded him of himself back when he'd been in the UNSC.

"Captain, you might want to see this," one of the NAV officers piped up. It was one of the newer officers. Some young replacement that Lucas hadn't bothered to remember the name of.

He waved a hand, signaling for her to bring it up on the holodisplay-plate that covered the center of the bridge, the 3-Dimensional cubic field big enough to walk through. The display rapidly switched shapes and icons and sizes. Like looking at a bathroom-sized hailstorm. It calmed down just as quickly, and settled on the encroaching Covenant fleet. Small tendril-like lines stretched from the rear of the enemy formation, all the way back to another fleet that was entering the picture. Shepard's battlegroup.

They were opening fire. Beyond effective range. Shepard was trying to draw their attention. Buying time. This wasn't the original plan, and there was no possible world where the battlegroup could face down that Covenant fleet on its own.

"That boat in position?" He asked the NAV officer.

Her fingers danced over a keyboard. A second later, the holodisplay-plate reconfigured to asteroid K924 - and the civilian transport shuttle now towing it at maximum speed. They were on a trajectory heading toward the Covenant...

"And our auger?"

This time, she keyed another sequence before pointing to the primary external cam viewport.

Out in space, a couple thousand kilometers ahead of the fleet, was Jericho VII's single EM-200 series Neides auger. A big old tubelike thing. A starship-sized tool. An oversized wrench. Essentially a giant mining laser. Owned by the JOTUN Heavy Industries contingent on Jericho VII. Not suited for military combat... At least, on paper. It'd taken a lot of political favors and backscratching to commandeer the machine from the bastards.

And thank God Lucas and Captain Shepard had managed that.

All for one single purpose and likely one-time usage. An unorthodox tactic Captain Shepard had devised, although now it would be carried out under very different conditions than he'd originally imagined. But the idea was simple. The transport barge would carry asteroid K924, towing it along a very specific trajectory aiming for the Covenant fleet. Up until it reached its maximum speed - roughly 15% lightspeed. Whereupon the barge would detach the asteroid and let it travel unguided. Hopefully with enough time for the barge to slow and change course to avoid the Covenant fleet, though that was very unlikely.

At that point, the laser auger would hit the asteroid at full power, propelling it to greater relativistic speeds. It would then hit Sidewinder's minefields, exploding upon impact and splitting the asteroid into smaller and smaller parts. By the time it reached the Covenant fleet, it would essentially be a massive cone of skyscraper-sized 'bullets', each one traveling at speeds with enough force to obliterate Damask City and its surrounding regions several times over. It was like firing an interplanetary-scaled shotgun at virtually point-blank range.

Only problem now, though, was that Battlegroup Mastodon would possibly be in the line of fire. Assuming they survived that long.

"Tell them to begin firing sequence. Then issue a fleetwide command - we're expediting to these coordinates," Lucas told her as he typed in a vector and sent it to her station.

The officer's fingers once again dashed and danced over a series of keyboards. Pure concentration on her face. Then she looked back up and gave a single thumbs-up.

Lucas was beginning to like her. Quick, efficient, and most importantly, quiet.

"What's your name?"

She cleared her throat and brushed strands of hair from her face. "I am First Lieutenant Park Shin-hye."

"Proper good job, lieutenant. I've got one last order for you. Tell everyone to ready weapons."


"First team... Fire now and maneuver," Bren ordered, trying his best to keep calm. He might've hid the fear in his voice. But his hands shook so bad that he couldn't even light the new cigar he'd put to his lips. The lighter trembled and slipped from his fingers. Thumped on the deck like an acorn falling out a tree.

He didn't bother picking it up, instead watching the viewport closely as the 10-strong Covenant fleet turned its attention to his battlegroup for direct engagement.

This was going to be quick, vicious and brutal. Most space battles were. Short and nasty, decisive engagements where the outcome was decided by rapid, key moments. Like two armored knights jousting at each other going 200 kilometers an hour, toting spears built out of tungsten and diamond.

Because ships travel fast. At percentages of lightspeed, in fact. Packing firepower that could level continents, and when two fleets gun toward each other, there was rare opportunity for a second pass. Rare opportunity to turn around mistakes.

Out at the forefront of the delta-claw formation, each Thunder-class battleship opened up with everything they had. That meant several hundred guided missiles from each vessel, accompanied by three MAC rounds a piece. The ordinance connected with the Covenant. Missiles impacted against vibrant blue energy shielding, flaring the ghostly barriers along multiple Covenant ships - including their flagship, the single CAS-class assault carrier positioned at the center of their formation. The ship brushed through the missiles like an elephant walking through raindrops. And then the MAC rounds came, twelve in total. Half of them missed, sailing past the Covenant fleet harmlessly. The other half connected on the forward most enemy ships - several frigates. Energy shielding flared and popped. Peeled apart like bubbles exploding. One of the exposed frigates caught a second MAC to the belly, the round ripping and wrenching at the hull along its middle section and shredding a significant portion of it.

But the vessel was still alive.

As expected.

The enemy frigates, as well as their second rank of cruisers, began to close rank in the face of Mastodon's delta-claw attack. To form a shell around their flagship in order to keep Mastodon from encircling and firing on exposed sides.

A sound tactic, especially with durable ships like theirs. That's what Bren would have said.

Instead, he allowed himself the faintest flicker of a smile as the lead battleships began to reform, guiding Battlegroup Mastodon into a rapidly formed spiral heading on a trajectory to pass the Covenant fleet along one side. Without slowing down.

"Secondary teams, fire at will," Bren ordered next.

Multiple Gladius-class corvettes opened fire. Small warships, not the type to trade punches with any Covenant ship. Not that many UNSC ships were. So they were supported by the battlegroup's frigates. Again, there were hundreds of missiles and rockets that streaked out and picked at the Covenant fleet. And again, energy shielding flickered, but otherwise stayed strong. Missiles could screen MAC volleys well, but they didn't work that well against shielding. But they did work decent enough against hull, and that damaged Covenant frigate hadn't yet recharged its shields. Missiles chewed away along the ship's stern and portside, blowing away precious bits of armor and exposing its interior in multiple locations.

MAC rounds hit next. There were 13 this time, though most of them came from the small corvettes that formed over 1/3 of Mastodon. As ordered, the fire was focused on the Covenant's leading frigates - including the unshielded one. Mighty explosions rippled along -

- "Brace for impact! Attempting immediate evasive maneuvers!"

Adrenaline, anxiety and anticipation had been coursing through Bren like a virus. So much so that he hadn't registered the Covenant fleet fire their own volley. He'd barely registered Nighthaunter's last-second warning.

His hands gripped the nearby railing - just as the Fight and Flight rocked and shuddered violently. Bren figured he was inside a blender, barely holding onto his wits and sanity as he rode along a nasty amusement park ride. Without a safety harness strapping him down. His fingers lost grip when the ship rolled to starboard, and he slammed against the deck - five meters away from where he'd been standing - when it rolled back to portside. Bren was in his early thirties; he'd bumped his head many times before. But the blow that rocked his head and body, this time, was going to stay with him for weeks.

Bren went dumb. Lay there on the deck, balled up against some computer station with his mouth parted. Stars clouded his dazed vision, and he saw three different Lieutenant Crests clutching onto a COM station with knuckles whitened to snow. Sparks flew out from somewhere. Jumped through the air like lightbugs. And the ship groaned loudly, as though it were in pain.

Warning klaxons pierced his otherwise foggy hearing. It was an angry sound. The type of sound that could only be interpreted as bad. Accompanying it was red lights, flickering an incessant pattern along the bridge ceiling. One would think he were being apprehended by law enforcement.

Then Bren got back to his senses. Forced himself to stay strong through sheer will. Coughed out loud uncontrollably as he scanned the bridge.

"Status!"

Someone grabbed him by the collar. Hauled him to his feet and stood him upright. Recognized Lieutenant Wong.

"I said 'status' God damn it!"

"Status is poor," a voice said, but it wasn't Wong.

Bren slapped Wong on the shoulder by way of thanks and limped his way to the primary viewport. "Talk to me, Nighthaunter."

"We took a plasma torpedo and a number of plasma cannon bolts. Decks 24 through 28 are gone, and I've sealed the relevant sectors. In addition, there are multiple hull ruptures along decks 7 through 10 and deck 15. Armor plating has drained significantly in sectors 3 and 6, and is averaging beneath 30% in both. Engineering reports overheating; I've diverted maximum energy output to the internal thermal superheating conductors... At the cost of one of our secondary engines. Casualty reports are still coming in. And, might I add, I narrowly managed to avoid a second torpedo. But the enemy fleet is already charging up a second volley, maintaining a tight and slow formation so as to keep us in their sights."

"Can we fight?"

"We're ready to unleash our volley at your orders."

Good. But...

"What about the rest of the battlegroup?"

"Our battleship vanguard is gone, as are most of our corvettes. Modest damage to our frigate line. The Heart of Midlothian reports Captain Reinhar is KIA." Good grief. Thousands of lives, snuffed out in an instant. The Battlegroup is done for. Just like that... "We're otherwise maintaining formation, albeit roughly, along this trajectory."

Bren turned to the holotable. It showed Battlegroup Mastodon as a roughly-hewn line of ships, traversing in a curve-like loop away from the Covenant fleet. The enemy fleet was now down two frigates, with a third listing away from the fight. At the head of Mastodon's formation was the remaining corvettes. Or, what was left of them. They'd done their pass at the Covenant, and were now limping away as fast as possible. At the rear were the destroyers, including the Fight and Flight as the rearguard. Just now sliding into a clear firing position.

He saw nothing of the battleships, nor six of the corvettes, nor one of the frigates. Not even lifeboats.

He reactivated his COM. "Tertiary team... Give 'em hell and get out of dodge."

Then he signaled for Nighthaunter to open fire.


Lucas couldn't quite tell if there was anything left of Battlegroup Mastodon. At least, anything to communicate with. Either there was nobody left in charge, or they were being jammed by the Covenant. Or both.

The viewport showed battered remnants, leaking away from the Covenant like broken detritus. Of the initial 21 ships in Mastodon at the start of their engagement, only five of them even appeared somewhat intact now. All of whom sported deep gashes and gouges in the hull. The rest of the small flotilla was... Well, gone. Debris and floating sections of hull and shattered plating, swirling in uninterrupted omnidirectional paths. All of it glowing due to plasma heat.

Shepard... The little muppet had done a fine enough job, though. Two of the Covenant's frigates were down, and two more of their ships appeared too badly wounded to put up much of a fight at this point. The rest were turning to face the Defense Fleet, recognizing the threat as more important than the routing Mastodon.

Lucas laughed.

The Covenant had tightened their formation. Too tight. The Captain had to have been responsible for that. Because now, the Covenant didn't have enough time to reform. To spread and dodge.

Or even register the thousands of asteroid 'bullets' blowing through their fleet.

"Damn sight, innit?" He said to his crew.

Their primary viewport camera was magnified to view the destruction. Black dots slammed into the ships like crackles of lightning, utterly vaporizing their energy shields and shearing through armor plating as though it were butter. The kinetic force outright destroyed their frigates, crumpling them into smaller parts and wrenching hull into a hundred different shapes. The larger vessels broke apart at the seams, literally. Whole sections of starship spun and balled up and split apart at breakneck speed, the sight absolutely surreal and slightly disturbing. Even their flagship carrier folded in on itself and fragmented to pieces. Wrapped in on itself as though someone were balling up paper.

By the end of it all, nothing remained of the Covenant fleet. At all. Whatever bits of leftover debris remained were too small to be seen at this distance.

"Brilliant. Take us close, Lieutenant Shin-hye. Scan for survivors."

"Of course, sir, but... We've received an emergency alert from Pherion RSO."

No.

Lucas's elation utterly drained, and the color evaporated from his face. He swallowed hard. The battle was practically over at this point. Not the space battle Captain Shepard had just won... But the battle for Jericho VII. Not now, not with another enemy already en route.

"How many, and how much time?"

"Two dozen. Pherion estimates they'll arrive within the next two days... Station commander Zaetsev's confirmed he's destroying the station as per Cole Protocol, and urges an emergency evacuation and sterilization of the planet."

"Shit! We don't have room or resources!" Lucas growled in fury. 'Sterilization'... Lucas understood the idea, but it was sickening. The Cole Protocol demanded that nothing be left behind for the Covenant to use to locate other colonies. He slammed a fist down onto his armrest hard enough to send pain shockwaving along his arm. He ignored it.

"Your orders?"

"Send Retributor's End to search Mastodon for survivors. Everyone else is to regress toward Jericho VII and... Get as many people as we can onto our damaged frigates."