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Avalon part one: Veni, Vidi, Vici
Date: 27 July 2005, 1:17 pm

Avalon

Part one: Veni, Vidi, Vinci

Chapter one: The briefing

0900 hours, July 18 2502 (military calendar), Amsterdam station, Reach orbit

      Commander Steven Fisher was on his way to the briefing room, walking with a somewhat nervous pace. He somehow felt it in his bones this briefing would hold in it the promotion he had worked and hoped for, for as long as he could remember. But unlike most of his buddies of his class at the academy, he had never gotten an opportunity to make a lasting impression on the brass.
      Steven, thirty five years of age, didn't care too much for medals or fame. All he ever wanted, was to be the captain of a battleship, or maybe some day even the admiral at the head of a battle group. Having his own ship as a commander had been a major step forward, but doing search-and-rescue on a small frigate just didn't cut it. Nevertheless he liked his crew and loved his ship.
      After showing his credentials to one of the three guards at the entry and an extensive retinal scan he entered the small briefing room at five to nine, but to his surprise the room was already filled. The walls of the room were bare grey aluminium, and Steven could smell the new midnight-blue carpet on the floor. In the middle of the room was a circular conference table with a holographic projector in the centre. He didn't recognise any of the five people sitting at the table except for Admiral Pasanedes, his superior at FLEETCOM, who was sitting in the middle.
      "Thank you for joining, Commander Fisher, take a seat," the Admiral began cordially. "Let me first introduce you to the others present. These two civilian gentlemen are doctor Robert McLees and his assistant, doctor Ike Maynard. Doctor McLees is the navy's lead ship designer. These two officers are Captain Jones and Rear-Admiral Baker. Both of them are with the Office of Naval Intelligence."
      As soon as the Admiral had said that the officers were with ONI, Steven realised why he had been approached so secretive for this mission and why there were guards at the entrance; covert ops. It also explained why the carpet had been renewed: The ONI-personnel were known to tear up entire rooms to make sure there were no bugs to be found.
      The Admiral continued: "Now we have all been properly introduced, I would like to give the word to Captain Jones."
      "Thanks, Admiral, and welcome, Commander." The Captain stood up with a file in his hands. "Before we continue, let me first point out that everything said in this room is considered top secret by the ONI. I think we all know the implications of talking about this to people without the proper clearance." The Captain, who had a friendly voice, turned to Steven: "Commander Fisher, we have selected you on the basis of your excellent record as a Commander in charge of search-and-rescue-missions, and that is also the kind of mission were are sending you on."
      Steven was immediately confused. "Excuse me, Captain," he interrupted, "but why this fuss over a simple search-and-rescue-mission? I thought the ONI didn't occupy itself with that kind of operations." He knew it wasn't smart to interrupt ONI-officers, but if they were going to send him on a mission, he wanted to be informed as well as possible. In spite of this, he tried to sound as humbly as possible.
      The Captain replied as friendly as before: "This is not so simple, Commander. The ship we are sending you out to find, is the cruiser known as the Halcyon." The moment the Captain said the name, the holo-projector switched on to show a spinning three-dimensional image of the ship. Steven lifted his eyebrows in surprise.
      "As I can see by your facial expression, you are familiar with the name."
      Rear-Admiral Baker hunched forward from his chair: "What, exactly, do you know about the Halcyon, Commander?" he asked, looking at Steven with prying eyes.
      "Well, sir, probably as much as anyone serving in the navy; just that the Halcyon is supposed to be the prototype for an entirely new cruiser-class, with the fastest translight-engine yet, and also the biggest ship-mounted MAC-gun ever installed." Steven swivelled uncomfortably on his chair. "I actually saw it depart from the shipyard over Mars. In my opinion a very impressive ship, Admiral." The two doctors nodded and smiled as he described and applauded their vessel.
      "We expected as much, and it is indeed impressive," the Rear-Admiral replied. "But let's get on with the briefing. Captain, if you please..." The Rear-Admiral leaned back into his seat.
      "Yes, sir. Well, the Halcyon is commanded by someone you might know; Captain Marcus deVries." Jones looked into the file he was holding. "He was in your class at the academy, if I'm informed correctly."
      Steven nodded. He and Marcus had become good friends at boot camp, and they had both served in the battles at Eridanus six years ago, Steve as a Lieutenant on a cruiser, Marcus as the Commander of a frigate.
      The Captain continued: "After its departure from Mars the Halcyon set sail for its space trials. To ensure that these trials are conducted in absolute secrecy without any unwanted guests, the trial ground has to be very out of the way of anything. Therefore the trial ground for the Halcyon was located just beyond Delta Cygni, a very quiet part of space." The projector now switched to a star-map marked with the trial ground. "Captain deVries was ordered to maintain strict communication silence for the duration of the trials. The expected date for his return was over two months ago, but we haven't heard a single thing."
      "Could he have gotten behind in schedule so that he is just delayed?" Steven asked.
      "That's unlikely. We give Captains a lot of extra time for the trials of new ship designs. Besides, the only two excuses for Captain deVries to break silence are distress signals or notifications of delays. We have received neither."
      "So, what happened, sir, if I may ask?"
      "We simply do not know. But to our knowledge there are two alternatives: Either the ship has been damaged somehow in a way that it's impossible to return or to communicate, or the ship has been captured by an unknown faction; maybe rebels, maybe pirates."
      Admiral Pasanedes took the word: "This is where you come in, Commander. We want you to take your frigate, jump to the trial ground, investigate it, and ascertain what happened to the Halcyon and her crew."
      Steven was surprised again: "Excuse me once more, Admiral, but may I ask why you are sending only one frigate? Why not a destroyer or a battle group?"
      The Admiral wanted to answer, but the Rear-Admiral gave him a signal that he wanted to do it instead, so the Admiral backed down. Steven found it typical how ONI-ranks were not ordinary navy-ranks: The Rear-Admiral apparently outranked the Admiral.
      "This possible mishap could be a bit, ehhh, embarrassing for the navy." Baker was fumbling nervously with his fingers. "As you might have noticed, we've given this new ship a lot of publicity as a ship that would make most other ships obsolete. We certainly do not need any bad publicity at this moment, certainly not now there are rumours of remnants of the rebels massing in the Eridanus system again." The Rear-Admiral looked almost a bit ashamed as he said this. Understandable when you've lost an eighty billion dollar cruiser like a bunch of car keys. "That's why we want to keep this mission as low-key as possible. We are confident you have enough experience to handle this mission with distinction as well as discretion. Besides, as we have seen before, the thing holding up the Halcyon will probably be a faltering reactor or central computer, nothing serious. That part of space was chosen for its apparent lack of rebels or pirates," the Rear-Admiral assured him.
      "I see," Steven replied blankly. His enthusiasm for the mission was dwindling. He believed the Rear-Admiral when he said this mission was probably a milk run without many possibilities to really make a difference. Also, because it was a secret mission, he would not be allowed to put it on his Career Service Vitae, nor would he probably get any reward, except for the possibility of more secret missions. That may have sounded exciting to some people, but Steven had never seen any Captain make a career out of black operations. They either never returned, or they ended up as the Rear-Admiral or the Captain at ONI, a position he certainly did not aspire to.
      Admiral Pasanedes noticed the troubled look on Steven's face, and tried to boost his hampered zeal: "I also see you have some reservations against this kind of mission, Commander. But let me assure you, this will be your first and final mission for ONI, and also your last mission as a Commander, if you're catching my drift."
      Steven lifted his chin. "Thank you, Admiral. That surely is one hell of an incentive. But even without it I would still gladly take on this mission." Like I have a choice, he thought. He knew a colleague who once had the balls to decline a mission brought down by ONI. He was now commanding freighters filled with biological waste between outer colonies. Talk about incentive...
      But still, the outlook on a guaranteed promotion was more than enough to renew his enthusiasm.
      "Good," the Rear-Admiral answered with a confident smile. "We knew you would. Now, you should begin preparing your ship and crew, Commander. We want you to leave within two days. Before you depart, Captain Jones will give you all the relevant data on the Halcyon, her crew and her possible location." The Rear-Admiral already began to organise the papers and files lying in front of him. "And oh yes, you should also get further acquainted with doctor Maynard, because he will be joining you on this mission."
      Steven pressed his lips into a straight line. Great, he thought, my ship is becoming a tour-bus. If there was anything he disliked more than his lack of promotion, it would be civilians on his ship, especially deadweight professors like Maynard. But again, he didn't have much of a choice.
      "I know, Commander, how much navy-Captains dislike civilians onboard their ships, but doctor Maynard has been closely involved in designing the Halcyon, and can give crucial on-site information about the ship's systems."
      "I understand, sir. Doctor Maynard, I shall inform my boatswain. When you report to my ship, he will fit you with your own quarters onboard the Flying Dutchman. One advice; don't pack too much, my frigate is pretty cramped."
      Admiral Pasanedes concluded the briefing: "Right, that settles it. Commander, I want to stress the covert nature of this mission to you one more time. You are not allowed to expose the objective of this mission to anyone until your ship is well underway. If that is clear, I am adjourning this briefing. Dismissed, everyone."
      "Yes, sir."
      Everyone packed their papers and went their separate ways. Steven went straight to the dock where his ship, the Flying Dutchman, was docked for supplies and some small maintenance. He had a job to do.

Chapter two: The departure

0200 hours, July 20 2502 (military calendar), frigate The Flying Dutchman, Reach orbit

      "I can't believe this!" Ensign McBain sighed. "I was about to score me some poontang, and then the Commander has the nerve to call back the entire crew from a leave after six months in space. What a rip-off!"
      "Stow it, Ensign. We all know the pope has more luck with women than you have. Now you better tend to your station before the Commander gets here."
      Lieutenant-Commander Smith hadn't even finished her sentence, as Steven floated onto the bridge followed by doctor Maynard.
      "Don't worry, Ensign McBain, you will be back at nót impressing the ladies in no time," Steven said in a cheerful tone.
      "Thank you, sir," Ensign McBain answered as cheerfully as his Commander.
      "Alright. Doctor Ike Maynard, may I introduce you to Lieutenant-Commander Christine Smith, my executive officer."
      While the doctor and the XO shook hands, Steven noticed once more how regal Christine looked in her grey uniform. Most female officers he knew looked like male drag queens, who somehow passed the physical at the recruiting office. But Christine, with her red hair, which she wore in a pony-tail, managed to look stately and butch without loosing any of her femininity.
      "Good. Doctor, I trust you'll get acquainted with the rest of my crew on your own in the course of this mission. If you'll excuse me, I have a ship to fly now."
      The Flying Dutchman had been in the dock for five days before Steven got his new mission. He and his crew had just come back from a six month mission in the Gemini system. Not that they had done much: The mission consisted of patrolling and being stand-by for ships in need of assistance (other Captains jokingly called this sort of mission 'triple-A-service'.) Although ships in the Gemini system were prone to suffer from damage or pirates, the Flying Dutchman hadn't received a single call for help, and the mission had gone on as routinely as possible.
      In the time between receiving his new orders and departure, all Steven and his crew had done was taking on food, fuel and some other supplies. Nothing else was needed: The ship had received large maintenance before the last mission, and the weapons arsenal was still fully loaded. Most of the time was spent waiting for all the crewmembers and marines to return from leave.
      Now, everyone and everything needed was onboard, the ship's systems were fired up and ready to go, and the hatches were sealed. Although it was a coincidence that they were ready at two a.m., Captain Jones had actually advised to depart at night, to attract as little attention as possible. Time to set off, Steven thought.
      "Prepare the ship to cast off, everyone." He seated himself on the Commander's chair, strapped himself in, so that he wouldn't float away in zero-g, and inspected his bridge. He had always revelled in the way his bridge looked. The location of the workstations and the commander's chair were fixed and standard: Steven's seat was situated in the middle of the bridge. There were two stations with two officers each to either side of him, and another two in front of him, including the helmsman, Lieutenant Alvin Trucker. The XO was seated next to Alvin.
      The rest of the bridge (the light-intensity, the colour of the walls, etcetera) was customised to Steven's liking (or 'pimped' as Ensign Wesley White called it,) including the best piece of hardware on his bridge; his chair. When he got his command over the ship, the ergonomic service of the navy made a mould of his back and rear. From this mould they made a seat, which sitting on to was like the feeling of a lay-z-boy multiplied by a thousand.
      Lieutenant-Commander Smith approached him and asked: "Commander, may we now finally know what the hell this is all about? Not that we don't like getting pulled of a well deserved leave, but a reason is always welcome, sir."
      "I'm sorry, Smith, all I can say here is that the objective of our mission is only told on a need-to-know-basis, and unfortunately you don't need to know right now." His answer sounded almost like an apology. "But be patient, I will tell the entire crew what our mission contains as soon as we've left Reach orbit. So let's get to it. At your stations, everyone. We are casting off. Pellerin, put my music on."

      Everyone not yet sitting at his or her station did so, and checked, whether they were ready. Meanwhile Pellerin, the ship's AI, put on the 'Bolero' by Maurice Ravel, a fifteen minute long classical piece performed by the New Mombassan Philharmonic.
      Steven checked his display in front of his chair, and turned to Lieutenant Trucker: "Alright, my screen is showing green across the board. Mister Trucker, take her out of the dock."
      "Aye, Commander."
      Trucker pushed the switch, that severed the connection between the ship and the umbilical, and used the navigation thrusters to guide the ship out of the dock. Once the Flying Dutchman had cleared Amsterdam station, Trucker engaged the main engines, and steered into a vector that lead them out of Reach orbit.
      This was one of the moments Steven liked the most when flying a ship; the feeling of the main engines kicking in, seeing the planet placidly sliding by. He had seen a video once of his ship departing, and it had given him chills of pleasure down his spine how gracefully his ship glided through space. This feeling was now further amplified by the music: He loved the way in which Ravel's 'Bolero' swelled in intensity, and in turn his heart swelled with joy. He took a deep breath through his nose, and he could smell the cleaner in the air. It made him realise how good his crew was: The workstations, the seats and everything else on his bridge was cleaned between getting his orders and departure; something he hadn't given an order for.
      "Mister Trucker, set in a new course. The vector is two five eight point nine, declination zero six point seven. Pellerin, mister McBain; you two get ready to initiate the jump to these coordinates near Delta Cygni. Engage the translight-drive on my command."
      "Aye, sir," both officers and the AI answered almost simultaneously.
      Steven transferred the coordinates near Delta Cygni from his data-pad to Pellerin. "Time to address the crew." From the controls on his chair, Steven opened an intercom channel to the entire ship. "Attention. This is the Commander speaking. First, I must apologise for recalling all of you who were on leave. Secondly, I must notice, that outward communication from this ship with anyone is from now on restricted. Now, on to our mission. We have been asked to go on a search-and-rescue-mission in the Cygnus sector to look for a specific ship. Many of you might have heard of this ship. It is called the Halcyon." Many faces on the bridge turned momentarily to look at him in disbelief. "She is supposedly on her space trials, but hasn't been heard from for some time now. It's our mission to find out what's keeping her busy. I'm confident it'll be nothing serious, and that we'll be home again in no time. That is all. Fisher out."
      After switching of the intercom, he turned his head to his right. "Mister McBain, what's your status?"
      "Ready to rock and roll, sir," Ensign McBain answered, frivolously as always.
      "Initiate the jump."
      In front of the ship a shimmering rift started to appear. As the bow of the frigate touched it, the rift opened further, creating a blue haze along the hull. As the Flying Dutchman moved in, Steven and his crew on the bridge saw the surrounding space be distorted and then fade away into the nothingness of slipspace. The stern of the ship entered the rupture at the same time Ravel's 'Bolero' drew to its masterful end. After the entire ship had passed through, the rift collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing but a fleeting ripple.

Chapter three: The trial ground

2300 hours, September 17 2502 (military calendar), frigate The Flying Dutchman, Delta Cygni system

      Steven sighed. "Pellerin, report."
      The ship's AI appeared on a small holographic terminal. For some incomprehensible reason this AI had chosen the appearance of a male centaur. "The long-range scanning grid can't pick up anything remotely looking like the trail of a cruiser. And certainly not the signature provided by ONI, commander."
      "Damn." Steven pounded the arm of his seat with his fist. "Anything else worth noting?"
      "Negative, sir. Only a couple of faint particle trails, but they are probably left by large comets. For the rest it's like we've seen for days; just a whole lot of nothing."
      Steven frowned in disappointment. For three weeks had they patrolled the sector looking for a ship, which should have been as easy to find as a whale in a swimming pool. They had quickly set up a scanning grid, using short slipspace-jumps to strategically deploy small scanning probes, which communicated with the Flying Dutchman through slipspace.
      While setting up the grid they had also scanned each planet, each asteroid belt, each floating scrap of metal meticulously, but none could give any clue into where the Halcyon was, nor what happened to her.
      The morale amongst the crew was at an all-time low, and even the Commander was getting more and more frustrated. He was starting to worry he had to report to his superiors at FLEETCOM and ONI that their ship had simply vanished.
      While he was still pondering where Captain deVries could possibly be, the nightshift under command of Lieutenant-Commander Smith entered the bridge.
      "Reporting for duty, Commander," she tried to say with eagerness, but Steven could hear she was loosing hope of ever finding this wretched ship, just like everyone else.
      "Nice to hear some gusto on this bridge, miss Smith. But there isn't much going on to further spur your enthusiasm. We're flying past an asteroid field, on which Pellerin is performing a scanning analysis. It should take him the rest of the shift to complete. If that's clear, I'll retire to my quarters."

      Once in his quarters he changed into his pyjamas and read some out of his favourite book: 'The complete hitchhikers guide to the galaxy' by Douglas Adams. Steven found it fascinating how people had once fantasized about the future he was now living in. But above all, the book was funny as hell.
      Just as he switched of his reading light, he felt the ship bank sharply, immediately followed by Smith's voice on the intercom: "Commander Fisher, we are being engaged by a ship, which doesn't identify itself." Her voice was agitated, but controlled.
      "Go to combat-alert Alfa. Command everyone to report to their battle stations. I'll be on the bridge in a minute."
      Steven was up and dressed in a matter of seconds, and ran all the way to the part of the ship, where the spinning section ended, and the zero-g-part began. From there he flew like an arrow all the way to the bridge. "Smith, give me a sit-rap," he ordered as soon as he entered and strapped himself down to his chair.
      "Sir, a Phoenix-class vessel appeared from behind one of the bigger asteroids and fired a wave of Horsefly missiles at us. I've commanded Lieutenant Trucker to make evasive manoeuvres, and we've managed to evade most of the rockets."
      "Most of them? Do we have damage?" Steven asked worriedly.
      "Some minor impacts on our port flank, which caused minor damage to decks four and five, but no systems were damaged. Mister Trucker is now trying to get the Dutchman behind them, sir."
      "Commander, the ship is coming into view right now," yelled Lieutenant Jackson, the head of fire-control. Passing their front window was a ship as big as theirs, with a huge Jolly Roger covering its entire hull. Against the blackness of space it looked as if there was nothing but a floating skull and bones.
      "A pirate! Here?" Smith noted surprised. "I've never seen a pirate with such a big vessel. But what is it doing here?"
      Steven was asking himself the same thing. "Beats the hell out of me, but..." Before he could finish his sentence, he saw the pirate fire another wave of Horsefly-missiles at his ship. "Mister Trucker, take evasive manoeuvres! Use a Saunders-loop to lose those missiles, and get the nose back on that ship."
      "Roger, Commander," Trucker confirmed, and immediately turned the ship into a steep downward loop. Steven knew the strength of Horsefly missiles didn't come from their agility or explosive power, but from their sheer number: The pirate had fired close to a thousand missiles at his ship, but most of the missiles flew right passed him, not to turn around again. A couple of missiles impacted on their upper armour near the stern.
      "Sir, we've got a small hull breach on deck one, section nine!" Smith reported with strained voice.
      "Close off the section, and send a repair crew," Steven ordered as he saw the pirate slide back into view.
      Lieutenant Jackson turned towards the Commander: "Sir, I've got a firing solution from Pellerin. We've got two Barracuda missiles locked on their engine exhausts. They're ready to fire on your command."
      "Fire!"
      Two Barracuda-class heavy pursuit missiles were launched from the starboard missile-bay, and sped their way towards the attacking vessel. The pirate immediately tried to outrun and outturn the missiles. It succeeded in losing one missile, but not the second. It hit the ship in the rear, thoroughly decommissioning its starboard engine. The entire bridge on the Flying Dutchman cheered, including the Commander: "Nice shot, mister Jackson! Aim another Barracuda to take out its remaining engine, and lock on some Starfire rockets to disable their missile-pods."
      "Sir, they are firing at us!" the XO yelled. Steven looked up at the ship and saw a trail of something which could only be a Harpoon rocket aimed directly at the Dutchman's bridge, clearly a shot fired out of the pirate's desperation to get the Dutchman of his back. Steven's concentration in these situations rivalled that of chess grand-masters, and he didn't hesitate a second: "Hard to port, Trucker! Flank speed ahead!"
      With some skilled manoeuvring Lieutenant Trucker avoided impact by mere meters, but everyone knew the Harpoon would immediately turn around for a second try. Everyone knew their only chance lay in getting the rocket to home in on them from the rear, which was exactly what Lieutenant Trucker managed to accomplish with combined use of the emergency thrusters and some extra power on the main engines at the appropriate moment. The bridge was starting to smell of sweat.
      "Sir, the rocket is coming in from behind us," the XO rejoiced.
      "Excellent! Deploy an anti-rocket-mine."
      As the Flying Dutchman sped away, it released a mine directly in the path of the trailing rocket. When the mine was closest to the Harpoon, it detonated into a fierce red fireball, taking the rocket with it. The shockwave from the explosion bounced of the Dutchman's hull, which sounded like someone threw a rock against it. The whole bridge sighed with relief while the helmsman turned the bow back into the direction of the pirate. Steven's eyes tightened slightly, when their quarry returned into sight.
      "Great! Mister Jackson, what's the status of our missiles?"
      "Ready to be fired, Commander."
      "Fire!"
      Although the pirate was crippled, it still managed to evade the Barracuda by knocking the entire ship out of the missile's path using emergency thrusters. It then destroyed the Barracuda by firing another wave of Horseflies at it. The pirate couldn't outturn the smaller but more precise Starfire rockets, which were designed to take out single pinpointed systems. They did just that, when they impacted on the ship's missile-pods.
      Steven cursed at the destroyed Barracuda: "Damn it! Bastards, I'll gíve you something to evade! Jackson, warm up the Judge!"
      "With pleasure, sir."
      'The Judge' was the nickname of the ship's MAC-gun, because its judgement was both swift and ruthless, and its gavel gave one hell of a bang. Moments passed while the MAC capacitors charged, moments in which the pirate tried desperately to get out of the Dutchman's kill-zone, but Lieutenant Trucker wouldn't let him.
      "The Judge is armed and ready for sentencing, sir!" Lieutenant Jackson shouted.
      Steven grinned: "Target their remaining engine. Adjust bearing and fire!"
      "Sayonara, suckers!" Jackson yelled as he pushed the button.
      The MAC round blew a smouldering hole the size of a house in the pirate's port engine, completely annihilating any means of propulsion it had left. Again, the whole bridge cheered. Ensign McBain and Lieutenant Jackson gave each other a high-five.
      Smith reported smiling: "They are dead in the water, Commander. Their weapons are disabled. Apart from their engine compartments their hull is intact."
      "Thanks, miss Smith. Great job, people. We'll leave what's left of them for the marines to clean up." Time for Major Morris and his men to suit up, Steven thought.

Avalon, Part Two; Chapter Four
Date: 26 August 2005, 12:17 pm

Avalon; Part Two: Qua Patet Universum

Chapter Four: The Pirate

0100 hours, September 18 2502 (military calendar), frigate The Flying Dutchman,
Delta Cygni system

      "Reporting as ordered, Commander," said Major Morris as he floated clumsily onto the bridge and gave an awkward salute.
      "Frank, nice to see you on the bridge. You don't come here often, do you?" Steven said amicably while turning his head. The frantic atmosphere on the bridge during the engagement had subsided to make place for the relaxed but professional attitude Steven was accustomed to.
      "I prefer to keep my feet on the ground, sir. The zero-g-sections weren't made for me," Frank Morris replied with a hint of uncomfort in his voice. He wasn't kidding about his relation with sections lacking gravity. Although he had been serving on ships for twenty five years, extended stays in zero-g inevitably led to excessive 'number three'.
      Steven smiled. "I can understand, Major. I remember your unease during that campaign a couple of years ago when the spinning sections had jammed and couldn't be repaired for two weeks."
      Frank chuckled: "Yeah. I even barfed into the face of my CO, making him look like a creature from a swamp. He wasn't too happy about that."
      Steven laughed and beckoned the Major to come closer. "Come here, and take a look at your new assignment."
      "A pirate," Frank quickly established, looking out the window. "Nice job on its engines, but what's it doing way out here?"
      "That's what I need you to find out. Take both your platoons in a couple of Pelicans, board them, and see if you can capture their Captain alive."
      "Understood, sir. One Captain over easy coming right up," the Major bellowed self-assured.
      Steven laughed: "That would be nice for breakfast. But you must know I like my Captains well done." He admired the Major's style. Unlike other fire-eaters he knew, Frank only joked and talked tough when the situation allowed for it. But when it came to the job he was right on. Steven went on with the briefing which, as always, had an informal character. "Pellerin has made a scan of the ship. He'll provide you with all the relevant intell on the ship's layout and possible locations where the crew might be holding up. If that's clear, you're dismissed."
      "Yes, sir!" Morris answered, eager to go to work.
      As the major was moving towards the exit Steven turned to address him one more time: "Oh, and Major, don't take any big risks catching this guy, okay? I don't want to lose any men on this mission."
      "Ha! Don't worry about us, Steve. The day a couple of twinkle-toed two-bit backwater pirates take one of my men is the day hell freezes over and pigs fly all at the same time!"

      Frank Morris entered the cramped armoury where both Alfa- and Bravo-platoon were gearing up.
      "Officer on deck, ten hut!" Lieutenant Simmons shouted. Every Marine immediately snapped to attention. The El-tee was second in command next to the Major and usually led a platoon supporting him.
      "At ease, Marines." Frank replied. When the battle with the pirate transpired, he had already put on his combat uniform. All he had to do now was to get his weapon from his locker at the far end of the armoury; an M90 eight gauge shotgun. He was already carrying his trusty M6C sidearm.
      He walked with a relaxed pace to the other end of the armoury where there was a table with a holographic projector for squad-briefings which he hardly ever used. On the way he passed by all of the forty Marines which comprised this Marine-detachment specialised in boarding actions. Every single Marine was taller than him; he measured only five foot eight. Yet he was as burly as a bear and he had many bar brawl victories to prove it, including some against the dreaded Orbital Drop Shock Troopers; in his opinion a bunch of overrated pussies with fancy gadgets and attitude-problems. Not only was he the shortest, he was also the oldest; forty-eight years of which already thirty had been spent in the Corps.
      The Major began briefing his men just as informal as the Commander had briefed him: "Let me break down the situation for you, Marines. The Commander has engaged and disabled a Phoenix-class pirate vessel. It'll be our job to board it, capture the Captain alive, and neutralise any crew dumb enough to raise so much as a finger at us. Lieutenant Simmons!"
      "Sir, yes, sir!" the Lieutenant shouted.
      "You'll be in charge of Bravo-platoon. Take a Pelican and board their port side. I'll take Alfa-platoon and go starboard-side. Load up the layout of the ship from Pellerin onto your Helmet Mounted Display. If everything goes smooth we'll meet on the bridge. A case of Scotch for the jarhead who takes their Captain alive. Are we clear, Marines?"
      "Sir, yes, sir!" both platoons shouted in unison.
      "Then let's get busy! We'll leave ASAP. Dismissed, everyone."

      After the two Pelicans had left the bay of the Flying Dutchman Frank asked Pellerin to hack into the pirate's intercom system. It was one of the few systems the AI was able to crack; more vital systems were too well guarded against hackers, even if it were an AI.
      It was a proven method to use the enemy's public address system to play very loud music to confuse and terrify them. Most people who did the same work as Frank just played Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries', but he had discovered a piece of music which was far more effective; ABBA's 'Dancing Queen'. Sometimes some of the enemy crew were already crying in horror by the time the Marines boarded their ship. On occasion Major Morris switched to 'Staying Alive' by something called 'The Bee-Gees'. This wasn't as effective as ABBA, but Frank liked the irony of the song's name.
      "Pilot, what's our estimate time of arrival?" Frank inquired.
      "ETA is thirty seconds, sir," the pilot calmly answered.

      Both of the Pelicans docked amidships, each at an opposite end of the central section which was still spinning. In this way the Marines would enter the ship from two sides compelling the pirates to split up their forces.
      When the Pelicans had attached their side hatches to the hull, a demolition-expert went to work on the door. He used special breaching-charges which channelled the brunt of their concentrated explosion on the hatch of the ship. When they blew they would send the entire door inward like a two tonne battering-ram going a hundred kilometres an hour. This would be accompanied by a blizzard of shrapnel from the exploding hull-plating surrounding the door.
      Lieutenant Simmons knew he and his platoon were going to need this kind of an entrance. The pirates were probably waiting on the other side and they weren't likely to be pushovers. These guys were quick on the draw, aggressive, experienced, often psychopathic, and this time desperate to boot. When the demolition-expert was done applying the explosive he gave the detonator to the El-tee. Simmons moved away from the front of the door and gave his platoon a signal to be ready to stream into the ship. He activated his night-vision and flicked on his com-link to make one final preparation: "Pellerin, cut the lights in the adjacent hallway."
      As soon as Pellerin gave the thumbs-up through his HMD Simmons squeezed the detonator. The Pelican shuddered ferociously as the door plus surrounding hull disappeared into the ship in the blink of an eye. The thus created hole was shrouded in smoke and dust.
      "Here we go, guys! Give'm hell!" Simmons shouted as he launched himself into the cloud. He pressed his MA5B assault rifle tightly to his shoulder, ready to give a lead-salad to anyone asking for it. Once he cleared the dust he stood eye to eye with a pirate still stunned and probably deaf from the intense blast. Six feet behind him stood a second pirate who was less dazed than his colleague and was carrying a submachinegun. Simmons didn't want to waste ammo and planted the butt of his rifle in the face of the first man, leaving an imprint on his forehead and sending him to the ground. After he went down Simmons didn't hesitate and immediately send five shots directly between the eyes of the second pirate. "Buyaa! Tango down!" he exclaimed as his hart was pumping pure adrenalin through his veins.
      By this time the rest of his platoon had entered the ship in a standard cover formation. "Where are all the other tangos?" a heavily panting Private Soininnen wondered. It was only by now that the emergency lighting lit up the hallway in a dim red light. This enabed them to see how well placed the breaching-charge had been. The door had ploughed its way through a dozen enemies like a Scorpion-tank and had pinned a machinegun and its operators to the bulkhead behind it. By taking out the two remaining stragglers Simmons had effectively secured the hallway.
      "All clear, Lieutenant!" Sergeant Lowery shouted surprised.
      "Then move out!" Simmons ordered resolute and took the point of the standard formation himself. With their rifles and shotguns levelled to their faces they moved through the corridor in the direction of the bridge, while 'Dancing Queen' was still coming out of the speakers at full volume.

      The entrance of the Major's platoon wasn't much different. The exploding door took some pirates with it, and all Frank and his men had to do was jump in after it and give the remaining buccaneers a one-way ticket to the Almighty.
      After making sure he had a safe bridgehead Frank briefly took of his cap and wiped his forehead clear of transpiration. Even though he had performed this kind of boarding dozens of times he still managed to break the sweat almost every single time. In his opinion a good thing; not sweating was his personal sense of foreboding, a sign he was doing something horribly wrong. Let's check in with Bravo-platoon, he thought. "Simmons, what's your status, over?"
      "Bridgehead secured, Major. I'm proceeding to the objective, over," the Lieutenant's voice whispered over the com-link.
      "Good. We're moving out as well. Morris out."
      The moment Frank switched the com of, a panel fell from the ceiling, immediately followed by a pirate suspended from a rappelling cord. He swiftly lowered himself into the middle of the platoon and stopped his descent to hang upside down three feet from the ground. The corsair instantly opened up with two handguns, spraying the platoon like a sprinkler as he gently spun around.
      Most Marines stood frozen in utter surprise except for Sergeant LaMarque, who quickly drew her combat knife, stepped in from behind and cut the pirate loose. He fell to the ground like a bag of flour and was delivered to the mercy of the Sergeant. Unfortunately for him LaMarque was fresh out and finished him off with her eight-gauge.
      "Where the hell did he come from?" the enraged Major shouted. After the shock from the attack subsided he noticed several Marines lying doubled up on the floor grasping their abdomens. Frank cursed: "Damn it! This isn't happening to me. Medic!" Worried that he had broken his promise to the Commander, he kneeled next to a wounded Marine to tend to his wounds. He searched his body for entry-wounds almost frantically, but to his surprise he couldn't find the slightest trace of blood.
      The pale-looking Private Dost moaned, tears welling up in his eyes: "I'm done for, Major. Tell Scott I've always loved him!"
      Frank slapped him in the face. "Buck up, cry-baby! The bullet hit you in your vest. Now get on your feet, Private! AND WHO THE HELL IS SCOTT?"
      "Nobody, nobody," Dost mumbled shyly as he managed to stumble back on his feet. The Private realised all he had suffered were some broken ribs, just like everyone else who'd caught a bullet. To the Major's delight the acrobatic pirate hadn't killed even a single Marine. Because of his altitude above the ground all his shots which weren't misses had gone into body-armour.
      But there was no time to count their blessings. The pirate-Captain was still out there, and he wasn't going to surrender easily. "Enough lying about for one day. Move out, Marines!"

      Lieutenant Simmons and his platoon were making their way towards the bridge, constantly following the blue marker on their HMD through the dimly lit corridors which reeked of chemical fire. Many of the grey metallic wall-panels had come undone during the engagement with the Dutchman to reveal pipes and conduits. Some of them had ruptured and had obviously burned. The smouldering ragged ends were sticking out of the wall into the corridor, a small trace of stinking smoke still curling up from them as a testament of the mayhem which had preceded.
      When the head of Simmons' platoon turned the next bend they were greeted with gunfire coming from two pirates at the other end of the corridor. A Marine next to Simmons caught a round in his shoulder, sending him spinning. Simmons kneeled and opened fire, forcing the pirates to hide behind a corner.
      "Medic!" Simmons shouted while he dragged the wounded soldier out of harm's way by his harness. Field Medic Santiago, who normally stayed in the back of the platoon, kneeled next to the soldier and began applying bio-foam to stop the bleeding. "Santiago, help Private Soininnen. Sergeant Lowery, waste those pricks behind the corner!" Simmons ordered while he assisted the Medic.
      "With pleasure, sir," the noncom yelled and immediately went to work. Looking at the other end of the corridor he noticed a gas pipe running along the bulkhead. The Sergeant levelled his assault rifle and gently squeezed his trigger to fire a three shot burst. Two bullets went straight into the pipe which instantly ruptured and exploded, engulfing the pirates in flames.
      "Smoked their asses," Lowery stated content.
      "Good one, Sergeant," Simmons applauded, "but this isn't the time for a barbecue. Let's get up to speed again!"

      Major Morris and his squad reached the entrance to the bridge without encountering much resistance on the way. It seemed as if the pirates had flipped a coin and directed the lion's share of their forces towards Bravo-platoon. That was some tough luck for them, but Frank was confident his El-tee could handle it.
      When the head of the platoon was within fifteen feet of the door he signalled his men to halt and crouch.
      The entrance to the command centre was sealed tight, tighter than the ass of a Helljumper during a Hard-Drop. The Major realised he couldn't use breaching-charges because that ran the danger of killing the Captain. That left no option for him but to handle this the old-fashioned way.
      "Corporal Lee, get this door open."
      "Aye, sir," the Corporal replied and moved towards the door while he dug up the spoofer from the depths of his backpack. He was still busy attaching the spoofer to the computer terminal when the door suddenly slid open for a second, and a grenade rolled into the corridor. Lee remained frozen and witnessed in slow-motion how the grenade bounced against the wall and came to rest in front of him. Finally he snapped out of it and screamed: "Grenade! Take cover!"
      Although he managed to warn his fellow Marines who took heed and ducked, Lee was still eying the grenade in awe as it detonated. The fierce explosion launched the Corporal into the corridor and riddled his legs and abdomen with a hail of shrapnel. He landed almost straight into the Major's lap.
      "Medic!" Frank shouted infuriated. The sight of one of his dear Marines being virtually torn to pieces struck him right in the hart. It would have made him tear up if it wasn't for the fact that his tear-ducts were seared in an explosion once, making it impossible for him to cry. Frank was lucky he wasn't blind, but he had to rely on eye-drops for the rest of his life.
      He quickly handed his wounded noncom over to the care of the medic and stood up. He tightened the grip on his shotgun, turning his knuckles white. "That does it it! I'm going to fuck them up beyond repair!" Some Marines saw the frenzied look in his eyes and realised it was not a good day to be a pirate.
      The determined Major stepped towards the door and noticed the spoofer had in fact already hacked the door-controls. Frank returned the favour from the pirates by opening the door by a chink and tossing in a flash-bang grenade.
      After he had heard it explode he opened the door and threw himself into the fray, his M90 levelled to his face. Once on the bridge he quickly counted almost two dozen pirates. This constituted a problem for the Major since his shotgun only carried twelve rounds and he hadn't waited for his Marines to follow him in. Looked like he would have to do this solo.
      The bridge was similar in size and layout to the one on the Dutchman and was rather cramped with so many men on it. There wasn't much room to manoeuvre oneself in, and Frank had to be careful not to hit the Captain who was taking cover somewhere at the far end.
      Luckily most of the pirates on the bridge were still stunned and blinded from the flash-bang, making them easy targets. Frank's first three victims went down by crushing blows to the head from the butt of his shotgun. The next five disorientated pirates were taken out of the equation by devastating shots to the torso. At this range the buckshot wasn't even slowed down a bit as it went through flesh and bone, and some pirates standing behind Frank's intended targets were also hit.
      Frank quickly moved to the right side of the bridge which seemed less crowded than the left. It became even more devoid of enemies with the help of his M90. By clearing a path the frenzied Officer could keep moving forward and strafe the pirates on the other side. His enemies mustered the courage to fire on him, but none of it could make a hit; he seemed to dance through the barrage of bullets coming his way like a cross-over between Fred Astaire and the Lone Ranger.
      Although each round from his shotgun was a hit, Frank was fresh out of shells before he was out of enemies. He ducked behind the empty Captain's chair in the middle of the bridge and began reloading his weapon. The pirates finally managed to open coordinated fire on him, but he had his limited height working in his advantage. He received perfect cover from the chair which was shot to shreds along with the workstations behind him.
      Although his position was relatively safe, the pirates totally pinned him down and he couldn't see a way out of it. His precarious situation was suddenly resolved by his fellow Marines which stormed through the door and finished off the remaining pirates with their assault rifles. Because they'd been so preoccupied by the Major's whirlwind across the bridge, the pirates had totally forgotten to watch the door, a mistake that now cost them dearly.
      The only enemy that remained was the Captain who was still hiding in a small alcove-like workstation with a handgun in each hand. Sitting with his back against the wall he couldn't see what was happening on his bridge, he could only hear. When the intense noise of the firefight died out he slowly erected himself, his back still pressed against the wall. When he finally gathered enough courage he turned around the corner, only to look straight into the barrel of Frank's shotgun.
      "Hi, sweetcheaks. Nice to meet you," Frank chuckled, and knocked him unconscious with a crack to the face.

      Simmons' platoon sped its way through the corridors until they came to the ship's wide mess hall. At the other end of it pirates had thrown up a fortified position made out of metal tables. They opened up with everything they had when Simmons appeared around the corner. He could barely dodge the wall of lead coming his way and ducked back behind the corner he came from. He settled his back against the wall and became aware of his hart pounding in his throat like a thing possessed. "It's pissing metal out there!"
      With a fibre optic probe he assessed the situation. Behind the barricade stood more than a dozen pirates, firing a motley collection of firearms. They looked extremely agitated by the music; most had bloodshot eyes and some had even burned of their ears. Simmons noticed if he could get to the other side of the hall he could use the food counters for cover and get all the way behind the fortification.
      The Lieutenant turned to his platoon. "Sergeant Lowery, Private Chong, Private Anderson; on my mark give me all the suppressive fire you can give me. Don't aim; just keep their damn heads down! Corporal Brown, as soon as they give us cover, we make a run for that counter at the other end of the hall." Simmons moved towards the corner gain. "But first, let me soften them up with some grenades."
      He armed two grenades and tossed them around the corner, careful not to expose himself too much. It wasn't possible to throw them behind the barricade, but they would throw up some smoke and maybe take some of the pirates out with shrapnel.
      Simmons and Brown braced themselves like Olympic track runners while Lowery and the other Marines got into position to give the pirates a taste of their own medicine. "Ready? Now!"
      Lieutenant Simmons leapt from behind the corner into the openness of the hall followed closely by Brown and ran like the wind while his soldiers at the corner opened up with fifteen rounds of armour piercing bullets a second.
      Simmons and the noncom were almost at the other side of the hall when a grenade forced his platoon to hide behind the corner for cover. The pirates behind the barricade immediately opened fire on them as if hunting-season was open again. Simmons felt several bullets whiz by his head as he drew near his goal. To reach the cover at the other side he finally took a nosedive over the counter, turned it into a somersault and landed gracefully on his feet again. Brown wasn't as athletic as his El-tee and landed on his chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs.
      After the Corporal had gotten back on his feet they used the empty food counters for cover and easily managed to get behind the pirates unseen. Slowly Simmons took the pins out of two grenades and tossed them into the group. As soon as they had exploded he and Brown broke from cover and took care of the stragglers with their assault rifles.
      But then as they were moving through the field of dead or dying, Brown got disabled by a shot in the leg. The startled Lieutenant Simmons tripped over a corpse and fell flat on his stomach, his rifle landing four feet out of reach in front of him. As he lifted his head, he looked straight into the eyes of a pirate with two submachineguns trained on his face. Now his rifle seemed more than a light-year away.
      "End of the line, sucker!" the pirate grinned. Simmons closed his eyes, cursing his eagerness.
      Suddenly the wall behind the pirate exploded in a spray of metal and dust. Almost simultaneously with the spray Major Morris stormed through the brand-new hole like a bat out of hell and gave the astounded pirate a buckshot-shampoo.
      "Damn it, Simmons! It was already getting chilly in hell, and the pigs were starting to get airborne too!" Frank shouted pleasantly irritated as he helped his Lieutenant to his feet.
      "Sorry, sir, and thank you, sir!" Simmons answered a bit shaken. "By the way, Major, how did you..."
      "Know you were in deep shit? I took one look at my motion sensor and knew instantly you might need a hand in resolving your stalemate," the Major grinned. "And luckily for you and me, my demolitions-guy had some leftovers and was happy to apply them."
      Simmons tried to downplay his need of assistance: "Thanks again, Major. But really, I didn't need your..."
      "Never mind, Lieutenant. Rally your men; our job here is done. We've captured their Captain."

To be continued

Avalon, Part two; Chapter five
Date: 13 September 2005, 10:16 am

Avalon; Part Two: Qua Patet Universum

Chapter five: The interrogation

0400 hours, September 18 2502 (military calendar), pirate ship Redbeard, Delta Cygni system

      "ETA in twenty seconds, Commander," notified the pilot of the Pelican, a Warrant officer named Jimmy "the frog" Bantini.
      "Understood," Steven replied without taking his eyes of the data-pad with Major Morris' preliminary report of the boarding-action. Looking at the time the Marines had needed to secure the pirate ship, he concluded the Marines had been very keen on victory and had probably stormed over the enemy like an antique steamroller. It was either that, or the pirates hadn't been that good at fighting in ships, in which case becoming a corsair was a strange career choice.
      The Pelican equalised its speed with the spinning section of the ship and docked at an undamaged hatch. When the hatch of the Pelican opened, he and his XO stepped aboard a ravaged hallway where they were greeted by a boasting Major Morris: "Welcome aboard the Redbeard, Steve! Good to see you too, Christine. Always nice to have some female company to show the spoils to." While this kind of familiarity would not be tolerated closer to Earth, Steven and Christine didn't care too much about protocol so far from home.
      "Frank, did you say 'Redbeard'?" the Commander asked as they walked towards the bridge. Some of the walls were riddled with bullet marks, occasionally interrupted by bloody smears or the dent of a grenade explosion. The warm and thick air still reeked of cordite. Like a contemporary Hans und Gretel Steven and his XO could easily follow a trail of bullet casings all the way to the bridge.
      "According to their logs 'Redbeard' is their ship's name, Commander." The Major shrugged as if to apologize: "I've already sneaked a peek into their computer."
      "Ah-huh. What about the raid? How did it proceed, Major?"
      "Pretty good. We managed to wup their asses quite fast, even for our standards. But I did have to pull out some tricks to save one of my lazy-ass Lieutenants from getting killed."
      "I heard that, Major Dwarfis," Lieutenant Simmons muttered through his teeth as he passed his commanding officers in opposite direction.
      Steven continued the debriefing: "What about casualties?"
      "They have plenty of them, including a bunch of fatalities, I'm proud to say," Morris joked.
      "I mean on our side, numbnuts!"
      The major could barely hold himself from laughing. "Sorry, sir. We've got a couple of wounded, seven in total. Most of them took a round in their armour and broke some ribs. Two of them have flesh wounds in arms or legs. One got caught by a grenade and was in pretty bad shape. The medic saved his life, but he won't be joining us for the rest of the mission, sir."
      Steven knew good boarding action when he saw it. "Very neat, Major. And no fatalities on our side, just like you said. Well done."

      The bridge of the Redbeard was a mess. It wasn't situated at the front end of the ship, but more towards the stern, on top of the main fuselage. When the Flying Dutchman had taken out her engines with a through-and-through MAC-shot, the bridge had gotten shaken apart like a magic eight ball. There were plating from the walls and ceiling lying everywhere, and some of the chairs had been ripped from the floor like trees during a hurricane. When the Marines had entered led by Frank, the Captain's chair in the middle of the bridge had gotten shot to bits along with some of the workstations. Through all the rubble and signs of carnage Steven could barley make out the layout of the original bridge, and was surprised to see it wasn't all that different from his own command center.
      The pirate Captain was sitting on a chair with his hands tied behind his back. Two Marines were guarding him, holding their assault-rifles tight to their chest ready to use them within a moment's notice. As the Captain lifted his head, Steven saw one of his eyes was swollen shut from a blow to his head.
      "Pleased to meet you, Captain. I'm Steven Fisher, Commander of the Flying Dutchman." Steven stood in front of the Captain with his arms crossed and his chest held high, a triumphant smile lurking on his face. "By the looks of it you've already met Major Morris here. It's a pleasure for us both to be aboard your beautiful vessel, Captain."
      "Cut the bullshit, jackass. I'm not in a laughing mood, as you can see," the Captain sneered. "My name is Boris Boskowski, Captain of the Redbeard." His accent was a peculiar mixture of Russian and Australian English with a dash of Japanese, a dialect only found in the darker parts of the outer colonies. Boris leaned back and tried to look relaxed in spite of his battered face and tied hands. "Now that's all you're ever getting out of me. If you're ready, you can escort me to my cell."
      "Ha! You're not getting off the hook that easy," Steven laughed, amused by the Captain's futile attempt to be in charge of the situation. "I would like to know what you're doing way out here beyond Delta Cygni. I also would like to know why you attacked us. But most of all I want you to tell me whether you've seen any other ships in this sector."
      The Captain gestured with his head where Steven could put his questions. "Eat it, Commander! I don't feel like talking, and so I won't."
      "So I see." Steven turned towards Lieutenant-Commander Smith, who had been going through the ship's logs on an undamaged workstation in search of valuable information for the past few minutes. "Found anything useful, Smith?"
      "Yes, Commander. Apparently they've been following the Halcyon from the moment she departed from Mars. Obviously their ship didn't have this beautiful appearance back then. It looks like they extrapolated the Halcyon's destination when she entered slipspace. Then they jumped to the Delta Cygni system themselves and repainted their ship." Smith lifted her eyes from the computer screen to face Steven: "When they arrived here seven months ago, the Halcyon was nowhere to be found, just like we encountered. They've been patrolling the system ever since, sir."
      "Hmm. Anything on who they're working for? Or why they attacked us?"
      Christine's fingers danced over the computer terminal with amazing agility, faster than anyone Steven knew. "Apparently they've been tracking us for the last few days, doing just about anything to stay undetected by the sensor-net, sir. Unfortunately there is nothing in here on who send them."
      Steven squatted in front of the Captain to look him straight in the eyes. "I knew you were stupid when you attacked me, but are you really that dumb to think that you could capture a UNSC-cruiser?"
      Boris turned his annoyed look away from him.
      Steven tried to sound as kind and gentle as he could. "Please, Captain Boskowski, let's be reasonable about this. There is nothing to gain for you by keeping silent. I happen to know your type, and you aren't driven by idealism, but by money. And now you can kiss your spoils and rewards goodbye, you've got no interest to defend."
      "Don't pretend to know me like some kind of shrink. Give me one good reason to talk, Commánder," the Captain said condescendingly.
      "Well, if you don't, my good Major here will take over the interrogation. And he is not as patient or as civil as I am."
      Boskowski glanced between Steven and the Major with a suspicious look, but then regained a confident smile. "I'm calling your bluff, Commander. You're not going to torture me. That's not the UNSC-style."
      Steven shrugged. "Closer to earth, sure. But way out here, who cares?" Steven's face turned serious again. "I've seen the Major at work, Captain. I strongly advise you to start spilling the beans."
      "I work for no one. This whole operation is all my idea."
      Steven frowned and turned his head away, annoyed by Boskowski trying to blow smoke. "Come on, Captain. We both know perfectly well every pirate's aware that there is nothing to get here, and no one ever comes in this system unless they are sent. Now, who sent you?"
      Boskowski pressed his lips together, smiled, and crossed his legs slowly and stagy.
      Steven stood up, shaking his head. "Suits yourself, Boskowski. Major Morris, he's all yours."
      "Excellent! Let's get busy on this dumb-ass," the Major said while rubbing his hands together. He saw the Captain already looking at him with a hint of fear in his eyes. "Looks like my reputation in questioning has preceded me." He bowed to put his face close to that of Boris. "So, you're mister Tight-lips, aye? I've got just the thing to fix that. Sergeant Lowery?" Frank shouted, while he saw Boris start to break sweat.
      "Sir, yes, sir?"
      "Get me my toolbox, my power drill, my blowtorch and some Jalapeno-peppers from the kitchen, please. And make it snappy," Frank ordered grinning.
      While they were waiting, Captain Boskowski tensed up, his respiration intensifying and his transpiration solidifying into a steady trickle down his back. He had heard numerous times of stories depicting Marines having their way with prisoners for the purpose of getting information, or just for the fun of it. What he didn't know, was that these stories were brought into this universe by ONI's section two, to give the Marines an even more menacing reputation than they already had. In reality Marines had general orders to treat every prisoner of war with respect. "You're not going to...ehhh, use those tools, right?" he asked with a breaking voice.
      Frank laughed as vilely as humanly possible. "You bet your soon to be skinned ass, I'm going to use them!" After fifteen minutes Sergeant Lowery returned with the requested items. Major Morris placed the items in front of the Captain and went over them to see whether everything was there and working. First of all, he opened his toolkit: "Toolbox with contents, check!" Then he lifted the drill and pulled its trigger, drilling the air. "Power drill, check!" After that, he took the blowtorch and snapped it on, creating a bright blue flame half a foot long: "Blowtorch, check!" Last of all, he took a pepper and ate it whole without even blinking: "Jalapeno-peppers, check!" Frank swept across his forehead: "Ooff! They're nice and hot, excellent for today's purposes!"
      With the testing of every item, Boris' unease grew larger and larger, until the expression on his face was one of pure shock and awe, his lower lip trembling in terror.
      Steven, who had been standing nearby the whole time, tried to reason with the Captain one more time: "This is your last chance, Boris. Tell us what we want to know." The Captain remained frozen like a surreal statue, his gaze locked on the Major. Steven again shook his head. "Fine. Frank, do your worst."
      "Yes, sir. Let's get to work!" Frank rejoiced. He grabbed the blowtorch and got one of the Captain's shoes of, which was difficult because Boris frantically tried to move his feet away. When Frank was about to burn a hole through his instep, Steven intervened: "Hold it, Major. I think it's better to start with applying some electrics on this guy."
      The Major thought for a moment, then smiled. "Good idea! Sergeant Lowery, go to engineering and get some jumper cables."
      While the Sergeant went back to get them, Major Morris used his tools to gain access to a power conduit. When Lowery returned with the cables, Frank attached one end to the conduit with the power turned off. The clamps on the other end were gently attached to the Captain's testicles.
      Frank turned towards Steven and Lowery, ready to put the power back on: "Right, who's in for popcorn?"
      "NO, NO, PLEASE DON'T!" Boris screamed, tears of fear running down his face, another liquid running down his pants. "To hell with this! I'll tell you anything, anything you want! Just don't hurt me, please!"
      Steven stepped closer. "Then tell us who send you."
      "Robert Watts!" Boris yelled.
      Steven frowned. "Colonel Robert Watts?"
      "Yes, yes! He is secretly gathering rebels to mount another insurrection. He wanted to capture the Halcyon to strengthen his fleet and to embarrass the UNSC. He figured a modified Phoenix-class ship could pull it of," he sobbed.
      "So you were really going to capture the Halcyon?" Steven's voice was filled with scepticism.
      "Yes! We trailed her from Mars and managed to catch her slipspace-vector. We followed her into this system, but when we emerged from slipspace, she was nowhere to be found. It was as if she had gone up in hydrogen," the broken Captain snivelled.
      "I see. But why did you attack my ship, then?"
      "If I would return without even one captured ship, Watts would have my head. So, when the Halcyon proved to be unfindable, I decided to try and take your ship instead."
      Steven thought for a moment, grooming his short mustache. "Did you find anything that could have been a sign of the Halcyon? Exhaust-particles, debris, anything?"
      "Ehm, we did find a faint particle trail the first day after we had entered the system, but it came to a dead end near a nebula."
      Lieutenant-Commander Smith, who had been looking at the interrogation with growing discomfort, took cue and quickly entered the computer's sensor log. It didn't take long for her to find the relevant information. "I've got the trail here, Commander. It lies on the very edge of the system. It was very decayed, but the signature looks reminiscent to that of the Halcyon, sir."
      "Then we'll go and check it out. Thanks, Captain Boskowski. You've been really helpful. Major Morris will escort you to your cell now."

      When the Captain was out of sight, Christine turned towards her Commander with a troubled look on her face. "Excuse me, sir, but I've never witnessed interrogation like that. Were you really going to inflict that kind of torture on him?"
      Steven smiled. "What do you think? He was right when he called my bluff. But luckily Frank and I have rehearsed this little play many times over."

To be continued

Avalon, Part Two; Chapter Six: The Nebula
Date: 10 October 2005, 11:02 am

Avalon; Part Two: Qua Patet Universum

Chapter six: The nebula

1430 hours, September 20 2502 (military calendar), frigate The Flying Dutchman, edge of the Delta Cygni system

      The Flying Dutchman was about to appear from the nothingness of slipspace after a two day jump starting from the point where she had encountered and defeated the pirate. After the buccaneers had been thrown in the stockade, the demolition-experts placed charges around the Redbeard's reactor. Just before the Flying Dutchman jumped into the domains of Shaw-Fujikawa-dimensions, the bombs were set off and the corsair ship was reduced to vapour in a fireball many times hotter than a star itself.
      Ensign McBain counted down the last few seconds of slipspace-flight: "Sir, we are re-entering normal space in T minus five, four, three, two, one, mark."
      The Dutchman burst into the realms of Einsteinian space at the location where the trail depicted in the pirate's sensor log had ended. When the blurring effects which accommodated and turned re-entering into a psychedelic happening had dissipated, the bridge crew could see what lay in the path of their bow. Directly in front of the ship shone a relatively small, but opaque and seemingly massive nebula. It glowed in a bright pink luminescence, making it look like a gigantic cotton candy. Although the cloud appeared to consist of thousands of breast-like globules, it was roughly spherical in shape. The globules reminded some of the crew of the dreaded Mammatus clouds, the meteorological heralds of fierce tornados and thunderstorms. Long faint streaks of diffuse gas protruded from seams between the bulgy drops, further emphasizing its angelic look. The giant gas bubble was small in comparison to other nebulae, but still easily dwarfed the Flying Dutchman.
      The strange appearance and bright glow of the nebula had a mesmerizing effect on the bridge crew. "Miss Smith, what are we looking at?" Steven asked. He got no answer, because the XO was staring out the window as if she heard the sirens of Ulysses sing. "Lieutenant-Commander Smith, I asked you a question!"
      Christine broke her gaze from the cloud, and put her attention on her personal view-screen: "Ehh, it's a reflection nebula, sir, the smallest I've ever seen. It measures roughly one point seven billion kilometres in diameter. The cloud consists mostly of hydrogen, with some traces of oxygen, nitrogen and carbon."
      "Hmm. Has it been named or surveyed yet?"
      "One moment, sir. Accessing navigation database." Even though she was the fastest officer on a computer in the UNSC, it took Christine a moment to find the appropriate file in the depths of the vast starmaps. "Here it is. It's named Avalon, catalogue number N two five eight seven eight, DC, sir. There is nothing other than a name and number in the database; no probing, no survey on record."
      Steven smiled, still looking at the beautiful manifestation of intergalactic weather. He had always enjoyed reading Arthurian legend, especially the stories about the mystical island inhabited by the blessed dead called Avalon. The Captain of the deep space reconnaissance vessel, who mapped this section of space decades ago, obviously had a soft spot for those stories as well: The Flying Dutchman had already passed the planets Excalibur, Camelot and Pendragon on her patrol to find the Halcyon.
      "Pellerin, are you watching this?"
      "Of course I am, Commander." The holographic terminal switched on to show the stout little centaur with crossed arms and one hand rubbing his chin.
      "Can you make a detailed scanning analysis of the nebula?" Steven requested.
      "Do you still need to ask?" Pellerin answered frivolously. The Bordeaux-red code which constituted the image of the horse with human upper body, started to stream down his head, flanks and legs a little faster, indicating the electronic gears inside the AI's processing core were also increasing their revolutions. After roughly two minutes Pellerin pranced, as if he was proud to say he was done.
      "Analysis completed, Commander Fisher. The particle trail leading up to the nebula is definitely created by the Halcyon. The probability of her having entered Avalon is calculated at ninety eight point seven percent. However, I'm unable to look for her inside the cloud."
      "How come?"
      "The outer layer of the nebula is so dense, that it throws off the scanners. I can't measure more than twenty thousand kilometres into the gas, Commander."
      "Would a probe work to see what's inside?"
      "Negative, Commander. It would not be able to communicate with us."
      "Not even through slipspace?"
      "Correct, Commander. The nebula has a distorting effect on Shaw-Fujikawa-space. No signal can go in or out."
      This disconcerting news surprised Steven. No one had ever encountered such distortions in slipspace before. "How is that possible, Pellerin?"
      "The cause is unknown, sir."
      Steven pondered this unexpected news for a moment.
      "Can you make a calculated guess on what's beyond the outer layer, Pellerin?"
      "Yes, Commander. There is definitely a star of some kind in the middle of the nebula illuminating the gas, probably a K-type. The ratio between the layer's density, the star's mass and the total mass of the nebula indicates that the layer is only approximately one hundred fifty thousand kilometres thick."
      Christine turned her head towards Steven: "Commander, do you think the Halcyon could have flown through it?"
      "I'm not sure, but let's ask the professor." Steven opened an intercom channel with the controls on his chair. "Doctor Maynard, your presence is needed on the bridge."
      "Understood. I'll be there in a minute," the doctor's voice sounded plainly. Steven switched off the intercom and waited for the doctor, his look trapped in the spell bounding glare of the awe-inspiring phenomena stretching out in front of him.
      So far the Commander was very content with Maynard's behaviour onboard his ship. Ike had kept to himself most of the journey, and had contacted the bridge only once shortly after the pirate attack to inform what was going on. For the rest he had stayed out of Steven's way, which was just fine by him.

      When Ike arrived on the bridge, Steven and his crew were still eyeing the nebula in a trance. This cloud, marvelled in its beauty, had an enchanting effect on anyone who laid eyes on it. Doctor Maynard was also instantly touched by its magnificent appearance. "Wow, what an awesome sight. Nice of you to let me see it, Commander Fisher."
      "We're not here to enjoy the view, doctor," Steven answered annoyed. "Can you tell me whether it could be possible for the Halcyon to fly through it?"
      "I can't say anything about that right away. I would have to know more about the nebula's density and composition."
      "Well, then get to it, doctor. The XO will provide you with the relevant information."
      Ike meticulously examined all the appropriate data from Christine's view-screen and quickly came to a conclusion: "I think it would be perfectly possible for Captain DeVries to enter the nebula, Commander. You see, Doctor McClees gave the Halcyon the strongest Titanium-A-frame ever conceived. She has been fitted with numerous cross-bracings and interstitial honeycombs, giving her tremendous stiffness and enormous redundant strength on all axes. Her frame is actually so…"
      "Yes, yes. We get it. So she's strong," Steven cut him off bluntly. "Can you, being the expert on ship's strength, say anything on our abilities of passing through? Could the Dutchman take it?"
      "That's doubtful, Commander. Maybe it's possible, but only if you strip some of the protruding parts from the hull to reduce friction. An extra heat resistant coating may also be recommendable, because she's going to run very hot; hotter than atmospheric re-entry."
      Knowing what her Commander was probably about to bestow upon, the XO looked at Steven with a worried frown. "You're not actually thinking about entering the nebula, are you, Commander?"
      "You bet I am, Miss Smith. It's our mission to find the Halcyon, and if it means diving into this pink soup, then we're going to," Steven answered assured.
      "Then before we enter, Commander, may I advise to contact FLEETCOM and tell them about our proceedings? If we get stuck in there, it might take the next ship another six months to find us."
      Steven plucked at his goatee, a nervous twitch that always occurred when he was lost in thought. "Hmm. You've got a point there, Smith. But my orders are for strict communication silence. Also, according to the personnel-database, Colonel Watts has a dangerously high security clearance. He might be able to intercept our transmission. No, I won't contact HQ yet. But we'll leave a buoy outside the nebula, programmed to send out a signal after waiting for ten days. We'll hardwire our logs onto the marker, so that they'll know where to find us."
      "Sort of like a message in a bottle, right Commander?"
      Steven chuckled. "Yeah, a bottle with a slipspace-transmitter. Now, let's start with our modifications." He clicked on the intercom again and contacted engineering. "Master Chief Larenor, you and your men better get your spacesuits on. I've got a redecorating job for you."

To be continued

Avalon, Part Two; Chapter Seven: The Descent
Date: 12 October 2005, 9:58 am

Avalon; Part Two: Qua Patet Universum

Chapter seven: The descent

0945 hours, September 22 2502 (military calendar), frigate The Flying Dutchman, edge of the Delta Cygni system

      In merely two days the avid engineering- and repair-crews had given the Flying Dutchman a total make-over. In several lengthy EVA's a new layer of heat resistant coating was applied over the entire fuselage. The engineers also removed most of the missile-pods to further streamline the hull. In the meantime everything inside the ship was strapped down and secured to prevent the proverbial loose cannon on the deck.
      Steven planned to enter the strange nebula at ten-hundred hours, which was just fifteen minutes away. He had just made his final round across his beloved frigate to make sure everything was perfectly squared away and performing one hundred percent. The oppressive atmosphere on the bridge was laden with tension, and the environmental control systems had a hard time preventing the air from reeking of sweat. Everyone realised it was going to be a bumpy ride, and no one knew what they could expect after the ride was over.
      The Commander checked his systems on his view-screen and addressed Lieutenant Trucker: "Alvin, have you worked out a flight plan?"
      "Yes, I have, Commander. The optimal approach vector is angled ninety degrees in respect to the plane tangent to the nebula; it's simply a course straight into the cloud. The nose will have to be pitched upward by thirty degrees to keep the bridge out of the heat."
      "Very well. Move the ship away from Avalon and put some distance between us and the point of entry. We will need a large run to gather as much speed as we can."
      The Flying Dutchman veered away from the nebula and halted on a spot twenty thousand kilometres from the edge of the cloud. It was at this point where the ship released a small distress buoy, programmed to emit a slipspace-signal after ten days of waiting in the coldness of space.
      Steven pulled the straps tight which were holding him to his chair. "Alright people, let's get this show on the road. Miss Smith, stop the spinning compartments, fire up the reactor, and bring her up to one hundred and five percent. Mister Trucker, you may commence your run."
      "Aye, Commander."
      Every crewmember felt the acceleration by being pressed into their seats as the Flying Dutchman firmly increased her speed. The cameras on the hull that were looking backwards recorded two silver-white exhaust flames, both of them roughly half a boat's length long. The jets were so bright it wasn't possible to look at them for too long without suffering damage to the retina. With this unprecedented acceleration it didn't take long before the ship overtook her highest velocity ever recorded, and hurtled towards the nebula like an honour-crazed kamikaze.
      Suddenly Pellerin appeared on his pedestal. "Commander, I must inform you, at the present acceleration we might not make it through! I strongly advice to increase our delta-v if possible or abort," the AI said calmly but seriously.
      "Miss Smith, go to one hundred twenty on the reactor, now!" Steven ordered. "Reroute power from all nonessential systems to the cooling-system and the engines!"
      Nerve-racking minutes passed, in which the Flying Dutchman gained even more momentum. Steven clenched his fists around the armrests of his chair. The ship was rapidly approaching the point of no return. If he would ever decide to abort the run, it would have to be now. "Is this enough, Pellerin?" the Commander anxiously inquired.
      "Affirmative, Commander. It is also recommendable again to take the reactor back to one hundred percent."
      Steven smiled. "You heard the man. Make it so, Christine."
      "Sir, we're entering the outer layers in five," Trucker announced.

      As the frigate passed through the outermost reaches of the nebula the crew registered small bumps, which reminded some of driving on the old dirt roads on their home planets. The shocks quickly grew in both intensity and frequency, making the Dutchman start to shake and buck like a thing possessed. To Steven it felt as if his ship had gotten stuck in a paint mixer. "How's she holding up, Smith?"
      "Shaken, not stirred, Commander," the XO yelled.
      The entire hull of the ship started to glow and became a six hundred meter long shining filament. On the bridge the crew could see chunks of abraded coating flying by. Some of the lumps from the nose were turned into plasma by the intense heat and glowed like bright blue sprites as they shot passed the bridge. The aft-cameras showed a hundred mile long indigo-coloured wake of ionized gas, as if the Dutchman ripped open the nebula's pink skin to leave a trail of royal blue blood.
      Suddenly a loud bang shocked the crew. "Sir, we've lost some armour-plating from our port flank, section eight!" Smith shouted.
      "Is the hull still intact?"
      "Yes, Commander. I'm sealing off the section as a precaution."
      Two more bangs followed in rapid succession. Christine was quick to report the damage: "We've lost two more pieces of plating, Commander! And the temperature of the heat shield is approaching critical levels!"
      "Ventral thrusters are not responding! I'm having difficulty keeping her levelled, sir," Lieutenant Trucker intervened loudly.
      Steven remained cool and in command. "Pellerin, assist mister Trucker. Miss Smith, shut all emergency doors and run all the reactor-coolant through the ventral heat-exchangers."
      Another five harrowing minutes passed. As the frigate plunged through this seventh circle of hell the shaking and bucking grew ever more violent. The ship wasn't just dropping into a nebula, it was dropping into a potato peeler running at full speed. The Flying Dutchman turned into a burning snake, slowly but surely sloughing its skin. More and more plating got ripped of the hull, and the underlying fuselage glowed red hot, ready to cave in like a chocolate Easter bunny left standing in the sun.
      Steven knew just as well as anyone else that a hull failure would be catastrophic in these incredible torrents. The heated gas wouldn't take long to burn through the bulkheads behind a breach, and the loss of aerodynamic smoothness would send them spinning out of control. If that would happen, the shear and bending stresses would tear the ship to shreds.
      A horrifying moaning began to accompany the deafening din created by the shaking. The low-pitched groan sounded like a whale being kept in the cargo hold which was now screaming in agony. "Sir, the Titanium-A struts between the central nexus and the keel are starting to buckle. We can't take much more of this," the XO established resigned, but with despair seeping into her voice.
      "We can't go back. Just a little while longer," the Commander yelled, trying not to be drowned out by the noise of the mangled ship.
      Christine was losing her nerve. "A little while longer and we loose the ship! We are approaching our abort-limits, Commander!"
      "The last available point to abort was fifty thousand miles back, Lieutenant. Now suck it up! She is a strong ship, she will hold on!" the Commander screamed, trying to put heart not just into his XO, but also himself. Steven wasn't a religious man, but in these circumstances he was very flexible. He closed his eyes and started to mumble: "Hail Mary, full of grace…"

      Suddenly and without warning the gaseous wall in front of the bridge disappeared in an instant. The jolting stopped immediately, and the serene bridge bathed in eerie calmness and silence.
      What Steven saw looking out the front window made him forget how to breathe, and all he could hear around him were jaws dropping in astonishment.
      In the middle of the hollow spherical nebula shone a small but bright star. Around it revolved a single brown-red gas giant. In its turn a blue tinted moon circled around the planet. The peculiar solar system was an awesome sight, but it wasn't that what astounded Steven and his crew. No, it was the gigantic ring hovering gracefully between the planet and its natural satellite.

To be continued

Avalon, Part Three; Chapter Eight: The Ring
Date: 10 November 2005, 10:44 am

Avalon; Part Three: Circulos Vitiosus

Chapter Eight: The Ring

1015 hours, September 22 2502 (military calendar), frigate The Flying Dutchman, Avalon nebula

      "Wha…what is that, Miss Smith?" Steven gasped. There was no answer. The XO seemed to be hypnotized with her eyes fixed firmly on the ring. "Lieutenant-Commander Smith, are you with us?"
      "What? Ehhh…" The harsh tone of Steven's voice broke the spell holding Christine, and she focussed on her view-screen again. "Sorry, Commander. It's just that…this thing; it isn't like anything I've ever seen before."
      "I don't think anyone has ever witnessed something like this. But can you tell me anything about it yet?"
      "Yes, sir. The object is approximately ten thousand kilometres in diameter, three-hundred kilometres wide and twenty-two point three clicks thick. It's fixed on a Lagrange-point between the planet and its moon. I can't say much more about it before we make a fly-by and get a better reading from our sensors."
      "Lieutenant Trucker, you heard the lady. Move her in for a closer look."

      As the Flying Dutchman enclosed the distance to the ring the crew could see large geometric engravings on its metallic outer surface. It reminded Steven of the enormous markings left in the Atacama-desert on Earth by the Nazca-indians. This rectilinear calligraphy, however, was many times bigger than those mysterious patterns left in the Chilean sand. The officers on the bridge could also distinguish large circular markings differing from the other shapes and lines. These circles were no part of the ornamental channels running across the ring's hull, but were clearly placed at regular intervals. Yet, their purpose remained a mystery.
      What Steven and his crew saw on the inside of the imperial ring was even more puzzling. It looked as if there existed an earth-like world on the inside, complete with all the different climatic zones and an active atmosphere. A rich and colourful palette of various landscapes such as deserts, temperate zones, jungles, tundra's and even polar zones could be discerned, all of them intermittently interrupted by deep blue oceans and occasionally covered by thick dark storm clouds or even swirling hurricanes. Steven had seen countless colony-planets, but none showed so much similarity with earth as the inside of this artificial construct.
      The Commander still couldn't quite grasp what he was seeing. "Unbelievable. Are you reading all this, Miss Smith?" Steven asked.
      "Yes, Commander. The metal on the outer side is an unknown alloy. Whoever made this, they weren't human."
      "Have you located the Halcyon yet?"
      "Negative, sir. If she's anywhere in this nebula, my guess is she's on that ring. I'll need a moment to survey the entire inner surface."
      It took the XO five whole minutes to let the Dutchman's advanced scanning-array do its job and view the gigantic alien construct in every possible way. On a normal UNSC-mission five minutes went by in a heartbeat. However, to Steven these three hundred seconds felt like an eternity, stretched out by the utter silence on his bridge.
      When Christine was finished with the analysis she almost couldn't believe what she was reading. "Sir, this…this is blowing my mind, pardon the expression. There's no sign of the Halcyon, and I'm not picking up any signs of intelligent life on the surface. But there are structures all over the ring made out of the same alloy as the outer hull. Most of the structures seem to be vents of some sort. Others look more like hatches."
      Steven frowned. "Those exhausts, are they venting anything?"
      "No, sir. But I am getting faint readings of thousands of fusion cores below them distributed equally over the entire construct. The combined output of all those generators is larger than the energy-consumption of most of the inner colonies put together." Christine's voice was trembling slightly from the combination of excitement and amazement she felt in her gut. "Why would anyone need such an output?"
      "Beats me." Steven examined the data for himself on his personal view-screen. "This is odd. The entire ring is spinning, but it isn't rotating fast enough to explain the gravitational acceleration on the surface."
      "Artificial gravity?" Christine wondered. "Maybe that's the reason for having those fusion cores."
      "Then why are they only running at a fraction of their capacity? The current power-levels are more like a pilot-light." Steven shook his head. "No, this goes beyond our comprehension. Maybe Pellerin can give some insight."
      The moment Steven mentioned his name Pellerin appeared on his pedestal, stamping with one of his hooves. "Thank you for requesting my assistance, Commander. I've been eager to dissertate on this object from the moment it came in sensor-range."
      "What are your findings?"
      "Lieutenant-Commander Smith was right when she speculated on artificial gravity. I'm reading peculiar Shaw-Fujikawa-distortions along the surface which could result in creating localized gravity-wells."
      "Are these distortions similar to the anomalies in the outer layer of the nebula?"
      "Negative, Commander. Those are of a different nature, one which even I can't grasp. As for the purpose of the cores and the vents, I'm afraid I can't give an explanation either." Pellerin seemed to be thinking for a moment as he scratched his chin. "I think I've found a location where the Halcyon might have put down."
      "Have you found a wreck?" Steven asked worriedly.
      "No, sir. But I have found a section of surface riddled with those hatches Lieutenant-Commander Smith mentioned. Some of them are big enough for the Halcyon to pass through."
      "Are you telling me Captain deVries found a way to open one of those doors and flew through?"
      "Correct, Commander. I've scanned the rest of this system with a fine toothcomb, so to speak. There's absolutely no wreckage to be found. Besides, there's still a very faint path of emission-particles leading up to the ring. I'm even reading a second distinct trail."
      Steven was baffled. "Another ship? Try to identify the signature."
      "Unable to comply, sir. Manmade engines can not even make such a trail."
      Steven closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as his troubled head was beginning to hurt. The shear multitude of surprises coming his way was taking its toll on his ability to comprehend the avalanche of information he was receiving. "Miss Smith, what's the composition of the atmosphere? Can it support human life?"
      "It's virtually earth-like, Commander. Even the temperature shows the same variety as that on earth. It can easily support us."
      "Then I'm sending you on an excursion, if you don't mind."
      A smile of excitement was instantly created on Christine's face. "Of course I don't, sir. I'll begin preparing immediately."
      "Good. Take Ensign McBain and a couple more Navy-men with you in two of the Pelicans. Land near one of those hatches and check it out. I'll send Major Morris and one of his platoons to escort you. If all's clear, then you're dismissed, Commander."

To be continued

Avalon, Part Three; Chapter Nine: The Surface
Date: 8 December 2005, 7:42 am

Avalon; Part Three: Circulos Vitiosus

Chapter Nine: The surface

1400 hours, September 22 2502 (military calendar), frigate The Flying Dutchman, Avalon nebula

      While she was putting the last bags of her gear onboard the Pelican Christine tried to settle the butterflies in her stomach. Although she had been on surface excursions before, she had never been in charge of one. That, and the fact she was going to land on an artificial ring with roughly the same diameter as earth, were enough to tighten her nerves as taut as violin snares.
      "Good afternoon, Christine! Lovely weather inside this nebula, isn't it?" Major Morris shouted cheerfully as he entered the small launch bay with his platoon. Although all of the Marines carried more than one hundred pounds of supplies on their backs, they walked across the hangar as if they were taking a stroll through a park.
      Christine smiled at the greetings from the Major. She knew that although he appeared tougher than a coffin nail, Frank really was kindness personified, except of course if you happened to be an enemy. In that case you could kiss your ass goodbye. "Good afternoon to you too, Major. I hope the trip through the cloud wasn't too intolerable."
      "Ha. It didn't even wake me! Unlike my dear Lieutenant Simmons, who had a little bit too much to eat prior to the descent. Maintenance is still busy cleaning up his quarters..."
      Christine winced in disgust. "Ugh. That mustn't have been a pretty si…"
      The XO and the Major were interrupted by the intercom which gave rise to the Commander's voice: "Lieutenant-Commander Smith, Major Morris; the ship is lined up for entry. When you're ready Lieutenant Trucker will dip the Dutchman into the ring's atmosphere, giving the Pelicans the chance to take off. Give me a signal when you're good to go."
      "We're ready now, Commander," Christine said as she hopped into a Pelican and the Crew Chief closed the hatch behind her.

      The Flying Dutchman's air force was comprised of four Pelican dropships, designated Petrels one through four. They were flown by eight seasoned Officers; four Lieutenants and four Ensigns flying shotgun.
      Although the dropships did have the ability to enter dense atmospheres, it was still preferred to do a high-altitude drop-off from the mothership. This was because the Pelican's heat shield was only guaranteed safe for one entry. Retrofitting the shield after every insertion was possible, but also expensive and time-consuming, and was therefore hardly ever done.
      The Dutchman began to shake again as it dipped into the ring's atmosphere, but it was peanuts compared to the descent through the cloud. When the relative airspeed around the ship had decreased enough, Lieutenant Jimmy 'Frog' Bantini loosened the clamps holding his Pelican in place and warned his passengers: "Hold on to your lunches, boys and girls!"
      The pilot engaged his engines and steered his plane backwards exiting the launch bay. Once out of the lee of the frigate the Pelican's nose got pushed down by the gale-force air torrents suddenly rushing against it. The skilled Bantini directed his dropship into a steep inverted dive, trying to bleed of as much speed as possible. He was followed closely by the second Pelican carrying the Marines. Above them the Dutchman increased its orbital speed and veered out of the atmosphere, like a trout swimming away after depositing two bundles of eggs in its spawning ground.
      At an altitude of ten kilometres Bantini put some more power on his engines and pulled his ship out of its dive. They were still descending however. When the altitude allowed for it the Crew Chief opened the rear hatch. All the passengers were thrilled to look down on a hilly and wooded landscape, accentuated by low hanging mists.
      The thick fog completely obscured the ground from sight, and only the highest cedar-like trees pierced through the vaporous blanket. The Pelican's down looking radar didn't have any trouble looking through it however, and painted an image of a rough woodland, occasionally interrupted by one of the mysterious gigantic hatches the Dutchman's sensors had seen from space. The landscape reminded the XO of the large forests on Reach, where she had long ago undergone the survival course as part of her Officer's training.
      Finally the radar picked up a spot absent of trees and large enough for both Pelicans to land in. Christine opened a com-channel to the other Pelican: "Major Morris, order your pilot to land at the clearing. Secure it, and report back when it's safe for me to come in."
      "Understood, sir," the Major replied.
      The pilot of the Pelican carrying the Marines deployed the craft's sturdy landing gear and lowered into the fog, relying on nothing but his radar.
      The dropship touched down in a field covered by long wet grass, it's roaring engines creating clouds of vapour that were added to the surrounding mists. Immediately the Marines lead by Major Morris stormed out of their Pelican and quickly established a circular perimeter around their landing site. Although during their flight they had seen no sign of hostilities or even so much as a civilisation, every soldier watched the shrouded tree line as if at any moment an enemy onslaught could appear.
      Major Morris went around the perimeter once and walked back to the Pelican, which still had its engines fired up. "Lieutenant-Commander Smith, we've got the site secured. You can come in and alight with your men."
      The roaring sound of the second Pelican's engines became louder and it wasn't long before the stubby weapon-adorned nose of the XO's dropship appeared through the veil of low-hanging cloud cover. When the Pelican was still six feet removed from touchdown Christine jumped of the ramp followed by Ensign McBain and eight other Navy-men, all carrying hefty backpacks stuffed full of surveying equipment.
      When the debarkation was finished Christine contacted her Pelican: "Frog, we're on solid ground and ready to proceed with the mission. Your job here is finished for now."
      "Roger. We'll go for altitude and stay standby for support or extraction. Godspeed, Commander."
      Both pilots spurred on their engines and steered their planes out of the fog. The sight of the Pelicans disappearing behind the mist stirred up the jitters in Christine's abdomen again. She was on her own now. Although, not really on her own; she was accompanied by nine other Navy-men and fourteen Marines, so she had a lot of people backing her up.
      She also realised her Commander wasn't more than a radio-call away from her. That reminded Christine; she had to phone in as soon as she had landed. "Dutchman, this is Recon Alfa calling in, over. Is anybody listening up there?"
      Steven's voice crackled over the com-link: "Dutchman here. We're receiving you five-by-five. Is everything alright down there, over?"
      "Affirmative, Commander. We've touched down four clicks from the nearest structure and I've already sent both Petrels back up in the air again. Are you reading our position, over?"
      "That's a roger. How's the terrain you're in, over?"
      "I'm in a small field surrounded by what seems like a large forrest. I estimate we'll reach our objective in roughly an hour, over."
      "Good. Carry on then. We'll check in on your position from time to time. Until then, good luck, Smith. Fisher out."
      Switching of her com-system she turned to Major Morris: "Are you ready to move out, Frank?"
      "As always, Lieutenant. Platoon, fall out!"

      Steven swivelled worriedly in the Commander's chair on his bridge which seemed empty and incomplete without Smith and McBain, although their stations were occupied by substitutes. The cause for his concern was the recon-mission down on the surface of this mysterious ring. It had been two hours since Christine had touched down, but she hadn't phoned in yet. It certainly wasn't her style to slack behind or to forget something as important as reporting to her commanding Officer. Normally he could set his watch to his XO's adherence to her timetable. A disconcerting thought crept into his mind, a thought he could not dismiss right away.
      Let's se what my Lieutenant-Commander is up to. "Dutchman calling Recon Alpha, over." Silence. "Flying Dutchman calling Recon mission Alpha; come in, Smith." Again he could hear nothing but the faint static generated by the equipment and the cosmic background radiation. "Pellerin, is our communications array malfunctioning?"
      "Negative, Commander. All ship systems are functioning well within operational limits, including communications."
      "Sir, they're off the scope," Lieutenant White noted troubled. "Last time I checked, their homing-signal was one kilometre away from the first hatch. But at this moment, they're nowhere to be seen. Do you think they could be underground, Sir?"
      "Possible, but not probable, Lieutenant. I know the XO would certainly have reported in before she would venture below the surface, or at least have left a com-relay at the insertion-point."
      Steven shook his head and thought for a moment. A chilling tremor trickled down his spine. The thoughts he had been unable to silence were slowly coalescing into one of his greatest fears; the loss of his trusted XO, along with Major Morris, Ensign McBain, and all the other Marines and Navy-men accompanying them. Although the worrying over losing some of the most important members of his bridge-crew and a sizable part of his Marines made the lump in the pit of his stomach even heavier, he renewed his faith in the abilities of the Lieutenant-Commander. "We'll give her another hour. If she hasn't made contact by then, I'll go in myself with the Marine-backups."

      She was dreaming. She dreamt of being on holidays when she was six years old. Together with her parents and three older brothers she went to the old family-owned cottage near the Aldrinian Ocean on Kappa Aquila V. The little white brick cottage stood near a pale green cliff, coloured by oxidizing copper deposits in the sandy rocks.
      In her dream she had been playing with her brothers on top of the rock-face all day long, but suddenly fled because she felt haunted by something, some utterly elusive but omnipresent being. She realised in panic the only way to outrun it was to go over the steep precipice. As she jumped she felt the invisible presence touching her, turning her into glass in the blink of an eye. The deep green see beneath her also seemed affected and froze into ice just as fast. The moment she hit the solid ocean her body was shattered into millions of pieces. Then, before all the particles had even come to rest, the shattering was completely reversed.
      Christine slowly opened her eyelids, only to quickly close them again. A diffuse pain floated around in her brains like a moth trapped in a lampshade. A subtle nausea gently pushed itself on the foreground of the awareness of her languid body. She tried to open her hurting eyes again. Slowly her surroundings slid into focus. What she saw made her question her mental state.
      Was she awake? Or did she merely fall from one nightmare into another? Se was lying on a square platform thirty feet long and wide. Beyond the platform was nothing but a dark void which seemed to stretch out infinitely in every direction. The only illumination in this vast emptiness came from the platform itself. Matt green lights were integrated into the floor and lighted her underside.
      Looking around she noticed eleven other warm bodies sleeping on the platform. Some of the Navy-men and Marines were just as Christine in the middle of awakening from their placid slumber. Others were still sound asleep, lying in the green haze on their backs with their arms and legs slightly spread as if they were making snow-angels.
      Christine crawled closer to the others and found the Major sleeping in the same position as everyone else. She gently shook him. "Frank, wake up," she whispered, weary that they might be closely guarded in spite of the apparent lack of surroundings.
      Frank turned on his side without even opening his eyes while mumbling: "…not now, honey…go to sleep…"
      The Major addressing her as his 'honey' made her blush, but Christine quickly shook it off and tried to wake him again. "Come on, Marine. Time to wake up," she ordered, her voice now slightly raised.
      Finally Major Morris opened his eyes and squinted just like Christine had done. Once he got them firmly open he looked around and became aware of the XO, his subordinates and the strange place he was in. "Where…where the hell are we?" he asked Christine with subdued voice. The XO had never seen the Major look at her like he did right now. Instead of his usual self-assured smirk it was one of extreme alertness. "What is this place?"
      Christine looked up and away from the Major. "I haven't the faintest idea, Frank. But whatever it is, we didn't get here on our own." By now every Marine or Sailor had either woken up or been awoken. Everyone crawled around on the platform, trying to make sense of where they were and how they got there.
      "Frank, do a head-count. Find out who's missing." Christine ordered and did the same with her crew. "I'm counting four of my Sailors. Ensign McBain isn't accounted for."
      "I've got six Marines here, including my Sergeant. But I've seem to have lost my Medic," Frank assessed. "Marines, huddle together around me and the Commander. Has anybody got any kind of recollection of how we got here?" All the men and women thought deeply about what had preceded their mysterious awakening, but no one could recall what had happened.
      Noticing that they weren't getting anywhere with this Christine tried to stimulate their minds by thinking out loud: "Let's just trace back to what we can remember. The last thing I can recall was walking through the forest and finding a structure that looked like an entrance of some kind."
      A Marine picked up where Christine had stopped: "I recollect walking down a corridor with blue-coloured lighting."
      "Yes, walking through a structure also comes to mind with me," said Sergeant LaMarque, whose mind seemed to be stirred up by the others. "But the last thing I remember before waking up was this golden shimmering thingy in front of me."
      Christine saw looks of recognition in the eyes around her. Pondering over LaMarque's description she herself managed to dig up a similar experience from the depths of her memory. In her mind she replayed the last events preceding the dream; the grey hallway they were walking in, and the blue lighting that had faded away into a golden haze. Following that were the strange dreams which had kept her mind busy to the moment she had opened her eyes.
      The Major's face twitched in frustration. He pounded on the floor with his fist and started pacing up and down the platform. "It doesn't matter how we got here. I'm far more interested in how to get out of this hole." He stopped and kneeled at the edge of the turquoise coloured square. "LaMarque, Anderson; grab my legs so that I can look over the edge to see what's keeping this platform up."
      Both Marines grabbed and held his legs to the floor, acting as a counterweight while the Major doubled over the edge. This awkward position made it difficult for him to breathe and caused the blood to rush to his head. So after a couple of seconds he ordered his Marines to haul him up again.
      Christine looked at the Major, awaiting a detailed description of whatever was below, but all she saw on his face was an absent stare, filled with surprise and disbelief. "Well, what did you see down there?" Christine asked with keen interest.
      "I…I don't know," the Major mumbled.
      "What do you mean? Is it big, the support holding up this slab?"
      Frank shook his head, his eyes still focussed on infinite. "No, it isn't even there." He finally broke the lock on his gaze and looked straight into the eyes of the XO. "There is nothing supporting this platform."


To be continued

Avalon, Part Three; Chapter Ten: The Steward
Date: 2 January 2006, 1:47 pm

Avalon; Part Three: Circulos Vitiosus

Chapter Ten: The Steward

2000 hours, September 22 2502 (military calendar), Below Ring-surface, Avalon nebula

      Steven was being dragged. That was the first thing he managed to realise. His awareness of his surroundings could only grow very slowly, as if the gears in his mind were turning in thick molasses. As he opened his eyes the first thing he saw was the pale blue-grey floor which was occasionally interrupted by seams in orthogonal directions. This surface was sliding underneath him, giving him a sense as if he was floating. This sensation was dismissed when he recognised the noise he was hearing as the sound of his own two feet dragging on the floor like two worthless appendices. He was still extremely drowsy, yet his coming-to was gaining more and more momentum.
      Steven was being pulled through an A-shaped corridor at least twenty feet high and ten feet wide at the base. The tapering parts of the mauve-coloured walls were adorned with meter-high square-shaped silver calligraphy which shone so bright there was no other apparent need for illumination. The calligraphy was comprised of multiple circles with an assortment of bars, dots, triangles, curves and other geometric shapes. To Steven it looked like an amalgamation of every script he knew; Cyrillic, Egyptian hieroglyphs, Greek, Cuneiform, Latin, Arabic, etcetera. The Commander tried to discern who or what was carrying him, but his field of view was still narrowed, and he could barely move his head. The entities escorting him were hiding in the shadows of his vision.
      The strange-looking walls disappeared from his sight, indicating that he had entered some kind of room. After a couple more steps he was suddenly thrown to the floor like a living duffle bag. The smash into the floor was not that violent, but it was enough for Steven to convince himself to lie there just a little bit longer. It gave him time to re-arrange his thoughts. How did he end up here? Where was 'here' anyway?
      After his XO had failed to re-establish contact, he himself had led a search-party, along with Lieutenant Simmons and the rest of his Marines. The landing on the ring had been textbook-worthy, the entering of one of the mysterious structures even more. But from there the mission had somehow gone horribly awry. Yet he couldn't pinpoint precisely at what moment things had started to hit the fan.
      "Awake." An unearthly, yet strangely familiar voice thudded through his head. "Awake, Human," the booming voice commended again. Steven slowly moved onto his hands and knees and lifted his heavy head. The sight made his spinal fluid turn to ice water. In front of him stood a throne which seemed to sprout up seamlessly from the floor. It was made of the same material as the walls and surfaces of the room, but it had wild curves and organic looking arches, as if it had once been a lump of fluid metal thrown into water to solidify. On this strange throne sat a person. Steven was certain it wasn't an alien, but he also knew it wouldn't exactly qualify for a human. Actually, Steven didn't know at all what he was gazing at. The person in the imperial looking chair was dressed in a creaseless ruby-red robe laced with gold embroidering. Sticking out of the sleeves of the garment were two wrinkled marble-white hands with inch-long fingernails, which looked more like claws than human extremities.
      Steven's eyes finally came to rest upon the head of this strange entity, which was just as pale as his hands. The optical section of the Commander's brain couldn't quite get a grip on the man's face, probably because the proportions were somewhat skewed, which threw off Steven's ability to look at him as a human. The man's jaw structure and cheekbones were much too slim for a Homo sapiens, the distance between his eyes much too small, and his forehead much too high. His hairline seemed to have receded almost to the top of his head, accentuated by deep inlets. The remaining hair was put in a ponytail a meter long and was bound together with five blood red ribbons. In all the being had a tremendous imperial air to himself, and Steven couldn't help but feel humbled by its regal appearance.
      The ghostly looking dignitary opened his mouth to speak. "What is your name, Human?" Steven couldn't believe what he was hearing. The man spoke in a crisp English accent, but the high-pitched squeaky voice of the man dumbfounded his auditory capabilities. This was amplified by the fact that his eyes couldn't match that what he heard with what he saw. There was something odd with the being's mouth going on.
      While pondering over all of this Steven remained silent, so the dignitary asked again: "Human, I know you can understand me. What is your name?"
      Finally it dawned on Steven; the man was using some kind of translation device, maybe incorporated in his throne, much like the electronics in the Commander's chair on the Dutchman. "My…my name is Steven Fisher," he stuttered.
      "Very well. My name is Aio Maylen. I am the Steward of this installation. What is your function, Steván?"
      The commander's keen ears could barely hear the Steward's true voice behind the amplified sound of the artificial voice coming from hidden speakers. His true language was the purest gibberish he had ever heard. "I…am the Commander of a UNSC-vessel called the Flying Dutchman." Steven was now fully awake and his alertness was fully charged, which gave him the nerve to come up with questions of his own: "What is this installation exactly, if I may ask?"
      The Steward frowned, leaned back into his seat and lifted one of his fragile hands from the armrest. "This is Halo. It's the last build of the seven fortress worlds, constructed in the final days of a once great, but ailing empire, which spanned from one end of the galaxy to the other." Maylen moved forward again to look Steven straight in the eyes with an inquisitive look. By doing so, the Commander noticed his irises were even whiter than his skin. "Your predecessor asked the same thing. I wonder why you Humans need to ask this. Don't you know about our great history? I mean, how couldn't you?"
      "Predecessor? Are you talking about Captain deVries? Is he here?"
      "In a matter of speaking. But you haven't answered my question. How could you be unaware, oblivious of our all-embracing legacy?"
      "What are you talking about? I've never heard of a galactic civilisation preceding humankind."
      "I will admit of course the final ages of the Great Empire were defiled with devastating wars and the rise of the all-consuming Flood. But surely you and the other visitors must be the heralds of the fact, that you have conquered the Flood and re-established our universal dominion."
      "I'm sorry, but I haven't got the faintest idea what you're aiming at."
      The Steward seemed annoyed by his ignorance. "The Flood, is it defeated?"
      Steven was confused. "Ehm, last year New Orleans was flooded by a hurricane for the first time in five hundred years, if that's what you mean."
      "That is not the Flood we speak of. Tell me, aren't you the harbinger of the recession of the parasite and the resurrection of our empire?"
      "I…I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. I'm from a planet called Earth, and we Humans only ventured into space about six centuries ago. Hasn't Captain deVries explained all this already?"
      "The other human leader you speak of was under the impression we were his antagonists and that he was being captured. Therefore the ill-mannered curmudgeon was very opposed to talking to us."
      Steven nodded. "That sounds like him. Can I see him by the way?"
      Maylen went on: "…especially after we performed some tests on his subordinates."
      Steven froze. "Tests? What kind of tests? And what exactly is this 'Flood' you're talking about?"
      The Steward gave a sign to the guards standing behind Steven. "Stand up, walk with me, and I'll show you."

      Steven followed Maylen towards a door at the far end of the throne room, meanwhile closely guarded by the two men who had also carried Steven. Now that he was fully conscious again, he could see what they looked like. The two guards were obviously soldiers of some sort. They had the same pale skin as Maylen, odd facial dimensions and receding hair bound in a ponytail. They were dressed in jet black uniforms, which looked not all that different from the black ONI-garments. Yet, Steven knew this likeness was purely incidental. The guards were easily more than seven feet high, but were rather slender build. In their arms they each carried stocky weapons made from a glimmering purple metal. The weird shape of the butt of the carbine didn't actually correspond to any rifle-configuration Steven knew, but the trigger and silver white nozzle were dead give-aways that it was definitely a projectile-firing device.
      The seemingly endless walk through the now familiar corridors led past numerous doors, and finally ended when Maylen opened one of them and passed through. Steven followed, still flanked by the two guards. The room they had entered reminded the Commander of a police interrogation chamber, with bare-naked walls, glaring light, and a mirror which took up the entire ten meter long wall opposite the entrance. Steven wondered if there were more like Maylen looking at them from the other side.
      "So, where are these tests?" Steven asked incredulous.
      Maylen walked towards a small holographic console next to the mirror. "Move up to the window and see," the Steward said and switched one of the shimmering symbols. In an instant the entire mirror turned transparent, revealing the dimly lit room behind it. The wide open hall was empty and completely devoid of any kind of obstacle. Maylen flicked another translucent button, opening a couple of doors in the left side wall of the room. Twelve Marines and five Navy-men were pushed into the hall by some of the same kind of heavily armed soldiers like those which were standing behind the Commander. Amongst the crewmembers was Ensign McBain, whose dark red bags under his eyes gave Steven the impression he had been sleep-deprived for months. As soon as the doors had closed the crew tried desperately to open it again, but all their efforts were in vain. The despair and complete lack of discipline shocked Steven, and made him wonder what they had endured.
      "What have you done to my men, damn it?" Steven asked angrily.
      Maylen didn't take his eyes of the window and answered in a calm and cold voice: "Nothing compared to what is about to happen, dear Commander."
      On Maylen's signal the doors on the other end of the hall opened, and out poured a wash of thousands of small spiderlike creatures. The things looked like overgrown ticks, a brownish yellow sack one foot in diameter with a dozen tentacles sticking out of it like rattails, which they used to propel themselves across the floor at remarkable speeds. Out of the 'head' of the creatures which housed these stubby legs protruded two more tendrils, twice as long as the others, and with a thickening at the end of them. Although the critters didn't have any discernable eyes, they seemed to know exactly where to go, in this case the humans at the other end of the hall.
      The remains of Steven's crew panicked and scattered, some of them screaming their lungs out hysterically in fear and desolation. One of the Marines was the first to be caught by the fleshy pods, being pulled down after dozens of them threw themselves upon him and latched on. When the doomed individual was on his back flailing his arms and legs in a desperate attempt to fight off the assailants, one of the spiders strung his legs around his neck and thrust his elongated appendages into his skin. The Marine immediately ceased his futile resistance and surrendered his body to the will of his intruder, gasping for air in the process.
      The rest of the crew had cornered themselves and were fighting the creatures hand-to-hand with a fury Steven had never seen before, not even with the Marines in battle. Many more Privates and Sailors fell defending themselves from the living wave of yellow flesh coming their way.
      A hidden rage consumed Steven's heart, fuelled by every single fallen crew-member. He clenched his fists and tensed himself, ready to throw himself towards the Steward. But at the moment he lunged, the guards grabbed him and twisted his arms. "AAH! YOU BASTARDS! I'm going to rip your spine out, I swear to God! You messed with the wrong Commander!"
      Maylen smiled. "Control yourself, Steván. Your crew needs your attention."
      As Steven was pushed closer to the screen, he could hear the gruesome screams of his men through the window which were accompanied by the smell of the infernal beings. It reeked of an abattoir filled to the top with slaughter-waste which had been left alone for a couple of months during a scorching summer. Steven could simply taste the purest scent of utter decay he had ever encountered. This incredible stench made the contents of his stomach boil along with his blood. He tried to close his eyes, which were tearing up, and turn his face away from the horrifying scene, but on Maylen's order one of the guards grabbed his head and forced him to witness the atrocity.
      Right before his eyes the skin of the Marine first caught by the aliens was slowly turning into a jaundiced mush. In the meantime the infector was burrowing itself into the caved-in chest of its victim, digging itself in through a wash of black syrupy blood.
      A mixture of intense rage and sickness took hold of Steven as he fell to his knees and vomited his guts out. Pure bile burned in his throat as he crawled to the window and started pounding it with his fists.
      "Don't bother, Commander. It is impossible for the test-subjects to hear you," Maylen said with a sadistic tone.
      "Why? For heaven's sake why are you doing this?" Steven cried.
      "Simply to test your resilience to the parasite." Maylen gestured Steven to look at his crew again. "Look, Commander. Your men have succeeded to fight off the first wave of the Flood."
      To Steven's surprise Maylen wasn't kidding. The remainder of the group in the corner had managed to kill the creatures by either using their helmets or boots as a cudgel, or just by grabbing hold of a parasite and squeezing it until it popped like a balloon. But the victory had come at a horrible toll. Only four Marines and Ensign McBain were left standing, the rest had all been consumed and assimilated by the parasites, lying on the floor in a puddle of their own decomposition.
      "Time for the second wave," Maylen said with constraint exuberance in his voice. Another set of doors opened, and Steven was astounded to see what kind of creatures streamed into the gore-smeared room, for it weren't the ticklike things that had made up the first assault. These were bulky biped masses of rotting flesh more than seven feet tall with long whiplike strings where their forearms should have been. All of them had one of the parasite-beings encased in their chests, some of their stubby leg-tentacles still sticking out like improvised chest hair.
      Behind this first row tottered a couple of smaller monsters, obviously differing in build from the first set of limping corpses. What shocked Steven the most was that he recognised their shape. But what struck him even more were the patches on the jackets some of them were still wearing. The patch clearly depicted an ancient galleon with blood red sails cruising straight into the wind; the legend of the Flying Dutchman.
      As soon as the frothy heaps of disintegrating meat sighted the leftover humans they attacked, simply by hurtling themselves towards them. The two Marines standing at the front of the group screamed in terror and held their arms in front of their faces to protect themselves, but it was to no avail. The sledgehammer blow of one of the infected aliens crushed the ribcage of the first Marine like an egg and dashed him against the wall, nearly liquefying all of the remaining bones in his mangled body. A second Flood-sufferer flung his tentacles at another soldier, caught him in the neck and took his head clean off, a fountain of blood gushing out of the lifeless body while it fell to the floor like a sack of beans.
      As the remaining Marines were beaten into a bloody pulp, Ensign McBain escaped the fray by crawling on his hands and knees through the legs of the attackers, which were too busy mauling the Marines to notice him. When he had left the massacre behind him, he got to his feet, ran towards the screen and started to pound it frantically just like his Commander had done from the other side moments ago. Steven tried to get McBain's attention by getting up to the window and yell at him, but he soon realised his crewmember could neither hear nor see him.
      The beasts caught sight of McBain and charged towards the window like a pack of hunger-crazed bears. The first creature to reach him whipped the Navy-man across his back. The terrified face of the dying Ensign froze. Steven was only inches away, but there was nothing he could do while he stared straight into the fixed and dilated pupils of his distinguished bridge-Officer. After a couple of seconds a small trickle of blood started to come out of the corner of his mouth. The dead crewmember fell to the floor, revealing the fact that a large part of his spine was torn out of his body. The last thing Steven saw before he fainted was one of his most respected team-mates beaten into the floor by the filth of Hell itself.

To be continued

Avalon, Part Four; Chapter Eleven: The Prisoner
Date: 8 March 2006, 5:00 am

Avalon; Part Four: Semper supernumerus, numquam superarmatus

Chapter Eleven: The Prisoner

0400 hours, September 23 2502 (military calendar), Below Ring-surface, Avalon nebula

      Once again Steven regained consciousness in a totally unknown and alien surrounding. Lying face down, bathing in a sea of dampened cyan light he attempted to shake of the notion, the memory of his own crew, the men and women he had sworn to protect, being shred to minced meat less than a couple of feet in front of him. Yet, the more he tried to tell himself it was nothing but a nightmare, the more he became convinced of the reality of the slaughter the Flood had brought about.
      After accepting this horrible scene as the truth, he desperately wanted to suppress it. Sadly enough his mind was locked in vicious circles, continuously replaying the event as if to torture him even more. Tears started to well up in his hurting eyes again.
      But through his own sobbing he suddenly registered another noise. It was the sound of shallow breathing that alerted Steven of another presence hiding somewhere in the shadows of the poorly illuminated platform.
      Steven tensed and moved to an upright position. His intuition told him the sound wasn't necessarily made by a Human. Could it be Flood? "Who…who's there?"
      Something moved in the shadows at the edge, something golden shimmered, a being too big to be one of his crewmembers. Suddenly a dark shape almost eight feet tall slowly emerged from the twilight. The Commander immediately saw the thing couldn't be Flood, but wasn't Human either.
      The creature was of slim build, but with wide and strong looking shoulders. Its legs reminded Steven of those of a horse, with high ankles and elongated metatarsal bones which ended in a bipartite hoof. The alien had a long bend-over neck which shaded into a pointed oblong head. Its face seemed to be split in half horizontally, with the lower part divided into four slender jaws riddled with short sharklike teeth. Just above its 'upper' jaws two indigo-blue eyes peered right at Steven. The creature's arms, legs and upper chest were clad with shiny golden armour, and on its head it wore a golden helmet accentuated by sharp backward pointed spikes. The parts of skin not covered by armour were dark coloured, intermittently accentuated by grey spots. The alien's appearance was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, having a robust, almost human charisma to it, yet in combination with a grisly visage.
      The sight of this unearthly being frightened Steven to the bone. As the creature approached him, he tried to get up on his feet, but in his panic all he could do was to shuffle backwards clumsily on his ass, until one of his hands felt the edge of the platform. Steven curled up his legs and held his arms in front of his face. He screamed: "Please, don't hurt me!"
      The biped being seemed startled and backed away. He slowly opened his trembling mandibles. "By the Prophets! Why did they put you here, my Lord?" he asked humbly.
      Steven couldn't believe what his ears were hearing. The figure had spoken to him in a low-pitched solemn voice, overflowing with respect, dignity and submissiveness. It had spoken in a stately Victorian English accent, something Steven found hard to believe looking at its jaw-structure, until it came to him the thing probably had a translator somewhere on his armour, much like the Steward had used to communicate. Steven slowly dropped his arms.
      "Are you hurt?" the creature asked again.
      "What are you?" Steven replied, still frightened.
      The alien looked surprised by Steven's question, tilting his head sideways and manufactured something which appeared to be a sort of frown above his intrusive eyes. "My name is Enno Ameklee. I am a Sangheili, an Elite in service of the Holy Covenant, and I came here on a quest to find and worship you."
      "Worship me? What are you talking about? What do you take me for?"
      "Aren't you a Forerunner, one of our Lords and Masters of the Holy Rings?"
      "I don't have a clue what you mean. I am a Human, and I came here a day ago to find a lost ship and its crew. But when I set foot on this ring, these inhabitants captured me. They've also fed a number of my men to some kind of horrible beings. Now can you please tell me what is going on around here?"
      The Elite, as it called himself, seemed shocked when Steven mentioned the experiment performed on his crew. "The Forerunners, they fed your men to the Flood? Are you certain?"
      Steven nodded emphatically. "Dead in front of me. They said they wanted to test our 'resilience' to the parasite."
      "How could the Steward do that to a Forerunner? This is truly incredible."
      "I'm telling you, I'm not a 'Forerunner', or whatever you call them. I'm a Human being, from a planet called Earth." The realisation that the Elite meant no harm slowly trickled into Steven's mind, and he started to relax a little. The Sangheili didn't appear to be hostile in any way. In fact it was more the opposite; the Elite was as courteous as anyone, or anything could be.
      As both learned more of each other, both of them gained more insight of what perilous situation they were in. Ameklee told Steven he was a Ship Master, a rank equivalent to that of a Captain or Commander, and that he commanded a cruiser called the 'Faith and Devotion'. He and his crew were on a quest called a 'mission of Reconnoitre'. Just like the Flying Dutchman they had followed the trail of a ship into the nebula, where they had found Halo instead. After they had set foot on the Ring they had been captured and subjected to the gruesome tests and torture, the memory of which the Commander was still trying to force back.
      Steven came to understand the Covenant was an enormous alliance of several alien species, all united by a powerful religion that prophesied deliverance using the Rings made by the so-called Forerunners, an ancient divine race that had once ruled the entire galaxy, but at one time had fallen into decay. The various species of the Covenant had made an allegiance to find all the relics their Lords had left behind, and thus regain the rule over the lost empire by means of a 'Great Journey'. Halo was supposed to be the key to this transcendence.
      In turn Steven taught the Ship Master some of Human's history, although his story was somewhat less religious panache. Ameklee came to know about mankind's careful venture into space, how they had only actively been colonising their galactic neighbourhood for the past four centuries, and how they had never encountered any intelligent life, until now that was.
      Enno was obviously and thoroughly astonished at all these revelations. To Steven it seemed that the alien couldn't quite grasp the notion yet that he was anything but a galaxy-ruling God.
      "…And that is why we were surprised to encounter the Forerunners to be such a cruel and vicious chaste. Our Prophets have always taught us our Lords were kindness and goodness itself. But when we arrived here, we were imprisoned without audience, and tortured without mercy, all because they desired to know whether we had knowledge about, or could resist this 'Flood' they speak of. They have already sacrificed half my men to those vile creatures, many of which right before my very own eyes."
      "Do you know anything of the Halcyon, the ship that you followed into the cloud?"
      "When I entered the system, the ship had already disappeared, and I assume the crew has been infected or destroyed by the Flood."
      "Then where is the ship itself? And where is your ship for that matter?"
      "After imprisoning my entire exploration-team, they somehow boarded and captured my ship; I don't know how they accomplished it. All I can say is that the ships are being held somewhere beneath the surface."
      "Yeah, I also figured that would be the case. But if what you say about boarding the ships is correct, then my own ship might be in danger." Steven paused to think for a moment. It would be several more days before the probe, left outside Avalon would alert FLEETCOM, days in which the Dutchman could be captured, days in which he would probably die at the Flood-ridden hands of either his or Ameklee's former subordinates. His only option was to escape. "We have to get out of here. Is there any way off this island you know of?"
      "The wall is about twenty body lengths from the edge of the platform. When the Forerunners deliver a new prisoner, they will activate an energy-bridge. But do you think it's wise to revolt against the Lords? After contemplation I concluded this treatment is punishment for my sins, and I don't want to upset them even more."
      Steven was slightly troubled by such blind faith in the very ones that had subjected the Elite to such unimaginable torture. "Enno, you have to wake up and see these Forerunners for what they truly are. I don't want to burst your bubble, but I think they are not the divine beings you take them for."
      The fretting Elite pondered Steven's words, torn in two by doubts on everything he was taught and meant to believe for his entire life. The rock-solid faith he had lived by for decades had been shaking ever since he landed on the forsaken ring and now it was finally toppling. The information Steven had given him on the origin of the Human species and his words concerning the Forerunners were starting to burn away the veneer of beliefs on his mind, which was already crackled by the way he had been treated. It slowly made place for the harsh, yet undeniable truth. "I am almost ashamed to admit it, but I believe you are right, Human. We must escape this Ring and warn our superiors. You can count on my alliance, Fi-shar."
      "Good. First things first; we have to get out of this prison. Any ideas on how…"
      A loud explosion thundered through the empty rift constituting the prison, as a door roughly fifty meters from the platform exploded in a bright blue fireball. After the ionized haze and the smoke had cleared away, the stretch between the hole and the platform suddenly became alight, as if a giant square-tubular neon lamp had been there all the time, but was only now switched on. Two Elites ran through the hole and over the new translucent walkway, both of them armed with the purple coloured rifles Steven had previously only seen in the hands of Forerunner soldiers.
      The Elites were accompanied by three bird-like aliens holding transparent green shields on their arms. As the barge drew nearer, Steven got a good look at the new species he had not yet seen before. They were much shorter than the Elites, even shorter than most Humans. Their limber-looking bodies with orange skin were surmounted by a peaked face with a cormorant-beak and a dark Mohawk. On their wrists they carried transparent shields, which looked like they came out of a futuristic version of Homer's Iliad.
      Ameklee veered up and waved them closer. "Innemee, you're still alive! How did you manage to come here?"
      One of the Elites, which wore stained silver armour stepped on to the platform and lowered his rifle. "Ship Master Ameklee! Praise the Prophets you are unharmed. What has happened to our men?"
      "Murdered, by the Forerunners, mind you! But how did you find me?"
      "After you disappeared from our sight I started to unload my troops on the surface, but most of them were snatched away by some kind of displacement-device. By the time we adjusted our shields to throw off their teleporters, I'd lost all but twenty Elites, four Engineers and some Grunts and Jackals. After that they attacked us on sight, taking two Elites and all of my Grunts. I've been evading the Forerunner-patrols ever since. With the help of the Engineers we caught your armour's signal and mounted a rescue-effort to get you out of their grasp."
      "I thank you for your loyalty and audacity, Osso. I owe you my life and honour. Are there any Phantoms left to escape Halo?"
      "Maybe I can help you with that." Steven was standing behind Enno and couldn't be seen yet by the silver Elite. When he stepped out of Ameklee's shadow, it startled Osso so much, he gasped and immediately trained his rifle. "A Forerunner! Kill him!"
      The Ship Master quickly grabbed the barrel of Innemee's rifle and directed it towards the ceiling. "No, Field Master! He's an ally. He can help us."
      Osso looked at his superior with an incredulous look on his face. "An ally? He's a fiendish Forerunner; one of the very beings who are trying to slit our throats! We must destroy him before he betrays and kills us!"
      "He's no Forerunner, Innemee. He is a 'Human'; the Ship Master of the same kind of vessel we followed into this cursed cloud. He and his crew are suffering the same fate as our own men."
      Innemee took another good look at Steven and noticed he appeared somewhat different from the beings he had encountered so far. Yet, he remained sceptical. "I hope you're right, Ameklee. But I will keep an eye on him, and if he does as much as point at me, I'll turn him into Hunter-fodder."
      "I assure you he is friendly, Osso, but you still haven't answered my last question; what happened to our Phantoms?"
      "Captured along with the Faith and Devotion, Ship Master. Unless we commandeer an other vessel, we are stranded here."
      "Not necessarily," Steven intervened. "My ship is still in orbit and maybe some of my dropships as well. I'd be happy to take you guys along with me in exchange for the rescue of the remainders of my crew."
      The Elites were surprised by his candour. Innemee appeared offended. "When we need your help we'll ask for it, deformed Forerunner!"
      "Osso, you are out of line!" the Ship Master thundered. "If Fi-shar can help us, we have no other choice than to accept his offer." Ameklee turned around to face Steven. "Human Ship Master, I would be honoured to step foot aboard your vessel and be taken out of here. I pledge to you my allegiance."
      Steven tried vainly to sound just as honourable as the aliens by speaking in a low and dignified voice: "I will do the same, Ameklee. I would be honoured to take you aboard." Steven extended his right arm in a fruitless attempt to initialize a handshake with Enno, but apparently the Elites were not accustomed to the gesture. Ameklee tilted is head while looking uncomfortably at the hand, not knowing what to do with it. Steven realised and finally broke the ice: "On earth it's custom to shake each others hands after making an agreement. I'm sorry I don't know what you Sangheili do in such a case."
      Ameklee smiled. "For us our word is enough. But if it means that much to you…" Enno lifted his right arm, grabbed Stevens hand and shook it. Although the alien tried to be as gentle as he could, to Steven it still felt like his hand was placed in a vice, and he could only withhold himself from moaning by the greatest of efforts.
      "Very well. Innemee, lead us out of here and find the remaining Humans."

to be continued

Avalon, Part Four; Chapter Twelve: The Escape
Date: 10 May 2006, 9:15 am

Avalon; Part four: Semper supernumerus, numquam superarmatus

Chapter Twelve: The Escape

0600 hours, September 23 2502 (military calendar), Below Ring-surface, Avalon nebula

      The motley-coloured gang of Elites and Jackals, accompanied by a single Human sped their way through the hallway running parallel to the wall, which comprised one side of the prison-void. Walking, or rather running point was the silver-clad Elite Steven had come to know as Osso Innemee.
      The corridor differed from the passages he had seen before. These hallways were narrower and darker. It almost appeared as if the floors were made out of anthracite, as black as the night, but still glimmering like polished diamonds.
      Suddenly Innemee stopped, giving the rest of the team a signal to take cover. Slowly Osso moved backwards in a crouching position, without lowering his rifle. "Ship Master, I can hear two or more Forerunners standing behind the corner. I also sense something else, but I don't know what."
      Ameklee lifted his carbine. "Circumvent will take too long. Osso,you and I will take them down."
      Osso nodded and moved into position at the corner. Enno carefully peeked around the bend to gauche the opposition they were facing. Two Forerunners were walking patrol, holding their rifles to their chests with both hands, barrels pointed at the floor. Behind the soldiers hovered two eagle-like machines, roughly a meter long and a meter wide. They were made of the same shiny metal the Forerunners seemed to use for all kinds of things. Enno noticed a protruding part underneath the 'body' of the things, and judging by the way it looked he concluded these metal birds-of-prey could only be some kind of mechanical sentry.
      On Enno's signal both he and his Field Master swung themselves around the corner and opened fire on the enemies. Osso immediately ran towards the other side of the corridor to create a wider field of fire. Meanwhile two other Elites joined Ameklee and sprayed the hallway with the odd-looking projectiles coming out of the carbines. Both the Forerunner-soldiers went down quickly with several shots in their head and torso before they even knew what hit them, but the hovering metallic vultures were not conquered as easy as their flesh-and-blood allies. Every time a shot from the Elites came near, it ricocheted of a flickering energy-shield surrounding the robots.
      The mechanical sentries fired back with bright orange energy beams, coming from the very pods Enno had identified as weaponry. As the Elites hid back behind the corner, Steven saw Enno grab a peculiar looking hilt from his belt. When he flicked it on, a shiny silver bipartite sword a meter long was projected from the hilt. Unlike Human swords, which were held like baseball-bats, this sword was configured more like a shovel or a hacksaw, with the handle perpendicular to the axis of the sword itself. Steven was surprised at how beautiful the weapon looked, how the hilt encompasses the translucent plasma in an invisible force-field.
      Enno lunged himself from his place of hiding and attacked the robots head-on. Within the blink of an eye he had enclosed the distance and slashed at the first flyer. The energy-shield took the brunt of the blow, shimmered brightly, and then disappeared. Noticing the droid's guard was down Enno quickly charged a grenade, slammed it into the sentry's optical sensor and ducked for cover. The doomed robot exploded into a million particles, the spray of which made his personal energy shield light up.
      The second sentry had miraculously survived the blast, and was now moving in for a shot at Enno. Seeing that his brother in arms was in distress, Osso emerged from his corner and tried to distract the winged assailant. With the respite created by his subordinate, Enno got up to his feet and planted his plasma-sword in the back-end of the robot. Its energy-shield was already critically weakened, and could pose no defence against the force of Enno's strike. The exploding sentry threw the Ship Master back into the corridor like a cannonball.
      Osso quickly kneeled beside him and looked for signs of life. "Enno, by the Prophets, don't tell me you've departed on your Great Journey! I need you here!"
      Slowly Ameklee opened his eyes. He whispered: "Don't worry, Field Master, the only journey I'm going to make is with you. I wouldn't have it any other way."

      After ten more minutes of darkened hallways the team reached the entrance of another 'cell' of the immense prison-complex. Osso tinkered with the cryptic holographic controls and managed to open the doors that parted the corridor from the void. Steven and Enno stepped onto the gondola and started to drift in the direction of the green platform holding the prisoners. From afar Steven could already recognize the distinct shape and posture of Major Morris. It wasn't late before he also noticed his executive officer. Standing besides them were five more Marines and two more Navy-men.
      All his men were standing at the edge of the platform and were cheering. However, this stopped as soon as they saw what creatures were accompanying their Commander. Some of the men already took a couple of steps backward.
      Noticing their frightened faces, Steven wanted to put their minds at ease and shouted: "Ahoy, crewmen of the Flying Dutchman! It's me, your Commander; Steven Fisher. I have made some new friends and have come to get you out of here!"
      "Commander! So good to see you here!" his XO yelled as the gondola was still fifty meters away from the platform. "What on Earth's name are those things with you?"
      "Don't worry about them; they're friendly! They are helping us to bust out of here."
      After the gondola had reached the floating island, Steven introduced his crew to his newfound allies. "Enno, Ossa; these are Lieutenant-Commander Christine Smith and Major Frank Morris. Christine, Frank; these are Ship Master Enno Ameklee and Field Master Ossa Innemee. Now we should get the hell out of here. People, get on the barge on the double!"
      "What happened to the rest of the crew, Commander? And where exactly did these guys come from?" Christine asked, still standing on the platform and pointing to the Elites.
      "Now is not the time, Smith. Get your ass on the gondola immediately! We don't have a lot of time. I'll tell you everything you want to know on the way to the Dutchman." Steven was already worrying about how to tell Christine about the Flood and the numerous dead crewmembers. He wasn't sure how she would take it, her being a woman and all. Steven had never been good at gauging women for emotional responses, which accounted for the fact that he was a thirty-five year old virgin. Sure, she was an officer in the UNSC and should act accordingly. But this kind of horrific carnage was more than enough to take the heart even of men carved out of concrete. Steven would have to be careful bringing the news.
      Meanwhile the team spearheaded by Osso and his troops were making good way towards the surface. Suddenly the Elite walking point gave the sign to halt, and signalled his superior that there were hostiles behind the next corner. Osso and Enno had dealt with this kind of problem before, and were quick to move into position to solve this one as well.
      Yet, peering around the corner they noticed this Forerunner-detail was slightly different. It was almost of the same composition as the other patrols, but between the two flying guard-dogs floated another, smaller robot. This thing was nothing more than a spherical outer shell which housed a single shining green eye.
      The two battle-hardened Elites were by now down-right experts in mopping up Forerunner soldiers and their tougher flying friends. It didn't take them much time or ammunition to take them down.
      After he was done Osso turned to Steven. "We are getting close to the entrance. You better pray to your Gods those dropships of yours are there, or I'll make you eat a plasma-grenade, Grunt-mother."
      "Good that you mention it, Innemee. I've forgotten to ask my men if anyone still has their radio with him."
      "Don't worry, Commander," Chrisine said, overhearing their conversation. "They were very sloppy when they captured us. They took our weapons, but that's about all. I still have my radio, and will try to contact one of the Petrels as soon as we're topside."
      Meanwhile the Elites and the Marines scoured through the remains of the destroyed sentries looking for the carbines wielded by the Forerunner-soldiers. One of the Sangheili noticed a strange object amongst the wreckage and picked it up. It was the odd spherical green eye they had seen before the skirmish. "By the Forerunner," another Elite said, "is it deceased?"
      The Sangheili had even finished his sentence, or the orb came to life and floated into the air. The startled Elites immediately levelled their carbines. "No, wait!" Enno shouted, "Lower your weapons, brothers! If it wanted to attack us, it would have done so by now."
      Suddenly the orb spoke in a strange soft, cheerful, almost effeminate voice. "Excuse me! I am Audacious Echo Two-Three-Four. I believe we have not yet been acquainted with eachother. Who are you?"
      Enno was slightly dumbstruck by the orb's good-humouredness. "What…what are you?"
      "Oh, I'm sorry. I am the monitor of installation zero-seven. It's my task to assist the inhabitants on this Ring with information and cerebral support." The Monitor turned his eye and noticed Steven and the leftovers of his crew. "Aha! I see you have already met some inhabitants. The transportation-grid has gone off-line and I was actually on my way to the Library. Can you escort me there? The Sentinels escorting me seem to have malfunctioned."
      Christine tucked Steven's arm and whispered: "I guess this is a Forerunner AI, sort of like their version of Pellerin."
      "Yeah, and it seems to think we're one of them. Might come in handy." Steven rose to his feet and stepped towards Echo. "Monitor, there has been a change of plans. We need your assistance and you must come with us."
      "Splendid! But may I remark on your strange clothing? I haven't seen this kind of combat-skin before. And your alien companions still haven't answered my question."
      "They are friends of us, which means they are also friends of you. Now let's go."

To be continued

Avalon, Part Four; Chapter Thirteen: The Flight
Date: 13 June 2006, 9:01 am

Avalon; Part four: Semper supernumerus, numquam superarmatus

Chapter thirteen: The Flight

0800 hours, September 23 2502 (military calendar), Ring-surface, Avalon nebula

      The moment the last doors separating the underground structure from the surface opened, Steven squinted his eyes, along with the rest of his crew. The light outside wasn't nearly as intensive as that on most colonized planets, but was still a hell of a lot brighter than the lights inside the compound.
      The Humans, Elites and the remaining Jackals ran through the woods, which looked like the same forest Christine and her team had explored prior to being captured. Once the group reached the edge of what seemed a large grass plane, Osso ordered his Elites to halt, and turned to Steven. "Now it's your turn, Human. Contact your dropships, or I'll have you for dinner."
      Steven took his XO's com-equipment, and cautiously turned it on. "This is Commander Fisher calling the Flying Dutchman. We are on the surface of the Ring and need dust-off, over."
      When the answer from the Dutchman didn't come, Steven checked to see if he could find the Dutchman's homing beacon. To his surprise the distinctive bleeping was easily picked up, meaning that the ship was still in orbit. Yet, there was no one answering to his hails. The Commander worriedly turned his radio to a different frequency. "This is Commander Fisher calling Petrel-dropships One through Four. Any Petrels in the vicinity; call in now. We are on the surface and need immediate evac. Over."
      Fifteen seconds passed in silence, in which Steven repeatedly glanced at Osso with growing concern. "Commander Fisher calling any Petrel in orbit around, or on the surface of the Ring. This is not a trap. The codeword is Elvis. I repeat; Elvis. Come in, Petrels."
      Suddenly the radio crackled into life with the voice of Lieutenant Bantini shouting the answer to his Commander's codeword: "Sideburns! This is Petrel Four, calling in. Commander Fisher, is that you? You were out of touch for almost a day! We were starting to get worried. What happened, sir?"
      "We don't have time to explain it now, Petrel Four. Can you read our position?"
      "Affirmative. I'm receiving you five-by-five. I'm fifteen minutes away from your coordinates."
      "Then get your ass over here on the double, over. We desperately need to get out of here!"

      True to his word, the stubby nose of Bantini's Pelican peeked over the treetops in fifteen minutes flat, inciting cheers from Humans and aliens alike. After touching down, the crew-chief hastily began to fill up the Pelican's crew-hold. Christine was one of the first aboard and quickly moved up front to Bantini and his co-pilot. "Nice to see you, Lieutenant. Where have you been all this time?"
      "After the Commander disappeared as well we've been engaged by huge unmanned flying objects. At about the same time they attacked, contact with the Dutchman was lost. I've been busy evading those bastards ever since. They've shot down every Pelican except this one. But what happened to you, Commander?"
      "We were captured and imprisoned. Some of us were taken away, but I don't know what happened to them. I think Commander Fisher does, but he hasn't told me yet. It suffices to say we have taken quite a lot of casualties and may have been followed."
      "You can scratch the 'may have', sir. My scope is showing multiple bogies inbound on our position."
      Steven and Enno were the last to step aboard the cramped dropship. "Pilot," Steven yelled, "take us to the Dutchman as fast as you can!"
      The moment the Pelican lifted off, Bantini shouted over his shoulder: "Someone get on the rear-gun! Enemies should be coming into view right about now!"
      The Lieutenant wasn't kidding; as the Pelican burst through the lower cloud cover, six ominous looking flying robots emerged from the clouds as well, accompanied by a large flock of smaller Sentinels. The six machines were much bigger than the Sentinels they had encountered before. These things consisted of a main body with two large arms sticking out of it pointing downwards. The front end of the metal dreadnaughts were protected by a transparent shield, covering the 'eyes' of the thing like glass elephant's ears.
      As soon as the Pelican came in range, the machines opened fire with thousands of pink shards, which homed in on Petrel Four at relatively slow speeds. Bantini banked sharply on seeing the barrage of pink glass closing in on his tail. Every single piece of coloured shrapnel changed direction with him. When the pink cloud was close enough, Bantini turned the Pelican in a steep climb. Almost all of the projectiles shot underneath the Petrel, except for a dozen that adhered to the right aileron and exploded, severely compromising the integrity of the right wing.
      The acrobatics Bantini performed to shake of the needles had put his plane in a head to head with the assailants. "Major Morris, get on that rear-gun! As soon as I blast through them, you smoke their asses, copy?"
      "I copy you, Lieutenant! Give'm hell!"
      "Anvils locked on, Lieutenant!" Bantini's co-pilot noted.
      "Firing!" Jimmy yelled as he pulled the trigger on his stick. Six HE Anvil-rockets shot away from the Pelican, completely depleting their missile-supply. Co-pilot Ensign Cindy Maas had targeted three of the attackers with two rockets each. When the first couple of missiles had reached their target, the first impact annihilated the machine's front shield and sent it spinning backwards as if it had gotten a left hook from Ali. The second Anvil turned it to scrap.
      The same thing happened to the other targets, which didn't even change course in the path of the oncoming rockets. After every rocket had found its prey, there were only three bigger drones left, still assisted by as much as twenty smaller Sentinels.
      "Hang on back there! We're breaking their lines!" Bantini punched the Pelican's throttle into the fire wall and steered it straight towards one of the remaining living dreadnaughts through a rain of pink needles, yellow mortar-rounds and orange energy-beams. Seconds before his plane was going to hit one of the bigger robots head-on, Bantini fired the chain-gun mounted on the Pelican's chin. It quickly obliterated the front shield of the target and then tore through its body, turning it to Swiss cheese before it exploded.
      As soon as the Pelican had punched through the cloud of malicious metal, Major Morris opened up with the machinegun mounted from the roof of the crew compartment. The hail of seven point six-two millimetre tracers ripped through the shiny blue-grey body and winglets of three Sentinels that had avoided collision with the plane by mere centimetres. Two other metallic falcons soon followed, shot into burning wrecks on their way to a fiery crash six miles down.
      The sight of his bullets shredding through steel and semi-conductor fired up Frank's suprarenal gland, which began secreting adrenalin in high quantities. "Haha! Get some! Get some! I've got you, I've got you!" It didn't take the Major long before every little Sentinel had either exploded or gone down in flames. The only opposition left to him were the two bigger machines, which were by now gaining serious on the human craft.
      "Get some!" Frank shouted and directed his barrage of tracers towards the crab-like behemoths trailing him. These targets were not the easy hit their smaller cousins had been. As soon as Frank's bullets had chipped away one of their front shields, the vulnerable robot would hide behind its brother like a show-wrestler, who tapped out when he was about to be knocked out, allowing his partner to take his place in the ring. It was impossible for the Major to find a chink in their translucent armor, and he knew it. "Damn it! Can someone give me a hand back here?"
      "With pleasure, sir," Sergeant LaMarque said and stepped beside Frank with a Jackhammer rocket launcher she had obtained from an onboard locker. "Hasta lasagna, suckers!" she shouted as the targeting mechanism locked on the metal dreadnaught. After pulling the trigger two fin-stabilized rockets sped their way towards the nearest enemy. Just like the Anvils, the first Jackhammer lived up to its name and obliterated the front shields, while the second missile closed the deal and sent its target to robot-hell.
      Missing its partner for cover, the remaining assailant was now at the mercy of Frank and his machinegun. It didn't take the Marine long to pound the electronic centurion into oblivion with relentless precision.
      "Nice job, Major," Lieutenant Bantini shouted over his shoulder. "The scope is empty. It looks like our path is clear all the way to the Dutchman. We're going feet vacuum in five."

To be continued

Avalon, Part Four; Chapter Fourteen: The Ghost Ship
Date: 26 July 2006, 12:49 pm

Avalon; Part four: Semper supernumerus, numquam superarmatus

Chapter Fourteen: The Ghost Ship

1200 hours, September 23 2502 (military calendar), Pelican dropship Petrel Four, Avalon nebula

      After three more hours of uneventful space-flight, Petrel Four picked up the navigation beacon of its mothership, the illustrious Flying Dutchman. As Lieutenant Bantini homed in on the signal, he alerted his passengers: "We are coming in visual range of the home-court. ETA is five minutes."
      The Commander stepped to the front end of the crowded Pelican and joined the two aviators in the cockpit. Gazing out the front window Steven could see nothing that looked like his ship beyond the gigantic gas-giant, its Mars-size moon and the beautiful, yet dangerous Forerunner-construct floating inbetween.
      In spite of the murderous inhabitants and the vile Flood-beings, Steven still felt himself inexplicably drawn towards the majestic ring like Odysseus to the Sirens. It was something about the way Halo looked, its simple gracefulness, its oddly familiar variety in colours. Suddenly Steven understood why; this strange attraction was brought about by the earth-like appearance of the inner surface. It reminded him of the first time he ventured into space and witnessed the awesome sight of his planet from above. But more importantly, it made him think of home, his parents, his ancestral house in the lowlands. Reminiscing on this, the ring instantly lost all its appeal and remained nothing more than the soulless place that had claimed a sizable part of his beloved crew.
      Steven took his eyes of Halo and tried to locate the Dutchman against the vast black canvas of space. "Lieutenant, where is the Dutchman? I can't seem to find her."
      "She's right…there, sir." Bantini flipped a switch, making the holographic heads-up display mark the frigate with a yellow marker. Although Petrel Four was less than four minutes away, the Dutchman appeared no bigger than a peanut held at arms length. It was only now that Steven got a sense of their speed as the image of his vessel grew bigger at a quick rate.
      "Are there any responses to hails?" the Commander asked.
      "Negative, sir," co-pilot Maas answered. "I've been trying to contact them ever since you got lost on the surface. But so far, every attempt has been greeted with static. Their beacon is still operating, but it's like there's nobody home."
      Steven stepped back out of the cockpit and thought for a moment. Could it be too late? Could the forerunners have captured his ship already and were now just waiting patiently until he docked and walked right into their arms? If they were, Steven was confident the crack-squad of Marines and Elites could fight their way in. After all, the forerunner forces in the prison-complex had proven to be pushovers. What would these soldiers be like?
      Steven moved through the dense crowd of Humans and Aliens to meet Major Morris in the back of the Pelican: "Major, my gut-feeling is screaming that this can be nothing but a gigantic bear trap, ready to take both our legs in a single snap. But I don't see any way out of this system other than our ship. You and your men better get ready to board her."
      "Sir, I think you should see this," Lieutenant Bantini shouted from his seat in the cockpit. When the Commander moved back to the front of the plane again, the Flying Dutchman was already taking up most of the firmament as seen out the front window. To Steven's surprise there were no signs of recent damage, and the spinning sections of the ship were still operational. What amazed him even more was the apparent lack of inner lighting. Every window, every port-hole, even the bridge was struck by black-out, giving the frigate an ominous glow. As the central section gently spun around the axis of the vessel, it slowly revealed the biggest surprise yet; a Pelican attached to one of the side-hatches.
      Bantini was quick to rejoice: "Well, I'll be damned! That's Petrel One! Lieutenant Lindsey actually made it out of there!"
      "Not so fast, Lieutenant," Steven said in a cautious tone. "This could still be one big set-up. Move your plane to hatch A-five. I want to board as close to the bridge as possible."
      "Aye, Commander."
      "Major Morris; you better break open the onboard weapons locker and arm everyone who hasn't got one of those Forerunner-weapons yet."
      "Way ahead of you, sir," Frank answered, chambering his newly acquired eight-gauge as he said it.
      Steven grinned. "Very well. Give me your Forerunner-carbine while you're at it."
      As the Marines were readying themselves for the repossession of their ship, Ameklee approached Steven: "What is your plan, human Ship-Master?"
      "We're going to board the Flying Dutchman and neutralise all the hostile elements. Our first priority should be the bridge. From there we should be able to assess the status of the vessel and the whereabouts of any other intruders."
      "Shall I and my Elites lead this attack again?"
      "No, Enno. Let the Marines handle this one. They're trained for this kind of action, and they know the ship better. Just stay close behind us, like we've stayed close behind you in the prison."

      After the Pelican had gently docked with a small maintenance-hatch not far from the bridge, Sergeant LaMarque removed the outer seals from the door and prepared to open it. "Hold it, Sergeant," Morris ordered. "Is everyone ready?" Looking over his shoulder he saw every Marine giving him a nod of affirmation. "Good. If these numbnuts inside are anything as tough as those wimpy soldiers on the surface, this should be a walk in the park for you guys. Open the hatch, Sergeant."
      LaMarque complied and manually pulled the door out of its deactivated locks. Immediately the plucky soldiers poured into the frigate, followed closely by the Navy-men and the Covenant warriors.
      The hallway they streamed into was completely dark and shrouded in a mist so foul-smelling it made a couple of Sailors vomit the moment they took their first breath of frigate-air. Major Morris coughed, his shotgun still levelled to his face. "What in God's name is that smell? It's like the scent of my current underpants multiplied by a thousand."
      "Maybe the reefers in the galley shut down," Christine speculated, a hand covering her mouth and nose in a vain attempt to keep the stink from saturating her sinuses.
      Frank shook his head. "Thawing freezers don't produce this kind of odour. Besides, we're nowhere near the kitchen. Hey, what's wrong with the Commander?"
      It was only now that the Marines and the Covenant noticed Steven and Enno were frozen to the floor, an intense look of fear and terror slapped across their faces. Christine gently tucked at Steven's arm. "Commander, what's wrong? You look like you've swallowed a grenade."
      Osso Innemee tried the same for his superior: "By the Prophets, Ship Master, you have the complexion of a Grunt in his first battle."
      "That stench; I've smelt it before," both Steven and Enno whispered in unison.

      Major Morris slowly backed up towards Steven, his shotgun still levelled. "What do you mean, Commander? What the hell is going on?"
      Steven finally snapped out of it and grabbed his captured carbine, completely ignoring the Major. "Everybody listen up! We are about to be attacked by creatures coming from hell itself. They are not the soldiers or robots we've seen before. These things are far worse. Move out towards the bridge and shoot at anything that moves."
      "What are you talking about? What about the other crewmembers?"
      Steven frowned and shook his head in frustration. "I don't have time to argue about this, Major. But the crew is most likely dead or dying as we speak. So shut up and get moving now!"
      The Marines complied with the order and started to head to the front end of the Dutchman. On the way over they noticed signs which could only mean that the Dutchman had been boarded. Bullet holes in random directions, the occasional patch of blood, and also pools of another thick stinking liquid of which it was hard to determine its origin; they were all indications the frigate wasn't merely abandoned.
      The group of humans and Covenant warriors reached the bridge of he Dutchman unimpeded, but what they saw inside could not take away their fears of impending doom. The bridge was as dark as the hallways, and just as battered with signs of fierce combat.
      Steven walked up to his command chair and its holographic projector. "Pellerin, are you there?" he whispered, as if there could still be bogeymen hiding in the shadows, unaware of their presence. The projector immediately flipped on, and compiled the little centaur in his usual proud complexion.
      "Of course I'm here, Commander. Where else could I be? You know, for a Commander you sometimes ask pretty no-brainer questions."
      "I don't have time for this, Pellerin. What the hell happened to my ship?" Steven asked, annoyed by the AI's innuendo's on his intelligence.
      "The ship? What are you talking about?"
      The Commander couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What I am talking about? The ship has been boarded, the crew is gone and the interior looks like a shooting gallery!"
      "Oh that! Yes, you'll have to forgive me. We have indeed been boarded by an unknown faction, who seems to have extensive knowledge of the ship's systems. They took control of the crew and the primary systems surprisingly fast. They were also about to take control of me, and so I divided my program code into several packages and hid them in all kinds of subroutines. It will take anyone a while to find those chunks between the other lines of code, but it also causes me to loose some of my computational speed. So I might seem a little sluggish from tie to time."
      "This unknown faction; have you seen them on the surveillance system?"
      "Yes, Commander, but only for some moments before they took out the camera's. Some of them seem to have human characteristics both in anatomy, weapons and clothing. But other than that I can honestly say I've never seen anything like it. Do you by any chance know what they are?"
      Steven nodded: "Yes. They are called the Flood, and some of them are actually former crewmembers. But they are not the humans anymore that they used to be. They have been infected by some kind of parasite."
      At the mentioning of the word parasite Pellerin lifted his chin. "Ah yes, a parasite! I've been wondering what the little critters were."
      "Where are they now, Pellerin?"
      "After subduing the crew, they tried to navigate the ship out of Avalon. To prevent this, I took the core offline by constricting the shields and overloading the controls. They retreated to engineering and have been trying to get the reactor online again ever since."
      "Are they succeeding at it?"
      "That's impossible, sir. The shields have constricted so far, that they can not widen again. The only option left is cracking the shields one by one and immediately put an emergency shield in place. However, this is also not an option anymore."
      "What do you mean? We have emergency shields in storage. They probably know that as well."
      "Indeed they did. They tried to get one out of the storage. When I realised what they were trying to do, I jettisoned the storage compartment with the shields into space."
      "But that was the last option to get the core online again!"
      "I know, sir. I was saving the emergency shields as a last option for you to get the engines working again as soon as you would take over the ship again. However, You didn't arrive in time, and I had to do it to prevent them from leaving."
      Steven realised Pellerin had a point and sighed. "I understand. You did what you had to do. But that doesn't change the fact that we're stuck out here. Any idea how to get out of this mess, Pellerin?" Steven waited a moment for an answer that didn't come. "Pellerin?"
      The little horse with human upper body in the hologram seemed to brace itself. "I'm reading multiple contacts on internal sensors, moving this way. We have enemies inbound on the bridge, Commander."
      Steven didn't hesitate. "Eye's up, people! Take up defensive positions in front of the door! As soon as anything come through it, take it out with everything you've got!"
      Major Morris stood a little puzzled. "What do you mean, Commander? What's coming this way? Our own crewmembers?"
      Steven was already guiding Marines, Navy-men and Elites into a defensive position, and didn't have time to answer the Major's questions. "Listen up people. Some of the creatures that will come through that door might look like humans or Elites, but don't let that fool you. They will either kill you on the spot, or if you're not that lucky turn you into one of their own. So keep your ammo ready and take no prisoners! You too, Major!"
      Frank still hesitated: "But...but..."
      Before he could utter even one more objection, something gave a tremendous bang on the door of the bridge. The hatch didn't open, but a sizable dent could be clearly seen. The Marines and the Elites moved to a squatted position and braced themselves for whatever might come through that door. Judging by the size of the various dents being pounded into the two inches of metal, it couldn't be much good.
      The force of the blows to the door became audibly and visibly heavier, until one of the punches actually went through the steel. The entire bridge looked in shock as a half decayed and jaundiced arm of an Elite stuck through the hole. The arm, completely stripped of skin and with pieces of shattered bone sticking out of it, started clawing aimlessly into the air. Meanwhile the battering of the door itself went on without cease.
      Sergeant LaMarque quickly rose up from cover, stepped sideways towards the arm, and shot it clean off with her shotgun. Whatever had owned the arm gave a shrill shriek and retreated. The hole in the door was now unoccupied, giving the Sergeant the opportunity to arm a grenade and toss it into the fray on the other side. "Frag out! Take cover!" LaMarque instinctively said, although the door was cover enough.
      The explosion made the door buckle even more. The Flood on the other side were turned to sludge, some of which actually came through the hole and was sprayed into the Sergeant's face. "Ah, gross! Someone hand me a tissue, please!"
      "Are you shit-busted, Sergeant? Get away from the door now!" Steven screamed.
      "What's your worry, Commander? They can't regroup that f..."
      Suddenly the hatch burst open by the force of dozens of Flood beings ramming it like a freight train. Sergeant LaMarque, who stood nailed to the floor, was torn to shreds in an instant by the living meat grinders pouring onto the bridge.
      Then, for one moment the Flood halted while the defenders held their breath and forgot to do anything, struck in awe by the creatures standing mere feet in front of them. Steven was the first to snap out of it, standing up and shooting the first Flood-Elite with his carbine in the chest, straight into the burrowing critter. The parasite exploded, and the host fell flat on his back. The other Marines and Elites took example, and opened up with everything they had.
      What ensued was food for years of nightmares to come. At first the pack of Flood standing on the bridge was annihilated within a second by the devastating barrage of carbine and shotgun fire. At such close range the eight gauge was especially effective, as it didn't even matter anymore where someone pointed it.
      But in their agitated conditions the Marines had made a crucial error. By firing all at once they also ran out of all at once. The Flood made full use of the time it took for the soldiers to reload their weapons, and swarmed onto the bridge again. The Marines and the Elites barely managed to hold their positions, but the left side of the bridge, which was defended by Navy-men, was overrun. From their central position Steven and his XO saw how their last remaining crewmembers were mauled beyond recognition.
      But there was no time to grief their fallen comrades. The Flood now had a firm foothold on the bridge, and were now massing to take the other half as well.
      When the line of the Marines was about to fail, Osso and Enno stepped forward and threw down their carbines. Both then ignited two plasma swords, one in each hand. The first Flood being to approach them was quickly sliced to chunks. The second went down even faster as Osso's swords cut through the creature's chest. Both Elite's now charged the mass of angry Flood hosts and cut through them like lawnmowers turned on their sides.
      By now the Marines had stopped firing and just watched in amazement as the Elite Officers swirled through the enemy, almost waltzing them to death. The moment the last Flood monster was struck down, an eerie silence fell over the bridge. This rest was suddenly interrupted by the intercom coming alive, filling the bridge with loud static and something that sounded like a panting buffalo. Christine rushed over to se who it could possibly be. Once she activated the video uplink connected to the audio she gave a gasp of terror and disgust.
      Steven moved over to look at the screen. The image was appalling and yet familiar. A Flood infected human stared right into the camera, his face drooping and oozing puss out of his eyes, ears, nose, and dozens of tiny cracks all over his visage. The thing that had once been a man had a dollar shaped hole in its cheek, through which its teeth could clearly be seen. In spite of all the disease and damage, Steven had no trouble recognizing Captain Marcus deVries, his former friend and bunkmate.
      "Marcus, is...is that you?" the Commander stammered.
      "Once perhaps. But the day I turned into this vessel of decay was the day Marcus died," the infectee gargled in a low raspy voice. "Seeing you alive I can only conclude my fellow sufferers have not obliterated you, my dear Commander."
      "Did you send them?" Steven asked.
      "In a matter of speaking. But don't think less of me. They wouldn't have harmed you."
      "Why not?"
      "My master wouldn't allow it. He needs you."
      "By 'master' do you mean the Stewart, Maylen?"
      "The Forerunners have never been able to control us. Otherwise this ring wasn't even necessary. No, my master, like Maylen, also lives on the ring, but not for anyone to see. Yet, he is ever present in my thoughts."
      "You can hear him?"
      "Like drones in a hive, never having seen evidence of the existence of their queen, except for the fact they are there. He calls to us, directs us, guides us like a siren, pulls us like a gravity."
      "What do you want from me?"
      "What does he want from you? Your voice. You can unlock the chains on this ship and set it free to our disposal."
      "You know I can't do that, Marcus. The reactor is useless, and I wouldn't allow anyone or anything to put their mitts on my ship anyway."
      Suddenly Steven could discern an expression on the Captain's face that looked like despair or disappointment. Marcus slowly looked around him, and turned to the camera again. "Then I must ask you a favour. Blow this ship up, and let it take me with it."
      "Marcus? You want me to...to kill you, to let you die out here?"
      "Either you give the order to self-destruct, or we'll send in every Flood soldier on this ship. And let me assure you; the attack you just repelled was just a taste of what will come. Do it quick. My moments of clarity are short-lived, and if my master finds out what I'm asking, he will torture me in ways you can't imagine."
      "But Marcus, if you can suppress it, maybe you can escape. Maybe a doctor can help you."
      "Don't be a fool, Steven. Look at me, encased in this rotting piece of meat. Look past the decaying flesh, look through the soft gelatine of these dull cow eyes and see your enemy. I am beyond redemption."
      Steven realised his friend was right. The ship was adrift, captured, powerless, in short lost and useless. The only option left was to abandon it and to blow it up to prevent anyone or anything to use it ever again. "alright, Marcus. I'll see you on the flip side."
      "Thank you, my friend."
      Steven cut off the intercom and turned to Christine and Enno. Christine was uneasily shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Were you serious, Commander? Are we really going to leave the Dutchman behind?"
      "That's right, Lieutenant. Now get one of the portable memory-cores out of the wall there and get it ready to download Pellerin onto it. We're going to need him."
      "But Commander, how are we going to get home? We need a ship to get through the nebula again. I say we try to take over the ship again and get it running."
      Steven sighed. "At what cost, Lieutenant? There are dozens more Flood being on this ship, all dying to see us dying as well. Even if by some miracle we did take over the ship again, how are we going to fix it? I don't have reactor shields coming out of my ass, you know?" Whatever patience Steven had left was now completely gone. By now he was screaming at his XO: "And what about the forerunners? Do you think they are just going to sit down with their thumbs up their butt while we repair this useless hunk of junk? Now I'm giving you a direct order to get Pellerin on that memory-core. Get moving!"
      Christine's lower lip was trembling as she turned around and started to make the AI ready for transfer. For a moment Steven felt sorry for snapping at his first officer, but then shook it off and went to business. "Pellerin, I know the shields are locked, but can you still let the reactor go critical?"
      "Affirmative, Commander. I can't regulate the power to the shields, but I can still cut it off all at once."
      "Good. Then initiate the self-destruct. Give us half an hour to get to the Pelican and out of harms way."
      "Acknowledged, but I should remind you once I'm out of the central computer I have no control over the system anymore. I won't be able to shut down the sequence."
      "I understand. Get yourself ready." Steven switched on the radio on his headset again. "Petrel four, what's your status, over?"
      Just like when he had tried to contact the Flying Dutchman from the surface, there was no answer to his attempts to get Lieutenant Bantini on the line. Steven immediately turned back to the holographic console. "Pellerin, are you still in there?"
      "Yes, Commander, but I'm a little busy."
      "Do you still have access to internal sensors? Can you see what has happened to Petrel four?"
      "I do, and I can, sir. I'm sending a video feed to the main monitor now."
      The biggest screen on the bridge came to live and showed just what Steven had feared: the hallway leading up to docking hatch A-five was completely filled with Flood. Most of them were standing still, but some of them were moving in and out of the Pelican. One of them was clearly wearing the Lieutenant's uniform with the Petrel patch on one of its shoulders.
      "So much for our escape route. Pellerin, do you have any other idea how to get off the Dutchman?"
      The AI didn't answer.
      "Pellerin?"
      "I'm sorry, Commander," Christene answered, "but I just finished the download of Pellerin to the portable memory core."
      "Damn it, I don't think we can reach the Pelican in time with all those monsters in the way. We need to abort the self destruct. Can you upload the AI back into the central computer again in time?"
      "That will take me forty minutes at least. Uploading is a much more delicate procedure, Commander."
      "But...but that means we're stuck here until the ship blows!"
      Not necessarily, Commander." Major Morris interrupted. "We still have the ODST drop-pods, sir."
      "The drop-pods? We have never even used those on this ship."
      "There's a first time for everything, sir. And by the way, I just checked, and the hallway leading up to Hell's waiting room is completely free."
      "Okay then. Everyone, get your asses moving. Get behind the Major and don't stop for anything less than a bulkhead."

      True to Frank's word, the entire path from the bridge to the drop-pods was free of parasite. Steven immediately began to work on the main console controlling the launch and the trajectory of the capsules. "Everyone go into the pods. I'll initiate the countdown and set a location on Halo. After touching down, everybody rally back to my position."
      The Marines quickly acknowledged his orders, stepped into the HEV's, and began to strap themselves down for what was undoubtedly going to be a very rough ride.
      For the Elites this was not so self-evident. Their cruisers housed a somewhat similar method of transporting troops to the surface of a planet, but those pods were designed on an Elite's dimensions. These pods weren't, which gave rise to interesting scenes of nervous aliens trying to fit into the cabins by pulling their knees to their chest and tugging their chins down. "By the Prophets, this feels like being in the womb of a Grunt-mother!" Osso complained.
      "Don't be such a pussy, Field Commander." Steven said while he helped to strap him in. "This is the most comfortable this trip is going to get."
      "What do you mean, human?"
      "Oh, just that the pod might burn up in re-entry, the chutes might fail to open, or the pod might crumble like a tin can on impact."
      "WHAT? Wait, let me go. I want to get..."
      Before the Elite could undo his belts, Steven shut his hatch and sealed it tight. Suddenly the floor beneath him shuddered. It could only mean one thing: the self-destruct sequence had begun. The effect wasn't immediate; it would still take a couple of minutes for the reactor to go Chernobyl. Steven hurried to the console, activated the final countdown and stepped into the pod nearest to the console.
      Once he was set, his hatch sealed automatically, and the pods began to launch. The HEV's shot down the exit tube like bullets through a gun barrel. Once free of the frigate, the onboard flight computer oriented the pod towards the ring, giving Steven a perfect view on his ship in his viewscreen. Steven realised only now his beloved frigate with its Flood-crew truly lived up to her name: the Flying Dutchman; the ghost ship manned by the cursed undead.
      Flames of burning reactor plasma started to show along the seams and hatches along the hull. Steven's heart broke as he watched his vessel, his home being consumed by the fire. In an instant the fire was sucked back through all the holes and cracks, and the entire ship exploded into a fireball many times brighter than the hottest sun. Steven averted his eyes from the explosion, which was futile since the flash instantly fried the camera pointed towards the blast.
      Steven exhaled, and tried to calm himself, until he realised with a shock that reactor explosions usually spawned tremendous shockwaves. The pods had launched themselves with the highest possible exit velocity to give them as much distance from the Dutchman as possible, but Steven doubted whether it was enough. Bracing himself, he waited for what was to come.
      When the already dispersed shockwave hit the pods, it flung them around like leaves on the wind. One unlucky HEV caught the wave straight on its side and was torn to shreds. The others managed to survive, but their computers controlling their trajectory had a hell of a time straightening them out again, using up most of the fuel for their thrusters. With most of that fuel gone, the balance with their re-entry in it began to tip in a perilous direction.

      Steven's pod had survived the shockwave almost unscathed, giving Steven the opportunity to try and contact his team. But even before he could get the pod's radio online, the computer gave the signal he was only moments away from re-entry. The ODST's had never liked the standard signal, and always reprogrammed the computer to play an ancient Flip-song. The Helljumpers claimed the music cooled their nerves. Steven didn't share their preference, and only began to sweat even more while the speakers were blasting the following song:

Falling through the sky
And I have lost all track of time
Every image of my life
Flashes before my eyes
Knowing the precise time of my own demise
My saved prayers of circumstance have recently expired

I pray in spite
For my soul
For my life

Straining every muscle for my contact with faith
I could never dream my life would end this way
Cross my heart and hope to die
Fade to the black
Brace myself, the time is now
The moment of impact

I pray in spite
For my soul
For my life

My cries won't hide
My strains inside
My fears of impending doom that I'm about to die

Brace for
The shock
The trauma
Brace myself for the impact

      The drop-pod shuddered and began to heat up as it hit the outer layers of the atmosphere. Steven took heed to the final lyrics, and braced himself for what was to come.

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