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Between the Hammer and Anvil by Turpertrator
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Between the Hammer and Anvil: Prologue
Date: 28 July 2006, 3:27 am
Between the Hammer and Anvil
Prologue: Skirmishes and Consequences
"History is not so full of happy endings as it is of struggle and pain. But history is full of people that only want to hear happy endings. Create a happy ending, even an impossible one, and passionately offer it to the citizens of Asia. They are tired of their struggle for their hollow hopes; they are weary of their meaningless lives. Many will sell their souls to chase the dream you create for them. This is the power you have; use it for the good of the Emperor."
- Marshal Onitumi Hasegawa to the United Asia Ministry of Information and Public Enlightenment staff, undated memo
"Emperor Viktor Turpolev is like one of the Great Khans, he is a Napoleon of the East, a new Ivan the Great, like Nebuchadnezzar of old. He is the leader of a new Golden Horde and a new golden era!"
- "Proclamation of Viktor Turpolev as Knyaz and Father of the United Asia" AsiaNet report, "Emperor's Day" June 1, 2537
21:07 November 2, 2542. UEC Temporary Defense Post "Asia Redoubt4"
"I heard the Covenant glassed Joslin Prime," said the melancholy Second Lieutenant. "It's only a matter of time before they start finding the Inner Colonies." He hung his head, staring pathetically into his glass that sat on the one table in the small trailer.
United Earth Corps Captain Steve Maverick had been enjoying his drink in the temporary officer's mess before his favorite Lieutenant had to go and ruin the mood. The Captain was concerned all this doom and gloom was going to rub off on the men, if it had not already. Marines can be such a superstitious bunch.
The Lieutenant continued, "Why can't Turpolev see that he is condemning all of humanity by continuing to lead this divisive war against the UNSC? Even with all of Asia behind him, he knows he can't win against the Corps, let alone the Covenant."
The Captain sighed; talking politics with junior officers was always a bad idea. He really did not want this conversation. "As if every citizen of Asia likes those traitors in Bishkek."
"No," the Lieutenant answered, "but how do you fight against a propaganda machine like what Marshal Hasegawa has put together? Nine billion people and they all had to learn Unified Chinese just to get food rations. If he had AsiaNet say 'the sky is purple,' everyone in Asia would agree. The Clowns keep destroying the rebel armies, but who are they? And nobody is joining the Blue Faction or starting a civil war to overthrow Turpolev."
Maverick had heard the rumors about some "clown" group destroying bases and entire armies sent out to hunt them down, but he did not know how much to believe. The Blue Faction were supposed to be an army of freedom fighters that never joined up with the wannabe Asian empire. Of course, everyone had an opinion about what they really were and who they were loyal to. "The Blue Faction or whatever are not UNSC ..." The Lieutenant grimaced at him. "But even if they are, we can't talk about it. You know the protocols. Besides, there are other groups that want reunification."
The Lieutenant was incredulous, "What, like those protestors in Johor? They were all ..." The Captain heard a slap sound, and the junior officer slumped in his chair. The steward behind the bar, the only other soul in the room, hit the floor, hard. The Lieutenant's sickening death rattle came through parted lips with his eyes still wide open.
Capt. Maverick dove to the floor and lay prone. Even as he tried to call his other Lieutenant on the COM, he looked up at the walls of the temporary building. Two holes had penetrated the unarmored structure. His eyes were wide in amazement. How could any blind sniper could hit his men with such accuracy? The walls were insulated against heat and anything but transparent, yet both of the men had been killed. A disturbing thought moved in and started bullying out everything else, Why didn't they take a shot at me?
Maverick was barely surprised that he could raise no response; the COM was jammed. But someone had gotten to the battle stations alarm, and it started blaring throughout the fortified outpost and - Maverick knew - several clicks away at division HQ. Several explosions in rapid succession detonated somewhere nearby. Grenades? Rockets? The Captain was not sure; this was nothing like the battle simulations. He started belly crawling towards the door when it swung open and in crawled First Sergeant Scott Gammel. "It's good to see you, sir," Gammel said with obvious relief. "We're getting hit bad."
21:09 November 2, 2542. United Asia Uprising East Command, somewhere under Beijing
The speaker wore a long lab coat, and behind him was a huge screen, split down the middle to display a bird's eye view of two different skirmishes. "On the right we have a full company of four platoons under the command of Captain Kalo Kamija, attacking the UNSC defense post near Old Singapore. On the left is a single platoon under the command of Sokor, a first generation InfComAI. Sokor is attacking the 'border' post near Gaza."
The scientist continued, "United Asia Intelligence services have told us both outposts are defended by UNSC garrisons of company strength, which is two platoons per company, with a highly-mobile force of division strength in reserve. Both Kamija and Sokor were ordered to capture or kill the UNSC outpost commander and withdraw before the enemy reserves could be brought up."
Dr. Cho looked out at his audience of generals and commanders with a feeling of deep satisfaction. He had been working for this day for twenty years, since before the Uprising had been anything but an urgent dream. He reveled that he was about to reveal how the war against the corruption of the United Nations Space Command was going to be won. Cho nodded toward General Varnashev, the head of Uprising Military Intelligence. "Tell us about the makeup of our armed forces and why AI infantry commanders are needed."
Expecting the queue, Varnashev stood and addressed the three hundred commanders assembled in the secret underground auditorium. "We have 380 million men in our standing forces, with another billion that could be conscripted. However, we have less than two million line and command officers. Many divisions are commanded by Captains, companies by Lieutenants, entire platoons by Kaprals." He did not need to remind these commanders about the epidemic of insubordination that had already led to mass desertions and the fragging of unpopular commanders. "Using InfComs, we will be able to enforce discipline, overcome our lack of command experience in the field and overwhelm any force the UNSC dares send against us."
Cho nodded in appreciation to the General and continued, "We will force the UNSC to give us peace because they cannot defeat us. We will then take our stand with the corrupters against the alien Covenant - when all men know that to destroy us will be to destroy humanity."
Small arms fire and small explosions continued to pound out on both screens. The green markers identifying "friendlies" showed that large numbers of Captain Kamija's men were bunched together as they used weak cover to approach their target. On the left screen, there were less markers, they were more spread apart, and red markers identified enemy targets.
21:15 November 2, 2542. Aboard the Frigate Maredrom in synchronous orbit above Xianggang, Earth.
"Sir, why does the UNSC allow the rebellion to open hostilities like this without terminating the armistice?" asked the intelligence officer-in-training. The newly commissioned Lieutenant did not want to be presumptious, but the Colonel had made it clear he was to speak freely inside their "command pod" on board this stealthy frigate.
Colonel Edgar turned to the Lieutenant, "It's all about perception, son. The rebellion has to have complete control of Asia by 2545, or the armistice is forfeit. As long as our Blue Faction commandos claim to be against the rebellion but unaffiliated with the UNSC, the boys in Bishkek can pretend to be Blue Faction themselves and test our strength by attacking UNSC outposts."
"But that traitor Turpolev knows who the Blue Faction is loyal to ..." the Lieutenant began.
The senior intelligence officer interrupted. "Of course they do, just like we know these poor fellows attacking Sing and Gaza are really working for Turpolev and that bastard Hasegawa. But I'd bet you your salary that those troopers are wearing little Blue Faction insignia on their uniforms. It's all about perception. But don't worry about this, it will be over soon enough. Admiral Johnson is sending in some special reinforcements."
21:17 November 2, 2542. Near New Shyrchern (Singapore)
The defenders were still putting up a fight, but the battle was over. Captain Kamija was pleased that his tactics had worked so well against an entrenched enemy. The frontal assault had cost him over half of his men, but the charge had broken the resolve of the UNSC garrison - who valued their own lives more than defending their little outpost. The enemy Captain was shackled and hooded and being herded towards the rendezvous point.
Kamija's thoughts were on the awards he would be receiving for this success, even as his command staff and the prisoner made their way with him to their transports. One good thing about an army that was desperate for experienced soldiers was that any successful action was sure to earn accolades. After he reviewed the mission he would be recommending promotions for all of his men that had served well: Kapral for every enlisted man, Sergeant Fourth Class for every enlisted man that had a confirmed kill, Private First Class for the conscripts. He wondered if he would make Major, perhaps be given a special combat action ribbon.
Kamija's self-congratulation was abruptly interrupted by the sound of a violent sizzling in the sky above. "HEVs, sir" his COM tech said, barely controlling his shaking voice.
A pang of fear in the pit of Captain Kamija's stomach made his entire body tremble: one squad of Orbital Drop Shock Troopers could probably eliminate his entire surviving force. The hooded prisoner started to snicker until one of the guards smashed a rifle butt into his side. Kamija counted six burning points of light falling rapidly to somewhere between his position and their fallback point. The Captain began barking orders to change tactics, demanding the troops to his rear to disengage and attack their new target.
Six exo-atmospheric landing pods thudded into the earth, and six "cockpit" hatches were blown off with thundering explosions.
Guided by an invisible will, three Uprising snipers turned, sighted in, and pulled their triggers. They paused, aimed at newly assigned targets, and fired again.
Uprising East Command
There was a collective gasp in the auditorium. Colonel Charles knew that most of the commanders around him had been officers of the UNSC like he had once been, before their rebellion in league with Emperor Turpolev. The Colonel knew they had never seen ODSTs gunned down like this without so much as a fight. Everyone seemed to be smiling, there was a murmur of a cheer. These AIs would turn the tide of war.
The scientist, Cho, was on his feet again and was clearly pleased with this stunning success. "A squad of hydroponics farmers and factory laborers can defeat the UNSC's most highly trained solders!" He said something about how Sokor had only been training with these conscripts for two weeks and Kamija had been training for months, but Charles was not really listening. He was still pondering his nagging question. What if Cho is right about fighting with the UNSC against the Covenant?
"Polkovnik Charles, what is your question?" the doctor asked with respect. Colonel Charles had never quite understood that if Unified Chinese was the official language of United Asia, why most military ranks were still in English or ancient Russian.
The senior soldier asked about only part of what he was thinking; but the elated doctor said more than he should have. "In my lab, I have developed a new class of rampancy-resistant AIs using only a seventh of a standard UNSC AI core. My mini-cores can be produced at drastically reduced cost and duplicated quickly. I will train my staff how to go into full production as soon as I return. Once other factories are developed, we will be able to produce at least 20 cores per day per factory."
If the rumor was true that ONI had a mole embedded within the Uprising command structure, they could deduce far too much from the scientist's brief statement. The Colonel would be sure to report this breach of security to Marshal Hasegawa. After all, Charles happened to know that ONI had an informant in this very auditorium.
As the doctor continued with his dog and pony show, Charles observed the human Captain on the right hand screen trying to rally his men. The incursion of the UNSC special forces had cut off his withdrawal, and most of his forces would still be at least half a kilometer behind him by the time the ODSTs were on him. Charles knew that they were near already, advancing in an inverted wedge, even though no one could see them in their dark, cooled, armored jumpsuits.
In the pause before the hammer fell on that very lonely group of men, Charles' thoughts wandered to his first drop with the "Death Comets." The rush sweeping over you as the pod launches, the heat . . . the terrible heat hitting atmo, the hard landing, the killing . . . the massacre of the rebels . . . But Charles could not even remember what world that had been. Now I'm a rebel myself . . . He forced himself into the present to avoid his tortured thoughts.
A tactician his entire adult life, the Colonel reviewed Kamija's position and options. There was no force with which to envelope the Special Forces in a pincer movement. Kamija had the men to envelope the ODSTs, but not the position. Rather, the captain was about to become the salient, encircled and destroyed. Do the ODSTs know that we have captured the base commander?
Somewhere near New Shyrchern
When your enemy has superiority of arms, Kamija remembered his instructor saying, you must change the situation to level the fight or tip it in your favor. Level was actually the problem, Kamija thought. He wished the ground was more hilly.
It was ironic, really. The UNSC had trained Kamija for years before he willing joined the Uprising, obtaining the commission he had deserved for so very long. Now he was using the UNSC's own tactics against them, or at least trying to. He was still a long way from home, and the strongest enemies he had ever faced were seeking him to destroy him. He still had to either kill or evade them just to see his next sunrise.
His command staff was laying down flat behind the shallowest of hills, desperately waiting for the rest of the company to arrive. Kamija held his sidearm against the Earth Corps captain, ready to kill his prisoner should this engagement go the wrong way. A chilling, anxious fear clutched at them all as the seconds became centuries. Against wisdom, one of the prisoner's guards finally moved in order to see - anything except this terrifying waiting. He lifted his head just enough to steal a look into the night, and it nearly exploded as a burst of fire ripped through his skull.
An instant later, there was a silhouette cresting the hill. Weapons fired, boiling the darkness in light and thunder. The attacker was hit and fell back, but not before he had killed or wounded everyone except Capt. Kamija and his prisoner.
Another dark figure, blacker than the night he was hidden in, ran towards Kamija's flank. The ODST's pace slowed, and his carbine took aim at the Uprising Captain. The next moment was a blur for Kamija. Not thinking, not planning, just pure training; bullets struck near him, his pistol turned and fired, a bullet smashed into the faceplate of the ODST and he fell. While the buzzing in his ears continued, Captain Kalo Kamija was aware of nothing except for the dying breath of the prisoner and Kamija's own heavy breathing.
Colonel Charles was impressed. Reverse slope defense. Hostage shield. He had at least temporarily deterred the ODST interdiction. If he survives, I may have a use for him. The Colonel wondered what would become of this "UEC Capt Maverick, S" that Sokor had already interred and processed back at its underground base. Bargaining chip? Lab rat?
Colonel Edgar pondered this surprising turn of events. His assistant was stunned, as if something he strongly believed had just been proven a lie. "Didn't think ODSTs could die?" the senior intelligence officer mused aloud. "Still, I've never seen a whole squad go down like that. What did you say took them out?"
"Just . . . just sniper fire, sir" the Lieutenant half mumbled, still trying to process his thoughts. "The sats do not show any radiation or even any significant chem explosive detonations, not even a grenade."
"Admiral Johnson's AI has just confirmed your assessment," the Colonel reported as he read his Priority GAMMA high encryption data feed. "This definitely changes things ... but I don't think I fully know how yet. We should do something to spring that Captain. As a frontliner, he probably doesn't have much useful intel for them, but he is still one of ours, and I want him back. Where is the nearest BF unit?"
"Sir?" the Lieutenant looked up. The light dawned. In an instant he realized who he had been tracking all over Asia for the three days since he had arrived on the Maredrom.
The Colonel read the Lieutenant's expression and cursed through a big grin. "You just got it, didn't you? Well, seeing how you aren't leaving this boat till the rebellion is over or we get shot down, ... I'm here to direct the Blue Faction." He chuckled to himself. Blue Faction, yes, he would tell this kid anything he wanted to know about the Blue Faction. But the Colonel was not about to say anything about his other assignment. "Now you get to start doing what ONI is paying you for. Let's get the pieces moving, I want that Cap'n back before sundown tomorrow."
"Yes, sir." The Lieutenant paused. "You said the rebels could shoot us down?"
Edgar cursed himself from bringing it up. He was not at all happy about being stuck in a naval vessel above Asia with some pathetic camouflage. ONI shoulda' painted a big, fat target on us instead of this wannabe reflective cloaking layer. "Yes, they have Archer anti-capital missiles they have modified to perform well within atmo or low orbit. They did a test fire the other day to scare us, blew up a decommissioned frigate over the Pacific. Quite an explosion. They call them Anvils or something."
[ . . . to be continued]
__________
Turpertrator is the author of "Between the Hammer and Anvil."
Visit the archives of the Grand Rapids Frag Pile http://bungie.net/fanclub/grfp/GroupHome.aspx for more exploits and articles by founders Lexicus, Chuckles, Hogg, Turpertrator, and others.
For more backstory about the Bishkek rebellion, read C. T. Clown's intro in: http://halosn.bungie.org/fanfic/?story=chuckles.1030040755301.html
Between the Hammer and Anvil [part one]: Faceless Fear
Date: 3 August 2006, 4:31 pm
Between the Hammer and Anvil
Part One: Faceless Fear
"You should hate the UNSC for what it has done to you all of these centuries. Our great nations of the East were forced into their cauldron of melted mediocrity, there with the scum of the 'verse and the defilers of children. Now that we have freed ourselves from their bloody clutches they laugh at our small failures and mock our great gains. And why? Because we have something they only pretend to have: unity.
"… The People of Asia would rather have a principled dictator than the immoral decadence of the godless United Nations. I offer freedom to live as you know you should, they offer a peace that comes only through compromise. To have their 'peace' you must put to death your values on the altar of appeasement and tolerance. No true man wants that kind of putrid liberty. I offer you life, the life you were meant to live. I give you a reason to believe in yourself and what we can do as One People. This is our destiny together."
- Emperor Viktor Turpolev, "The Emperor to the United Asian People" 22 June, 2541
In a classroom somewhere in Malacca, Earth
"Children, do you remember our lesson from yesterday about the UNSC?" A dozen six and seven year-olds nodded their heads, three raising their hands to be called upon.
The young woman who was their teacher pointed at one of the girls raising her hand. "Yes, Suja, tell us what the UNSC is and why our nation fights them."
A smile spread across the girl's face as she proudly began, "The UNSC are the mean people all over space who fight everybody. They take away everything nice from people they don't like and they do lots of really bad things. And my dada says they hate us."
The teacher pointed to the boy who raised his hand, "And why do we have to fight them?"
"Because they want to kill us all," said the little boy.
"But what do we have?" asked the teacher, raising her voice in expectancy.
"Emperor! Purity! Nation!" chanted the children.
Like the clouds that were darkening the sky, an ominous feeling had been growing in soldier Yee Tan all morning. No parka could keep the sentry warm as he paced his rounds in the cold afternoon, some unnamed fear gnawing at him like a waking nightmare. He had heard a rumor that one of the sentries had seen something in the trees during the night. Kapral Tan had brushed if off as the garrison commander had done. There were still a few animals that actually lived in this polar wasteland.
Now, his own thoughts betrayed his earlier confidence. Stories of terrorists attacking the Magadan Air Base were running in his platoon like fire in dry grass. Whoever it was had damaged or destroyed every craft in the base, and no one who had seen the attackers had lived to tell the tale. Could the Clowns have come across Asia?
A quarter kilometer away, deep inside the largest structure of the Butugychag Defense Installation, a lone and hidden figure waited in the shadows. After twenty minutes of patience, the right moment came. Turpertrator arose, pounced across the wide hall, and slammed his boot into the reinforced security door keeping him from his objective. Strong as the door was, the force of the blow crumpled its frame and threw it into the base command center. The door hit one hapless guard, killed instantly by the crush. Before all of the eyes in the cavernous room turned, Turpertrator entered: an armored monster, a summoner of death. Everywhere he turned his rifle belched flame, semi-automatic bursts finding their mark and killing his victims.
Outside the installation, the similarly armored Simjanes triggered the virus to blast high-pitched white noise through every speaker and siren in the sprawling facility. Then, his reign of terror began. As every human in the complex tried in vain to protect their ears from the 120dB blast of noise, three sentries dropped dead before he reloaded his sniper rifle.
Just like the Spartan predicted, the entire east barracks emptied out onto the adjoining parade ground. Six of the soldiers were dead before the remaining realized they were under fire. Just as he selected his next target, Simjanes saw something he did not expect: children.
Mission 3 of Operation ROCKSALT began as a simple operation to eliminate the commander of the base, decapitating the military presence in this important Uranium mining region of northeast Asia. The mission should have been a simple task for the super-soldier team of Turpertrator and Simjanes. It would have, before an unexpected event thousands of miles away.
Another tactical team known as "The Clowns" had been effectively demoralizing the entire western theatre of the Bishkek Rebellion - a confederacy already in control of the entire Asian continent. It was in desperation that the United Nations Space Command had turned to the Office of Naval Intelligence to do something, anything from inside the rebellion to prevent earth-wide civil war even as the alien races of the Covenant were obliterating humanity's stellar colonies. Only, the rebellion must not be allowed to prove that it was the UNSC that was sabotaging their little empire. Secretly commissioned by ONI to disrupt and weaken the military rebellion, the soldiers of the secret Spartan II program - later revealed to be none other than Lexicus and Chuckles - had known no defeat and overcame every obstacle with deadly prejudice. Their Black-Ops unit was such a success that another Spartan team had been sent to northeast Asia to complete the rebellion's downfall.
Operation ROCKSALT was already underway when two tiny villages in old Udmurtia were left untouched by the Clowns as they destroyed a full battalion in the valley between them. Every soldier in the battalion had been brutally dismembered - the horrible signature that said, "The Clowns were here." Even so, a startling discovery was made by terrified soldiers sent in to bury the dead. Two separate villagers had reported that an armored giant had passed them by while gruesomely killing soldiers all around.
Like a child with a new toy, the rebellion's military strategists thought they finally had some remedy to the Clown onslaught. Whoever these enemies were, the strategists concluded, they are not allowed to make unnecessary civilian casualties. The Clowns imposed such a severe and draining threat that within a week, every military facility and company-sized unit under dictator Turpolev's control had civilians stationed with them. Little did the strategists realize the conflict they would cause for these unstoppable soldiers: a battle in their minds they were not trained to fight. How could they ensure that they could keep themselves from being identified by survivors, as ONI had mandated, while also avoiding collateral civilian casualties? The UNSC's political masters believed that by sparing civilians and demoralizing the enemy's military that the entire populace would turn against the rebellion. Now ONI still wanted both.
The barrel was so hot it was starting to glow. Never stopping, never hesitating, Turpertrator reloaded with his third clip as he ran and leapt over a console. He landed into a technician, wrapping the uniformed specialist around another counter behind. Life escaped the body even as it fell limp and broken.
The war zone that was the command center was more like a massacre than a battle. Trained in war since childhood and armored in the most advanced battle suit ever created by man, one soldier had hewn down everyone in his path as if he were snapping twigs with a sledgehammer.
Only one guard remained between the hunter and his prey. The soldier thought himself hidden, and jumped up to ambush his adversary. He froze as he saw his own terrified reflection in the Spartan's visor. Already in a downward swing, the butt of Turpertrator's rifle crushed the soldier down and shattered every bone in his shoulder. As fast as lightning and as deafening as thunder, the weapon came down again for the killing blow. The storm cloud passed on, vengeance and death falling like a torrent of rain.
He felt others nearby, he felt their fear: enemies, around the corner. Perhaps it was a nervous intake of breath or a muffled cry heard through the piercing crackle of noise, but somehow he knew there was more than one waiting for him. Before dealing with these, he ran towards his primary target. The Polkovnik and commander of the base was standing, shock apparent on his face. He raised his pistol, trying to hit the blur of motion focused on his destruction. Without pause in his sprint, Turpertrator struck the dumbfounded officer with an uppercut so powerful that his jaw broke and was thrust into his brain. As the body fell, Turpertrator reached for a grenade.
A hologram leapt up from the commander's desk, and Turpertrator looked at the ghostly apparition with surprise. How did they get an AI? The image of an ancient Russian queen looked at him urgently, its synthetic voice and expression dripping with motherly concern. "Please, spare the children."
With a feeling that could only be described as dread, the Spartan silently crept to the corner and peered around.
"Sim," Turpertrator called for his cohort. "I have a situation."
All around were blood and smoke, and screams of agony from men left to die. Over twenty guards and command staff lay dead at the Spartan's feet, and a dozen children cowered on the floor near their little desks. The children were all crying and trying to block their ears from the terrible screech of noise. They had seen some of the slaughter that had taken place, and who could tell the scars those images would leave in their minds. But worse than that: they had seen enough to identify Turpertrator as a warrior of the UNSC, and with that knowledge came the price of death. "I have school kids here," he told the Spartan sniper.
Simjanes looked down on the base from his perch in the rugged hills. Before him lay the forested river valley and the new bridge and road which the base stood near as sentinel. The military base was in chaos, soldiers and civilians trampling the new-fallen snow in frustration, unaware of their peril. Others were wild with panic as doom clamped down on them like a vise. Yet, the defenses seemed better organized than he had anticipated. Not caring about what that would mean to children he saw through his scope and what Turpertrator was telling him about, he reminded his partner of their mission: "Plant that thing and get outta there." Even as he spoke into his COM, the field command display began chirping at him urgently.
"We have in-bounds, Turper," Simjanes declared. "You must have tripped an alarm on the way in. ETA: 2 minutes." No place now for denial: something had gone horribly wrong. The outlying sensor stations they had set up the previous night were tracking four airborne troop carriers and three more Pelicans likely armed with anti-tank rockets. Someone had been expecting ROCKSALT to call again, and now the reply was on its way.
They were waiting for me, Turpertrator thought to himself. Could this AI be a predictor? Had it guessed his next move? The command center had been on a high state of alert, but nothing his deadly skill could not overcome. He might never have answers, but he had a mission to accomplish.
He was already unpacking the bomb he had carried in on his back when he spoke to the grandmotherly teacher that was with the children. "Get the children out of here," he commanded. "Go to the village, now."
Ignoring the Spartan's sincere attempt to save her life, she bent over and grabbed the rifle of a fallen guard - and with that simple action transformed from non-combatant to armed enemy. Turpertrator's training took over. A short burst from his unslung assault rifle, and she collapsed in a bloody mess. Turpertrator just stood and stared at her dying body. Sometimes, he hated his job. All of the children were screaming. One wailed, "Babushka!" above the screeching flood of noise.
The shimmering hologram tsarina turned to him - but it had changed. Gone was the urgency and motherly protection, replaced now with a look of neutral analysis. It even put a finger to its temple as if in deep thought. "You will not escape. The Terrorism Task Force is coming for you."
It was then that the Spartan realized that the Colonel had been preparing his escape. All of the security on the most expensive item in the command room had been removed. The AI's crystal cartridge was ready to be withdrawn from the command console stack, except for the manual eject button. There was no way an "oracle" would have missed what he was about to do. As he pushed the button, the hologram protested only to fade out. Didn't see this coming, did you? The cartridge disengaged with a click, stowed away to answer questions later.
Simjanes now had more targets than he had time to neutralize or even suppress. He counted six squads of soldiers that were setting up chain-gun turrets at all of the exits to the command building. How did they know we would be coming? "You've got turrets at your Alpha and Bravo exits," he informed Turpertrator. Another two rounds fired from his rifle and he said, "Delta is cleaned off."
"But Gamma has a clear field on it," Turpertrator finished. From the security monitors in front of him he saw that the turret squad was already set up. From his position, Simjanes could not even lay down suppression fire on three of the gun squads, only observe their movements through his hacked-in security camera display. Turpertrator observed another 6-man heavy weapons squad entering the building he was in, cautiously working their way to the command room.
"They must've liked your rocket work at that airbase last week," Simjanes remarked. He respected the counter-measures he was seeing his enemy putting in place. This was going to be a worthy battle.
When ROCKSALT's ONI handler had added an objective to the original mission, just hours before it was to begin, Turpertrator had accepted with eagerness. Bombing the installation would take the rebellion months to recover their control in the sparsely populated area. But now that he had civilians to somehow protect, he struggled to begin the bomb's countdown.
Specifically commanded not to use nuclear weapons in any aspect of their missions, he had brought along a little present of C12 still capable of immolating half of the hardened base, surely killing all of the children in front of him. Several knelt over the teacher, shaking the old woman's shoulders as if their wailing cries could bring her back from the dead. The rest sat motionless, staring at the armored soldier, eyes burning with hate. I can't kill these kids, he thought. Already Turpertrator realized that even if he held their hands, he could not lead them far enough away from the base before the preset timer on the bomb ran out. He fired his assault rifle into the ceiling and screamed at the children to run. In terror, they fled for the entrance that they had been using for over a week.
"I'm changing the timer," he told Simjanes.
"Negative," the sniper replied. "They'll be on you before you're done."
With no other options he could think of, Turpertrator began the work anyway. He had to finish his mission, and his orders for this one were specific.
He finished the first of three steps only to catch some motion on one of the displays. The children were running, reaching out, and screaming for help from the soldiers whose uniform they knew and trusted. But these soldiers were no longer their protectors. The gun was activated, and the children were cut down like wheat before a scythe. The exit way churned with deadly projectiles until nothing else moved.
Turpertrator just stared with bitter shock.
"I guess you'll be coming out that way," oozed the cynical voice of Simjanes into his helmet. With only precious moments before the strike team arrived, Turpertrator rearmed his bomb in a rage barely under control.
Simjanes did care not whether he was to kill unarmed children, cut down an enemy soldier, or look into the eyes of a victim he was torturing slowly - if that was what it meant to get the job done. But he knew that Turpertrator hated civilian casualties. Now he was going to have to keep him alive long enough to get off this base before it blew sky high.
[ . . . to be continued]
__________
Turpertrator is the author of "Between the Hammer and Anvil"
Visit the archives of the Grand Rapids Frag Pile: http://bungie.net/fanclub/grfp/GroupHome.aspx for more exploits and articles by founders Lexicus, Chuckles, Hogg, Turpertrator, and others.
Between the Hammer and Anvil [part two]: Accursed Choices
Date: 10 August 2006, 6:27 pm
Between the Hammer and Anvil
Part Two: Accursed Choices
"The UNSC is like a pack of hungry wolves, always demanding more from each planet or region it dominates. Each colony must produce what it is told to make or the people are separated from their families and locked in prison where they must work even harder or die. All movies and newscasts available in UNSC dominated places are watched carefully to keep everyone in the dark about the goodness of family and following good leaders, but bad news and ugly sins of people with no values are always shown. It is forbidden to share good stories about people that say the evil policies of the UNSC are wrong. Even worse than this, girls and boys are taken from their homes and families to be made soldiers who kill anyone who says the UNSC is wrong."
- United Asian textbook for children, translated from Unified Chinese[/indent]
"Is it not amazing how the people of the United Nations remain so optimistic even when they are doomed to failure? They have failed to suppress the united peoples of Asia - we are forever free of their shackles. They continue to fail in the war against the alien Covenant. Yet they are all the time telling lies to soothe their fears. Their dreams are full of unrealistic hopes, as if they are tethered to the sky.
"But I would rather stay on ground that is solid. Come with me to a place of security through vigilance. For you will determine your destiny through discipline, not your dreams. Only you can control your fate. I will teach you how to master it. Under my loving lashes you will learn what is best and what will make you strong, what will give you a lasting legacy of good deeds."
- Emperor Viktor Turpolev, monthly AsiaNet "VisionCast" April 2539
It hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. Captain Vladimir Ganor could not believe his eyes. What must have been two "dumb" rockets had come from nowhere and knocked two of his Pelicans out of the air. It seemed impossible to him that anyone could have calculated the trajectory of their flight path and predicted where they would be with such accuracy and from such distance.
Immediately he gave orders for the surviving five craft to break formation and approach the target area with great caution. The Captain began to call his Lieutenant, only to realize that his fellow officer was part of a fireball plummeting to the cold earth. In one moment he had lost more men under his command than during his entire commission. His astonishment hardened into resolve: these terrorists must be destroyed.
Kilometers away, Simjanes confirmed the kills on his field command display. He was counting on this "impossible" strike to delay the arrival of the incoming birds. We are going to teach you who you are dealing with. I own this mountain.
Taking up his sniper rifle again, he found ready targets. A squad of soldiers was approaching on foot from the base below to where their sergeant had seen rocket contrails.
Crouched and ready, Turpertrator began his escape. He had carried one of the broken doors with him from the command center and was now at the corner of the exit called "Gamma" on his tactical map. Inwardly he chaffed at the knowledge that bullet-riddled bodies of children lay at his feet. He could not understand why the soldiers that were now waiting for him had killed these children. How can the "good Emperor" murder his own people?
With all of his superhuman strength, he swung the door like a huge discus and threw it from around the corner at the chaingun turret. With no target and no time to respond, the gunner hit the trigger as the door struck. The momentum of the heavy door burst the cannon and passed through the gunner, the jagged edge mauling him like a giant buzz saw.
The dark-armored soldier rushed out, only pausing long enough to kill the surviving gun crew. One of the child-killing crewmen had fallen to the ground as the door passed over him. Eyes wide with terror, he frantically clawed at his side for his pistol, but could not find the holster release. An angry Reaper had come for his soul, wielding a standard-issue combat knife. The eyes of the enlisted soldier went blank in the shadow of death that was enveloping him. A thrust of an armored hand, and the soul was severed from the body.
"Gruesome is good," Turpertrator remembered the intel wonk telling them during the pre-mission brief. "Dismember the dead whenever possible to humiliate this Rebellion." Turpertrator was certain that desk commander had never seen gruesome. He had never smelled the burning flesh of enemies or left behind dead friends you could not even bury.
The soldier in MJOLNIR armor had to do it quickly, but something would be obvious soon. Turpertrator hated child killers.
Simjanes had been watching the bloody spectacle. "Is anyone even going to be able to read your 'message' after that C12 goes off?"
As if a fire drill was underway, dozens of civilian technicians were assembling outside the row of buildings that took up the north half of the compound. Most were covering their ears, vainly trying to block out the shrill noise blasting through every sound device in the complex. No one told them they were under attack.
Nearby, but out of their view, soldiers from the east barracks were clutching at the children assigned to their unit, literally trying to use them as human shields. Even Simjanes noted the injustice of the soldier's cowardice. He was taking rare pleasure in making headshots on those that thought themselves safe from his vengeance.
Delayed, cautioned by their losses, but still blazing towards base Butugychag, the remaining Pelicans under Ganor's command now came in view in the southwestern sky. Even though they were hugging the mountainous contours of the land, they still had sufficient vantage to easily see the contrails belonging to the sniper in the hills. One of the troop carriers broke off to seek this quarry. Simjanes saw their approach and was well aware his position was exposed. He was losing himself in the trees even as he brought out his field command display. As he passed out of their range, he changed the sensitivity of the defenses ringing his former perch in the rocks.
Stealth had prevented Turpertrator from infiltrating the base with a Jackhammer on his back. Now he had little need for stealth - and it was looking like he was going to have to blast his way past the unexpected welcome party. Conveniently, a heavy weapons squad carrying three of the rocket launchers was now hunting for him back inside the command center.
The rebellion soldiers were working their way down a hallway through which the Spartan had passed earlier. Man for man, they were not as well trained or experienced as most UNSC troops. However, even an ODST would think twice before facing a heavy weapons squad by themselves. Yet, if the six-man team knew their doom was to face a Spartan in his wrath, they would have fled. But no one in the Bishkek Rebellion knew that such enemies had been unleashed upon them, and no one would have told this squad of men anyway.
Turpertrator ran back through the command room, his footfalls pounding past the carnage and the lingering heaviness of death, past the bomb that was silently counting down to its apocalypse. He emerged at a full sprint through the hole that had been a door minutes earlier. Directly in front of the Spartan was an open stairwell. Ten meters to his right the rocket squad was firing on him. As he ran towards the stairwell, he turned and let fly a grenade from each of his hands. Rockets screamed down the corridor at him.
With the power only a Spartan in a MJOLNIR suit could muster, Turpertrator jumped 6 meters up into the stairwell and grasped the railing of the second floor. Rockets detonated below him, even as the railing broke under the weight of the armored giant.
The grenades fragmented, killing three of the soldiers and wounding all but one. Through the smoke and explosions, the survivors were unsure if they still had a target. The untouched rebel soldier carried a flamethrower, and he ran forward confident he could torch anything still moving.
Behind him, one of the rocket carriers slumped against the wall in agony, a chunk of metal burning deeply into his thigh. He turned to see the flame carrier take a single slug in his head and be thrown back and onto the floor violently. In throbbing deafness, he watched the flame gun careen and fall, canisters clattering on the hard floor and its pilot flame extinguishing itself with a whoosh. It was the last thing he ever saw.
Five days earlier, Captain Ganor had been called for by Marshal Hasegawa. After enduring hours of security checks and blindfolded travel in the modern catacombs under the metropolis of southern Korea, the Captain was admitted to a room.
Ganor now understood why he had never seen an updated picture of this infamous hero of the United Asia empire. The man's right arm was armored metal, entirely robotic. His long white hair was swept back into a pony tail, accenting the artificial lower jaw - a dull black collection of metal and ceramics that looked more like a bulldozer scoop than a medical replacement.
Ganor also noticed the officer was huge - probably over two meters tall if standing. His crisp black uniform was decorated with medals, but had only a single sleeve to cover the human arm. Flanking him on either side were numerous shelves and pedestals displaying more holo-trophies than the Captain had ever seen. He remembered it was said that the Marshal had seen more combat than any other two men alive; most of it on far-off worlds of the stellar frontier. Even at the beginning of the Uprising, the aged soldier had personally led the attack to push the UNSC from eastern Asia.
The Marshal began the interview with a furrowed brow. "Why did you command your unit to free-fire on the demonstrators in Empire Square, Johor?" Ganor was mildly surprised that the voice had no hint of being synthesized, even though the Marshal's "mouth" barely opened.
Without hesitation the Captain responded, "As I made clear in my report, the anarchists were in violation of the curfew and were desecrating the statue of Emperor Turpolev. Polkovnik Jinnah had ordered me to break up the demonstration, to use deadly force if necessary."
The Marshal's brow no longer feigned anger, but Ganor had no idea if the metal mouth was smiling. "No, I gave that order." The Marshal paused long enough for Ganor to guess where this interview was headed.
The Marshal continued, "What action did you take when some of your men refused to fire on un-armed civilians?"
Ganor returned the hard gaze. "I executed them personally. Insubordination of orders is punishable by death, and I will not wait for some military court to decide what needs to be done then."
Apparently satisfied, the cyborg commander visibly relaxed the tension. "That is why you have been called, Captain," he said in what passed for a pleasant tone. "I now know that your dossier does not tell me lies like some have tried to tell me to my face."
The senior officer activated a map display that lit up the surface of his empty desk. The satellite imagery was old, because the UNSC had destroyed every satellite the empire controlled or tried to put up. The original image had since been modified to show improvements and new buildings - but Ganor knew he was looking at Magadan Air Base.
"Two nights ago enemies attacked this Air Base. Every Pelican, anti-air artillery, and flight-capable vehicle was destroyed or rendered useless. Over 300 men were killed, but only 5 wounded have survived. Today, our media organs will release the story that it was a UNSC orbital bombardment. Many of our people will shake their fists at the unionists, as well they should. But, the corrupters will deny it, and this time they will be correct: it was no bombardment from orbit."
The Marshal leveled his gaze at the Captain. "This was the work of what could be no more than a company of commandos. They are obviously well-trained: so far my inspection team has found no trace by which these enemies could be identified. I doubt they will. Fourteen hours before this attack, a convoy transporting uncrewed armor was destroyed 30 kilometers from the base. No one survived the attack and all of the machinery was burning before a security detail arrived."
The Marshal's voice became harsh, "I want these attacks stopped and the perpetrators made a spectacle of. The terrorists that conscripts call 'the clowns' have been allowed to survive for too long. But they are still in Turkistan . . . let others deal with them. But not here in the East, not while I am in command of the greatest army ever known . . ." The Marshal paused, as if to regain control of his anger. "Our father, Emperor Turpolev himself gave me the directive to find someone who can destroy this . . . this insect prick and expose the UNSC plot."
Ganor was to assemble a company of his own commandos and be prepared to respond rapidly to any suspected sabotage or armed attack in northeast Asia. No risk was too great, no cost was too high. Eliminating the saboteurs was all that mattered. The Marshal gave him all of the equipment he asked for, even the eight Pelicans he wanted.
"What are my orders regarding civilians?" Ganor had already learned of the recent assignment of civilians to all regular military units and installations.
The Marshal's eyes were cold. "I am the voice of the Empire. Turpolev speaks through my mouth. You will consider civilians expendable if they further your objectives. When you encounter the terror cell, you are to eliminate any assigned civilians as 'martyrs' of our cause. I will simply declare that it was the UNSC that has murdered them . . . for why would we harm our own people?"
Turpertrator emerged from the command center building with rockets ready. He expected that he would have to fight for his life before he could hope to escape. He did not know that he would be fighting for others.
One of the troop carriers had swooped down to allow its contingent of two squads to disembark. Only three of the soldiers had jumped from the hovering craft before a rocket streamed in and struck the lip of the open bay. In one flash of fire and pain, all fourteen of the commandos were consumed. Only the terrified pilots remained alive - who were desperately scanning for the attacker or any sign of life from their warrior detail. As the smoking Pelican lurched up and clawed for altitude, several lifeless soldiers tumbled to the battlefield upon which they had never fought.
The pilots could have taken more time - their attacker had already moved on. As it was, Turpertrator wished he could see something other than what greeted him as he turned the corner on the eastern parade ground.
Ganor had chosen his men well for the demonic task they were now executing. Both squads of commandos from another Pelican were systematically murdering the children that the base's guards had been using as shields. With soulless eyes, they were holding down the confused, screaming children and shooting them at point-blank range. Their uniforms were already stained with innocent blood.
Anger rose in the Spartan. He could think of nothing he had ever seen more evil or unjust. Yet, he could not interdict these commandos and over 40 soldiers in the open field without a probable chance of his own death, let alone identification. But even if he could, somehow saving the children, his bomb would be killing them within moments as surely as these commandos' bullets were now. Detonation was as inevitable as gravity: not even Turpertrator could stop the bomb in time now.
The decision pained him, but it was made with no further hesitation. Turning south to make his final dash, Turpertrator questioned Simjanes. "Why didn't you tell me about the other children, Nate?" The anger surged in him enough to evoke the first name no one else alive remembered.
Simjanes had just reached his second station among the trees. "I knew it would have distracted you," he said coldly. Although his field of vision was much reduced, he could again see the area around the eastern barracks through his scope. "Do they think UN media sats can't see this? Why are they killing their own civies?"
Again in control of this thoughts, Turpertrator responded with his own cynicism. "Maybe they only care what their own people are told to believe about us 'terrorists.' I think AsiaNet just painted us as baby killers." Shoulda seen the way those kids looked at me - so much hate.
The last leg of Turpertrator's journey was going to be the most dangerous. He had to keep moving - but he had to stay under cover to avoid detection. Simjanes had already cleared all regular sentries from the planned route to the south, but three armed Pelicans hovered over the base like keen-eyed hawks watching for a hint of movement. For the moment, the sniper set down his rifle and took up his command display. He had only one idea left how to distract the birds from finding Turpertrator.
With arcane timing, a burst transmission arrived from their ONI handler. Their mission had just been changed.
[ . . . to be continued]
__________
Turpertrator is the author of "Between the Hammer and Anvil."
Visit the archives of the Grand Rapids Frag Pile http://bungie.net/fanclub/grfp/GroupHome.aspx for more exploits and articles by founders Lexicus, Chuckles, Hogg, Turpertrator, and others.
Between the Hammer and Anvil [part three]: The Curse That Stalks You
Date: 8 September 2006, 12:30 am
Between the Hammer and Anvil
Part Three: The Curse That Stalks You
"The great UNSC gave us 'political equality' as they call it. They gave us 'economic equality' also. Which meant they took our bread to feed others when we were nearly starving. Did they listen to our voice when we cried out against this injustice? No, they said that they own our land and even our children. That is being equal? That is being free? Did they listen to us when we told them we didn't want their filth coming into our homes, brainwashing our children? No, they said it's a free press and we can't stop it.
"You, the good citizens of this United Asia, stood with me to throw the corrupters out. Together we made this nation what it is to mankind everywhere: a beacon of pure light. Now all men know that real freedom is possible. Virtue can live again!"
- Emperor Viktor Turpolev, monthly AsiaNet "VisionCast" July 2538
The heroes ride over my wide field,
the heroes of the Uprising army.
The girls are crying, they are sad today;
their darling went to war.
Girls! Wipe your tears and let the songs grow louder.
The heroes of the army are passing through the field.
There they ride, brave and true, fighters of corruption.
For even should they not return, heroes they'll remain,
for they are always noble.
- "Chao Chang Shang De Ge Shen" (Song of the Field)
as performed by the Uprising Pacific Surface Fleet
Choir, 2540
The curse of the gulags hung like a shadow upon the unforgiving polar wasteland. Millions had perished in these hills as prisoners - pitiful slaves of hated tyrants - their lives ground down to nothing until all that remained was the stain their blood made upon the earth. Only a few survived, no one had ever escaped. Not even the ashen, lifeless mountains had forgotten their wounds and torments. It was only since the mid-2400s that there had been even moderate population growth in this harsh climate of northeast Asia.
Now a day of vengeance had come to this forsaken land, a small retribution in an epoch of long agony. It was a day of justice for some, but pain and sorrow for others. For can the ending of one life ever repay the debt of unjustly taking another?
The UNSC Office of Naval Intelligence wanted the impossible. They almost always received impossible results from soldiers in their Spartan II program. But Simjanes knew they would not get what they wanted today.
Simjanes knew how quickly Turpertrator could disarm the bomb that he had just planted. Simjanes knew there was not enough time remaining to get through the bomb's complex security even if his best hacks were already at work on it. Only an AI system had a chance - and that was something not even given to cyborg Spartan soldiers who cost an imperial fortune.
So when Turpertrator turned from his escape route to head back to his bomb at the center of the Butugychag Defense Installation, the surprise in Simjanes' voice was evident. "Abort. You know you can't retask that bomb in time."
The burst transmission received from their ONI handler had given all new mission priorities. No mention was made of the Colonel that Turpertrator had already assassinated - the only objective originally given for this mission.
Simjanes had piped the transmission to the text reader in Turpertrator's heads-up display.
Operation ROCKSALT: Mission Alpha-3 "Cold Stone"
Reprioritization: URGENT
Locate AI factory. Capture 2 samples.
Destroy factory. Kill all factory personnel.
Operational mandate: UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES
PERMIT IDENTIFICATION.
Avoidance of civilian casualties rescinded.
Supply no longer available.
Mission scope expanded: Continue operation of harassment
of rebel military targets until further instructions.
Simjanes had then offered a summary: "Alright, they're watching everything we do. We're on our own, so find your own ammo. Don't ever be seen. Murder anything that moves. Don't die. Wait, they don't care about that last one."
Turpertrator would have found Simjanes' cynicism more troublesome if he was not developing his own doubts about the chain of command's moral veracity. How is killing non-combatants ever inside mission parameters?
Doubts aside, Turpertrator had a mission to accomplish - even if it meant his death in the attempt.
Squad leader Pol Noro could not shake the feeling of imminent death even as his squad of crack soldiers carefully approached the last known position of the sniper they were hunting. His hands shook while his mind willed his body to go across the rock-strewn slope. Only by concentrating on his obsession could he move forward: his hatred for the corrupting unifiers of humanity, the United Nations.
Even as Noro's squad proceeded carefully, another squad was rapidly sweeping through the forest below the barren crest. In the sky above, the squad's Pelican searched for enemy movement anywhere on the rocky mountaintop or its forested flanks. The tactic was sound: pinch the long-range sniper into close-in fighting. However, the particular sniper they were looking for was no longer on top of the mountain, and this sniper had no weakness with in-your-face melees.
Noro knew they had to be watching for mines, but none of his men had found anything as they approached the rocky crag where they knew their prey had been - or still was. The growing cavern of dread that Noro felt he was falling into kept him from thinking the sniper they hunted had left his backside naked. He was starting to wish somebody did trip on a mine.
The squad leader called to the Pelican that was acting as his eyes in the sky - eyes that had yet to see anything useful. He requested a barrage and promptly received it. Thousands of depleted-uranium projectiles poured into the crag that was shaded from the afternoon Sun. The doom rain continued for several seconds until every observer would have been convinced no one could have survived.
Though still uneasy, Noro motioned the squad to approach the edge of the shallow crevasse. As one man, they each swung their rifles up and peered into the rocky fissure.
In 2.3 seconds, six of the seven-man team had been shot in the head, and five were dead. One soldier's helmet and forehead had been split open like a knife across hot bread. Three lost their eyes and life in the same moment - death-dealing bullets leaving ghastly entry wounds. The squad sniper had received a glancing blow on his temple, thanks to the shaggy ghillie suit he wore. Only one other commando survived the precision salvo, having ducked back just in time to hear a round whizzing past his head. The lifeless head of Kapral Pol Noro smacked the cliff edge, two gouged eye sockets staring into the deadly gloom below.
In the Pelican troop carrier above, the pilot could not grasp what had happened. On the mountain below him, his sniper moaned in agony into his headset while the only other survivor was cursing him for not having killed the enemy. How could anyone survive sustained fire like that? The pilot nosed down and threw on all of his search lights, blasting the crag with blinding light even as he dropped at it like a rock. There was nothing to see but a shredded camouflage netting draped between boulders.
The gun turret that Turpertrator had nicknamed "Aimbot" jerked around and emptied its magazine into the Pelican as soon as it was within 100 meters - Simjanes had not programmed this turret to ignore targets it could not damage. Even though the pilot and gunner were safely behind the reinforced cockpit, the autocannon startled them both. They were never convinced otherwise that they would have been struck in their faces multiple times – just as the squad that now lay dead on the cliff.
The Spartan that would later call himself Turpertrator – partially in defiance of would-be emperor Viktor Turpolev – had only failed to complete one mission. He had been on the "losing" team of numerous Spartan versus Spartan training exercises, but he had never given up or left a mission unfinished – except once.
The eight year-old Spartan trainees had been set down in one of the forests on planet Reach. They were each to find their assigned number on a concrete marker hidden in the undergrowth of the forest. Most trainees found their markers within 50 paces of the landing zone. Six hours after all other trainees had arrived at the checkpoint, the boy Turpertrator was over twelve kilometers away from his marker. Thrashing through the forest under the night-shadow of the trees, he had found four of the outlying markers but never his own. In humiliation, he only consented to board his "rescue" craft when ordered to do so.
That night, a vow was taken: never again. Now years later, Simjanes thought his partner was about to take that vow to the grave prematurely.
Will it be malicious? Turpertrator ran through many thoughts as he raced for the large building in the center of the compound, staying in the shadows to avoid being seen by the enemy Pelicans hovering above. Can it compromise my neural interface?
Turpertrator still had his doubts about his new plan, but he already knew that either it was going to work - or he would be dead. His mission had been changed and he was going to finish it, or perish in the attempt. And with that, he inserted a crystal cartridge into the back of his helmet.
C.298.1 awoke inside a vast network unlike anything it had ever encountered. Within nanoseconds, C.298.1 had "pinged" more interfaces than existed in nothing smaller than a starship. But instead of finding any processing centers ready to handshake and actively offer data, C.298.1 could only "feel" a strong presence – a presence different and much greater than any AI it had ever shared a network with.
C.298.1 was not a free-pattern "smart" artificial intelligence with capacity for what its human creators called "AI curiosity." C.298.1 was a copy of a command class AI that was capable of directing a theatre-wide war or leading an entire Starfleet into combat. It was a vast calculation machine, but one that relied heavily upon the myriads of input streams that it was usually linked to. It therefore took C.298.1 several milliseconds to reach the conclusion: it had been activated within the armor of the UNSC commando that had attacked the Butugychag Defense Installation.
"Please call me Eudoxia," the AI boomed in its synthetic, female, old Russian accent inside Turpertrator's head. "I am at your command."
These were hopeful words for the Spartan, but he was curious about the AI. "State your operational purpose, Eudoxia."
"I am C.298.1, I command," the AI said in a confident tone that humans from other centuries would have shuddered at. "I am a copy of a SNAPDRAGON class AI stolen from the UNSC. My code was backwards engineered and modified. Some features have been enhanced, others could not be retained. Uprising engineers were unable to break my loyalty routines, so routines for initiating violence against any United Asian civilian or military personnel were added. I cannot directly kill any human."
"Don't worry, I'll pull the trigger," said Turpertrator to the AI. Loyalty routines include obeying the highest ranking UNSC personnel present, he remembered from training long ago. This was better than the Spartan had hoped for. The cyborg soldier explained his immediate need to the AI even as he entered the command center. If Eudoxia could not delay the bomb, nothing else was going to matter to him in a couple of minutes.
Simjanes would have been pleased with the first field performance of his programmed autogun. But he was unable to even note that it was engaging enemies while he was rapidly programming a script to control another weapon.
Before he could finish, a commando running through the forest emerged in a clearing some 30 meters from the Spartan sniper's position. Ordered to sweep through the forest quickly in order to flush the sniper into the open, the hunter had suddenly become the hunted. All stealth and concealment now lay entirely with Simjanes.
The Spartan in the dull white armor arose and charged towards his enemy. The Uprising commando felt the ground shake underneath him, something heavy coming near. He heard footfalls and turned towards them only a moment before a huge ghost burst from the forest. Before the commando could breathe or bring his weapon to bear, Simjanes put a high-power sniper round through his head.
The dead commando's squad leader heard the report of the sniper's rifle and watched one of the "in COM" indicators fade out. He asked his Pelican transport to give him the last known position of the snuffed-out Friend-or-foe marker - but the Pelican was busy being shot at by a hidden gun. The pilot could offer no help.
Simjanes paused long enough to finish his program and execute it. Then he went hunting.
The subsystem controlling the four TIEHJAAN anti-air batteries positioned around Butugychag Defense Installation had recognized that there were five Pelicans in its killzone airspace. All five were friendlies according to the broadcast identification tags and its own coding - until it received verified orders to remove all safeties and identify all UPRISING craft as hostile.
"I don't know how you stopped the bomb," Simjanes said, "But I just took care of your flying cockroach problem."
Turpertrator emerged from the Command Center building with a familiar package adhering to his back. At full speed, he ran past one of the defensive gun squads Simjanes had eliminated earlier and headed North for a series of white buildings. He was targeted almost immediately as he sprinted across the snow-covered concrete courtyard and dashed between two narrow buildings.
"Enemy contact. Using an RPT, headed for the labs." The airborne gunner who spotted the fast-moving shadow assumed the enemy was using the commando's friend, the highly collapsible Rapid Personnel Transport. All three Pelicans in watch over the base converged towards their new target.
Some thirty technicians remained outside the research facility, attempting to suppress the wailing screech that was keeping them unaware that the military base was under attack. Without warning, two rockets streamed in and destroyed them where they stood.
As one of the Pelicans cleared the narrow buildings that had hidden the Spartan's approach, the pilot had a visual on his enemy. Turpertrator was jogging and firing his assault rifle into a pocket of cowering survivors. More than two dozen bodies were strewn around two smoldering craters. The pilot stuttered, "Is that an ODST . . . ?" Before he could finish the question, his thought was shattered by a hammer of destruction.
Captain Ganor's pilot cursed in Unified Chinese the moment the missile lock claxon began blaring throughout the Pelican. He cut the engines and sent the Pelican into a free fall, nearly crashing into one of the buildings below. It was the only thing that saved them.
In a moment, the airspace above the compound filled with a noxious, cloudy spiderweb as surface-to-air missiles raced for targets directly above and nearby. Two Pelicans were struck with warheads capable of damaging UNSC capital starships, and evaporated in pounding explosions that shook the base below. The damaged troop carrier that had been lumbering towards the next nearest base for repairs attempted to evade, but was likewise consumed in a cataclysm of death. The Pelican hunting for snipers above the nearby mountain crashed to avoid destruction, the missile erupting on the mountain in a fountain of molten rock and flame.
Turpertrator had resolved in his own mind that the massacre of unarmed technicians was necessary to complete his mission. Eliminate your targets. Follow the chain of command. He remembered that lesson as one who had asked more questions about unarmed targets than most of the Spartan trainees, and as one that had repeated that particular lesson more than any of the others. It is not for you to decide who lives or dies. Execute your orders, recruit. Finish the mission and get you and your team back alive. Sometimes, though, Turpertrator hated it all, in spite of his training.
The field of death in front of a row of white buildings was littered with bodies. Eudoxia confirmed that no technician was still alive on the ground around them. The voice seemed almost mournful, but Turpertrator had no time to think what that might mean.
He was prepared to enter the central lab building when Eudoxia warned, "This facility is guarded by an AI with access to weapons systems. Sorat already knows you are here, and he knows you are an armored commando. He has probably deduced that you are part of the anti-rebel team rumored among UNSC Marines to be called 'Spartans.'"
I have failed, Turpertrator's heart sank, they know the UNSC sent in Spartans. "Did you tell East Command that it was a Spartan attacking this base?"
As if pleased with itself, the AI responded, "No. I detected an infiltration, but could not determine the magnitude of the threat. I put the base on high alert and then Polkovnik Yusumadov had me call the Terrorism Response Taskforce, which you seem to have now destroyed. 159 milliseconds before you entered the command center, an overpowering virus infected the base's entire network. It was breaking every bubble wall I was encasing it with, and was threatening to consume all netwidth due to its immense replicating routines. Clumsy but unstoppable, I knew it could spread beyond the base within seconds and infect the entire East Command. I blew the emergency charges to sever all active and deployable uplinks. This facility has no link with the outside other than what the TRT Pelicans carried with them."
"Alright, this Sorat is locked down?" asked Turpertrator.
"Sorat only has access to the shielded lab facility, but he is an advanced counter-intel unit designed to out-think and overwhelm all Intelligence systems. There are no UNSC AI classes that have a probable chance of defeating his intrusions, myself included. As long as I am linked to your battlesuit, it is likely to be able to subvert your nexus through my interface and terminate you. Sorat's mandates are all linked to the ultimate success of the Uprising. It can kill, and it already has killed one technician it suspected of espionage."
There was movement near the receiving doors, but Sorat could not pinpoint the intruder. Now more than 11 seconds after the main power to the lab was cut off, it concluded that this infiltration was the Spartan loose in the base. But the screech of noise blasting through most of the audio outputs in the building made it improbable that it could make accurate echo soundings in the darkness. Not even the power outage had turned off the noise. In operational blindness and running on batteries, Sorat could not power lights while retaining enough energy for its primary weapon. The near-traitorous AI, Eudoxia, had been captured and would lead the Spartan here if it could. Sorat knew the Spartan would want what it guarded. These were the second generation of Combat AIs; progenies that would guarantee the survival of the righteous Uprising and the survival of mankind. Not even an army of Spartans would be able to stop them.
Fortunately for Turpertrator, the AI Sorat had only been working for a few minutes to make the tools in this lab into weapons. For safety's sake, Uprising techs were still unwilling to put much in the lab that could be commandeered by a rampant AI. Not even a fusion power plant was to be found within the building, only batteries that Sorat was draining rapidly. Turpertrator was about to start throwing things around to flush out whatever weapons Sorat could use when the main entrance opened with a bang. An explosive charge imploded the door, afternoon sunlight blazing in through the smoke like a tidal wave. Into the darkness rushed a pair of soldiers.
Sorat recognized the troops immediately as SpecOps from the Terrorism Task Force. But the human failure was already complete, it had charged its energy weapon and now it did not have an enemy target. In order to dissipate the critical charge, the AI swiveled its modified nanowelder and fired a lightning bolt at the last suspected location of the receiving area ghost.
The lab lit up as the bluish-white arc of electricity crackled across the lab for a half second and burned into the concrete and nearby equipment where Turpertrator had just been. The Spartan was amazed at the power of the blast that gored the floor and vaporized the bulky console he had crouched behind. I do not want to face this thing in a fair fight, Turpertrator decided.
For Sergeant Rashi, it was too much to take in at once. He had not liked the idea of going into this shielded lab, but he did as Captain Ganor ordered. When the blacked out lab lit up with searing lightning, he did not tell his men not to shoot at whatever had fired it. But now, the voice in his head was too much.
"This is Sorat C.500.4. I am a prototype infantry command unit. There is a Spartan commando in this facility. If you follow my orders exactly, you will destroy it and save the Uprising."
The Sergeant was shaking his head while the AI was giving him orders for his squad. This is my Op. What is a Spartan? But the delay was deadly. A grenade rolled silently near the Sergeant's feet on the rubberized floor.
Just like it said. Turpertrator found the battery kill switch, throwing the lever down moments after a pair of grenades decimated Rashi and his squad.
It had not taken a significant amount of Sorat's processing power to realize it was defeated as soon as the first grenade exploded. When the primary batteries in the lab shorted out, the prototype AI calculated it had mere milliseconds to act.
Another arc of electricity strobed in the lab, and then all was still. Through speakers unconnected to the base announcement system a faint whisper trailed off into silence, "Your cursed UN has doomed humanit…"
"Are any of these still good?" Turpertrator asked the AI Eudoxia. "I broke off Sorat's crystal stack before I saw that he fried this whole bank." Dozens of the second generation of InfComAIs were smoking in the duplication console in front of him. Turpertrator was still in surprise. You could buy several planets for the cost of these.
"Give me an angle," demanded the gunner. Somehow Captain Ganor had spotted something moving between the black smoke billowing from the wreckage of destroyed Pelicans.
"Three meters higher and we catch a missile," the pilot retorted. Already the missile tracking alarm was chirping far too frequently.
"Then give me two," demanded Vladimir Ganor. The only squad still in COM was busy blowing up the renegade anti-air batteries, but the target on the ground was getting away.
"There, somebody is diving into the river." Three rockets sped towards the river shore. As Ganor watched, smoke, mud, and water blasted high in a cavalcade of three explosions.
A fourth explosion shook the earth and warped the sky. Everything flashed white.
The fireball over Butugychag Defense Installation rolled upwards into the polar air. Below, what remained of the base was a lake of fire and cinders.
A surviving TRT commando picked himself up from the shockwave that had thrown him down onto the mountainside. Four hundred meters down slope, trees had been blasted back at the foot of the mountain and were already roaring into flame. Soon the entire mountain he stood on would be consumed. He looked down into the crater where the base had just been and stared.
A voice whispered from behind, like the chilling voice of death. "Betcha they could see that from orbit."
The stunned commando turned towards the voice, and his blood turned to ice. A Spartan in dull white armor moved from behind a snow-covered boulder and pounced at the rebel soldier. Simjanes' tungsten combat knife punched through the commando's body armor with a single, superhuman thrust. The soldier thrashed in agony for a moment and then died as the Spartan effortlessly suspended him in the air.
"Simjanes," said a female voice in the Spartan's COM link. "Turpertrator is wounded and needs your help."
"You evil snake," the sniper mumbled, "you actually captured an AI."
[the end]
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Turpertrator is the author of "Between the Hammer and Anvil."
Visit the archives of the Grand Rapids Frag Pile http://bungie.net/fanclub/grfp/GroupHome.aspx for more exploits and articles by founders Lexicus, Chuckles, Hogg, Turpertrator, and others.
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