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Deck 35
Date: 3 March 2005, 10:02 AM

"There's no reason to stay here," Pvt. Nyx muttered as he peered into the room at the grisly scene before him. Standing in the doorway the stocky Marine could make out red-painted walls and potrusions of limbs mercifully shrouded in the darkness of shadows. The room was small, about five by eight meters square, but it was large enough to accomodate the remains of a few helpless cadets.

In front of the Pvt., halfway wrapped in the shadow of the doorframe, Sgt. Ptolemy stood quietly observing the carnage. "I loved her," he half-sobbed, stark blue eyes locked onto a bloody, barely recognizable corpse that laid sprawled across a bunk.

"You've never loved anyone," Nyx responded dismissively, lazily tossing his rifle up onto his shoulder before reaching down with his other hand to fumble with the transponder at his waist.

All Ptolemy could do was grind the grip of his battle rifle. Behind him the faint tempo of a radio call beeped in his ears. He lowered his head mournfully as the sound penetrated his own earpiece. For a long moment the two just stood there, one leering at the charred carrion of a female form while the other caste an elongated shadow that conveyed more boredom than sympathy.

Still the beeping of the transponder continued.

"Are you gonna answer that?" Sgt. Ptolemy finally asked, a frustrated snarl coming over his face as he wheeled on the Pvt..

With a look of stoic indifference Pvt. Nyx flipped the switch on the transponder and reached up to press the earpiece further into his lobe. A series of muted transmissions flooded the air around him as the message issued forth. Pvt. Nyx just stared off into the short distance while the emphatic caller relayed what could only be discerned as their troubles. When it ended the Marine looked to his superior.

"They're moving to Deck 34," he answered, still pressing the now mute earpiece into his head. "All squads have been ordered to defilade to Decks 33 and 35. They're going to try and set up a crossfire."

Ptolemy grimaced. He wished to Hell his radio hadn't blown out earlier. A nearby plasma grenade explosion had made short work of his equipment. Even his battle rifle had a hard time recognizing the new magazines' input, often requiring him to load them by manually bolting the thing. It was a real pain the ass.

"What about the breach in the foredeck?" he asked. "Are they abandoning that?"

Nyx shrugged. "How the Hell should I know? They just sent out a full call up for Decks 33 and 35. I guess the Covs are trying to outlfank us."

"Hard to 'outflank' on a battleship, Pvt.," Ptolemy mused. Nyx only rolled his eyes. He didn't give a shit. "Fine, we'll move to Deck 35. At least there we'll be among company when we die." With that he wheeled from the room and made his way down the burnished steel hallway of the starship. Periodically placed ceiling lights flickered on and off as the power fluctuated in response to the constant barrage of enemy cruiser fire. They created pockets of sporadic shadows that would flicker into and out of existence as Ptolemy stormed down the corridor.

For a moment Nyx only watched the Sgt. leave, hesitant to follow such a dour leader who he was sure was going to get him killed. The man sought death, especially now. The lifeless, mangled body of the woman he'd loved had been all that kept the poor bastard together. Now that she was gone what did he have to live for? Yep, Pvt. Nyx thought casually, I'm royally fucked.

He was still mulling over that apparent fact when he stepped into the small lift, crowding into a space between the handrails while Sgt. Ptolemy adjusted the fire control on his rifle. Surreptitiously, Pvt. Nyx watched Ptolemy flip the switch from three-round-burst to full-auto. It only confirmed his dire suspicions of personal doom.

The ride up was quiet for a long time. Only the hum of the anti-gravity wells propelling the lift made any noise. Pvt. Nyx decided to keep his mouth shut. Besides, what could he say? No words of solace would suffice. In any other circumstance the situation might be awkward. But there was a battle raging and both were exhausted with the knowledge that death could occur at any minute and in any gruesome fashion. It was a point that was reiterated by their sorrowful discovery inside the bulwarked living quarters. Nyx remembered the fear of being too late as they raced down the long snaking corridor of the Residence Deck, hoping to get there before a cluster of Covenant boarders did. He wasn't afraid for those people hunkered down and hiding in the bunks for their own sake, but for his. He knew if they got there too late it would mean the end of Sgt. Ptolemy's sanity; the end of his reason to live. He may have indeed loved her, or at least thought he did, but either way Nyx knew with each successive step that if she was dead he definately wouldn't be far behind.

This fact was confirmed by Ptolemy's progressive and repeated cursing as they grew nearer. When at last they drew up to Bunk 49 they knew it was over. The smell of blood was an acute and well-known stench to both Marines. So was the acrid smell of gunpowder and ionized haze of plasma scoring. But that wasn't what sealed his knowledge of their deaths. No, it was the silence. That post-mortem silence so defeaning it rang in the ears. He would have preferred a thousand plasma barrages to that foreboding noiseless resonance.

"We could have made it," Ptolemy finally stated as the lift continued to hum beneath them. He turned to Pvt. Nyx. "I could have saved 'em. If that damned Captain hadn't've ordered us all to the foredeck breach I could've saved 'er."

The Marine beside him only grimaced. "At least she's out of this hell," he tried. "I think now we should try to focus on revenge though, Sgt.," he proffered. "Get those squid-faced bastards back for what they did."

Sgt. Ptolemy said nothing. Nyx watched him while the lift's floor counter beeped every few seconds. 25, 26, 27, 28....

"I mean, it's only a matter of time anyways, right? Half the fleet's gone, our company's been reduced to slag, the dropships and escape pods are either spent or they're fragged, and there's more Covenant pouring into the ship with each passing minute. We're probably already dead, let's at least make 'em pay for it."

The Sgt. just stared up at the green LED floor counter. 30, 31, 32....

A distant sound resembling thunder erupted from far above the lift. An explosion. It trickled down and flooded its shockwave into the lift, shuddering the handrails violently. The two reached for the rattling bars along their waist to brace against the exigency of impact. A quick succession of smaller eruptions followed suit, sending tremors through the beaten frame of the lift.

"Jesus, I don't want to die," Pvt. Nyx half pled to himself. "But until they realize there're no Spartans on this ship they'll keep landing. That means we have time to do something." A sudden burst of hope surged within him. It was small, miniscule, but it was there. "We could signal one of the remaining dropships from the other ships! Or we could commandeer one of their-"

All of a sudden a great wailing erupted from Ptolemy. He sunk to the floor and landed on his haunches, his rifle clattering on the steel grated frame. He buried his head in his hands and issued forth uncontrollable sobs. It was all Nyx could do to stand there and watch with disgust as his superior fell apart in front of him.

33, 34, 35. The male voice of their inept shipboard AI sounded the number and with a slightly different pitched ping the lift drew to a halt.

Without any explicable amount of pretense the Sgt. was back on his feet and drying his eyes on an exposed patch of OD sleeve that protruded through his armor. His battle rifle was in hand and a moment later he was fumbling with the controls, making sure everything was in order.

Pvt. Nyx looked at him warily. Silence filled the small lift. Outside could be heard the distant crack and peal of random explosions; probably grenades. Following this were the tin-like sputterings and drumrolls of various small arms fire punctuated by a tremendously violent blast that leaked streams of heat between the cracks of the lift doors. Pvt. Nyx felt his stomach drop.

A second later and the lift doors were open.

Pvt. Nyx had no time to register the scene of chaos before him; Sgt. Ptolemy was leaping in front and diving for the nearest bit of cover before he could spit, laying down streams of suppressive fire into what he perceived -and what Pvt. Nyx hoped- was the direction of the Covenant boarders. The stocky Marine made sure he was close on the ass of his tall, lanky superior, even as the two thundered into a nearby supply crate. Plasma fire quickly scoured the air overhead, drumming into the interior of the lift where they had stood only seconds ago.

Now relatively secure, Pvt. Nyx took a minute to drink in his surroundings. They were on Deck 35 alright, and it looked like things had been well under way. Apparently the Covenant had arrived sooner than they thought. He could only see a few makeshift barricades strewn about the place. Most were upturned tables or slabs of floor paneling. A few were the "battle bunkers" set up deliberately by Marines, but it looked like time had not afforded them much preparation. His suspicions were confirmed when he spied a cluster of the things piled up and awaiting deployment in a shadowy corner.

To his left an unknown fire team of Marines hunkered down behind a riddled mess hall table. They crowded around one another in an effort to shield themselves from the infuriating barrage of plasma fire coming from across the room.

"This is bullshit!" one of the Marines shouted through gritted teeth over the den of chaos. His mates were silent in their agreement. Pvt. Nyx watched as a trio of plasma grenades landed a meter away from them. A quick turn of his head saved the Marine from witnessing the gruesome explosion and charred aftermath that ensued.

To his right, on the landing above, he saw three fire teams huddled around a series of pillars and battle bunkers exchanging fire with the Covenant. He recognized two of them as Fire Team Bravo and Fire Team Zulu. Zulu was in his company. He tried to peer through the smoke and haze of plasma ionization and gunpowder to see if there were any familiar faces on the upper level. It was nearly impossible with the amount of muzzle flashes and smoke.

"Hey!" shouted a nearby voice. "Hey, jackass!" it called again, this time with a thrumming on Pvt. Nyx's shoulder paldron. He turned to see Sgt. Ptolemy glaring at him, his outstretched hand rapping on Nyx's armored shoulder. "Radio C&C and find out who the hell the goddamned officer is down here, I can't see shit!" he bellowed, his vulgar tone barely audible over the cacophony of fire.

Without hesitation Nyx got to work on the call.

"C&C, this is Fire Team India requesting officer beaken on Deck 35!" He repeated the phrase several times as the battle raged around him. Just as he was saying it for the eighth time, as Sgt. Ptolemy rose to fire off a few indiscriminate rounds of battle rifle fire, a reply transmission came back. Pvt. Nyx listened intently, straining to pick up on the voice as empty shell casings from Ptolemy's rifle spilled into his lap. He tugged on the Sgt.'s knee cop to get his attention.

"What'd they say?" he asked as he dropped down beside the Marine. A fresh barrage of plasma fire thundered into the worn crate top above them.

"Chiron!" Pvt. Nyx replied. "Chiron is the Lt. up here!" Ptolemy nodded his acknowledgement while plucking a grenade from his web harness. Nyx couldn't help but eye the thing, a feeling of uneasiness sickening his gut. He knew what was coming.

"We've got to find him!" Ptolemy shouted.
"Are you kidding me?!"

Ptolemy only glared at him, his expression conveying only hopeless determination. Below, the faint sound of a pin being pulled registered in Pvt. Nyx's ears.

"Just give me some coverfire and stay on my ass!" the Sgt. ordered.

Pvt. Nyx closed his eyes and leaned back, his body went limp with terror, evidenced by the back of his head thudding against the rough-hewn material of the protective crate. A moment later and he had composed himself. He looked at Sgt. Ptolemy.

"You sonofabitch," he growled. "You're going to get us killed."

Sgt. Ptolemy only grinned, his face resembling that of a rabid predator.

"Frag out!" he yelled.

Seconds later they were over the top of the crate, ass-deep in hell.

The Phokian Wall Part II: Precision Mishaps
Date: 8 March 2005, 10:44 AM

The Phokian Wall Part II: Precision Mishaps

"Hold the line here!" Lieutenant Leo Chiron shouted over the thunderous drumming of turret fire and plasma volleys. To his left Sergeant Alexander laid down a full clip's worth of suppressive fire, his assault rifle rattling madly as the stream of lead erupted from his weapon. Smoke choked the air around them, the product of thirty-some-odd ballistics weapons discharging along the line of defense. It was nearly impossible to see anything. Beyond, roughly forty meters and below one level, a sparkling array of plasma fire spewed forth from the commons area of Deck 34, the Covenant boarders already gathering a foothold on the ship. Chiron gave up trying to see his enemy through the haze, adopting a spray and pray tactic that was justified only by his use of 'grenade funneling'. This was where two teams of Marines would coordinate a flanking launch of frag grenades. These would funnel the enemy into a central position, bunched up and ripe for turret fire and a second volley of grenades. They had been doing that for the past ten minutes with little if any effect. The Covenant just kept coming.

Lieutenant Chiron leapt forward from his place behind the bunkered makeshift position of defense. Behind such random meter-tall edifices as these his scattered fire teams of Marine Regulars poured their small arms fire into the lower positions, all the while dodging plasma grenades and enemy return fire. The front of their rubble bunkers was black as sackcloth from the pounding of plasma scoring. Behind them the distinct musk of mixed sweat, blood, and urine permeated the air mixed with the acrid stench of melted armor and the dull cloud of ionized air. Overhead fires billowed smoke into the barely contained atmosphere of the ship's interior. The battle was going poorly, and time was running out.

The Marines had entered Decks 33 and 35 not twenty minutes ago and since had seen roughly a third of their infantry numbers be charred and blown apart by enemy fire. The sizzle of dead bodies encased in ruptured armor did nothing to bolster the hardened soldiers' resolve. Orders and curses were barely audible as they were shouted across the line. Taunts had so far ceased to be issued, as no Marine had the stomach to tempt their fate anymore.

Chiron knew this. He knew he had to do something. His men were dieing. Time was running out. But it might be alright; he had a plan. He could see from his limited vantage point that more Covenant boarders were pouring in through the breaches in the commons room windows along the walls. There had to be at least forty of them down there by now, with more and more being shuffled in every minute. Deck 35 offered a nice overlook to these windows but it was not enough to affect a firing solution. It was too open. The Covenant had that area suppressed. He could not hope to man the place long enough to gain some advantage; it was too hot. Nor could he file troops down to the same level as the Covenant. The gravlift had been disabled from that floor, preventing its commandeering by the Covs. For the moment they had them pinned down. But it was costing them. Only fifty or so Marines were still active on board the ship and with more and more Covenant coming in numerical superiority would soon be a thing of the past. Chiron would have to do something drastic.

"Keep me covered Mike!" he shouted to Private Alexander. The boyish-faced Marine responded by leaping around his upturned mess hall table and tossing a grenade into the general direction of the enemy before emptying another clip of assault rifle rounds. As the rattling of his trooper's gun sputtered lead into the air around him Lieutenant Chiron got low and made his way as quickly as possible to the next bit of cover, all the while juking and weaving in and out of plasma volleys. His vector was a square metal support beam warped by the heat of plasma fire. From there he could overlook the enemy's position with relative safety. One Marine huddled against a half-blasted column would not affect notice from the Covenant, especially if he kept his presence discreet and refused to open fire. Lieutenant Chiron now moved to make this prospect a reality. If he could get there in time he could try to coordinate some enfilading fire by way of those fire teams on Deck 33. As acting officer of the current situation he would have full authority to organize a pincer maneuver. As he reached the objective cover and squatted low to stay out of sight, he put his hand to the inside of his helmet, pressing the earpiece of his com unit deeper into his ear.

"Fire Team Tango, this is Grey Wolf, do you copy, over?" A replying voice squawked into his headset, obscured by the peppering of transmitter static.

"...oger Grey Wolf, this is Fire...Tango......over."

The officer gritted his teeth in the set jaw of a grimace as he struggled to make out the garbled words of his contact. "What can you see from your position, over?"

The reply came back equally disrupted. "...two new Coven....bout two clicks to port....fifteen Grunts and seven Eli............holding as best we can but..........ho.....hit!" Suddenly the voice was overwhelmed in Chiron's headset by the bursting sounds of small arms fire. He could hear it echoed below him near the lower portions of Deck 34. For a moment the sickening feeling that they were dead flooded into his guts. It was one that he had become well acquainted with as of late. Seconds later the voice came back into his earpiece, this time booming with tremendous clarity for a brief moment. "Bragrada! Bagrada! Bagra-", was all he heard.

A moment of frenzied fire and explosions came from Fire Team Tango's perceived location on Deck 33. And when it ended Lieutenant Chiron knew they were dead. 'Bagrada' was the code word for a sudden arrival of Hunters. Chiron didn't even stop to wonder how those Covenant bastards managed to get some of the worm-like hulks on board. It didn't matter. They were here and now he'd have to deal with it. Gritting his teeth again, he dialed for his only surviving junior officer.

"Corporal Telamon," he called. "This is Grey Wolf, come in, over."

"Go ahead, boss."

"We're in deep shit; Bagrada on Deck 33." Telamon conveyed his empathies with a curse of his own. "I want you to order all fire teams off that level and set charges and traps near the lift. I'm going to radio Captain Dytharimbos and alert him to our plight."

"Roger, Grey Wolf. Telamon out."

No sooner had his second in command's transmission crackled to a close than Lieutenant Chiron was dialing for C&C on the bridge. His transponder beeped irritatingly as Covenant energy weapons continued to strafe fire in his direction; the random application of suppression in the hopes of hitting a human. Behind Chiron by about fifteen meters, Sergeant Alexander ducked behind the square top of the mess table barely escaping a scathing volley of charged plasma pistol fire; the large green globule of energy punching a grizzly hole through the metal barricade. Directly behind him another Marine was moving forward, someone from Fire Team India. He didn't get ten paces before flailing backwards from a plasma rifle shot to his eyes. Chiron didn't have time to make out the details of his Marine's demise but he didn't have to. He knew what it looked like; he had seen it a thousand times. The eyes melted from the heat leaving two liquid-filled cavities in a head burned a sickly purple and black hue. The skull usually showed through when hit directly with a plasma rifle burst. It glistened an eerie bluish color as the blood and sinew sunk and sizzled around it. The only consolation for a fatal wound like that was it affected little pain, resulting in a quick death.

He was still thinking about it when C&C answered his transponder.

"This is Captain Dytharimbos, go ahead Grey Wolf."

"Sir, we've got a Bagrada below us on Deck 33, request you get the shipboard AI to close off all access from that juncture-"

"We know, Lieutenant," the captain said with resignation. "We found out about the breach two minutes ago. There's nothing we can do. Pull your fire teams out and we'll do our best to lock the place down."

"I've already issued the order to evacuate," Chiron replied. "I need to know what the plan is sir. If we're sticking around then I think I can buy us some time. Have we signaled any Pelicans for dockside pickup?"

"That's a negative, Grey Wolf; there are no Pelicans for pickup." The officer cursed under his breath, ignoring the rush of blood to his ears that happened every time he felt panic tickle the back of his psyche. All he wanted was permission to go ahead with his plan or new orders. This standing around and trading fire with the Covenant was getting his men killed. The poor bastards were dropping like flies. "Just hold with what you've got while we try to figure something out."

"Will do sir," he replied. Half a heartbeat later and he was peeping around the smoldering edge of the metal column to get a peek at the enemy's position. The transmission ended. Lieutenant Chiron made to rise and crawl his way back to Alexander's position. He gripped the rubber fore of his battle rifle and slid up the uneven side of the pillar. Suddenly a blast erupted to his right sending a green cloud of suffocating fumes and heat over half his body. It choked its way into his lungs and froze his senses with agony. He gagged and heaved as the cloud wrapped around his armored form. Seconds later he felt a disorienting loss of balance, stumbling where he stood and trying to keep the ground under his feet. Ahead he could see Sergeant Alexander calling his name, waving at him with a hand wrapped in white and red cloth. It was hard to tell but Chiron thought he saw red streaked across the young Marine's face. It didn't matter, though, for the next thought he had was one of delirium. He felt himself go weightless and tumble over the side of the railing, down onto Deck 34. The world spun and wheeled around him. When he landed the air burst out of him and his vision went dark.

He awoke on a table, one of the elevated ones of the commons room that littered Deck 34. Shaking his vision clear of stars he rolled off to his left, where he hoped the cover of the wall might reside. He was lucky, and in seconds found himself lying flat against a doorframe facing a swarm of frenzied Covenant. His chest heaved against his armored chest plate, trying to regain some of the air that had been forced from him by the fall. But it came in rattled spurts, refused by the scene he now bore sight of. Terror struck him then, as he witnessed without obscurity the full vision of his enemy. They choked and crowded the forward observatory of the commons room by the dozens, with more pouring in through the several breaches every other minute. At their feet he could see the fruits of his Marines' labor: scores of dead Covenant bodies riddled with gory wounds; torn and shredded by turret fire and grenades, splattered and burst apart by rocket fire, and riddled like Swiss cheese by the precision rounds of battle and assault rifles. The ground was pot marked with craters from grenades and rockets. In a few places along behind the Covs the outer wall was shaved dangerously thin by their own munitions fire. A few more rocket blasts and the hull integrity would buckle.

Hell, he thought, it might be the only way we can off these sons of bitches.

No sooner had that thought occurred to him than something truly daunting presented itself. The Covenant saw him. To be exact, two Grunts and a red Elite saw him, standing towards the fore of the Covenant beachhead. He watched through somewhat still-blurry vision as the Eite pointed at him and barked something incomprehensible and utterly vile. The hostility in its voice could not be misconstrued. Immediately the two Grunts at his feet went rushing for Chiron. He fumbled beside him for the battle rifle. His fingers clawed over bits of broken glass and smoldering shards of ship metal. Yet their attempts purchased no weapon. His eyes grew to the size of saucers as he eyed the approaching enemy came to about twenty meters distance, closing fast on hoofed feet. His heart pounded in his chest, the blood thrumming through his ears.

Holy shit, his mind screamed, this is it! I can't believe it!

He watched with near helplessness as the two Grunts and the Elite closed the distance on him. Quickly he abandoned his search for the battle rifle and looked to his left thigh, hoping to God that his pistol was still holstered.

I'll never swear again, he promised in thanks as his palm ran across the grained grip of his sidearm. He popped the latched strap and jerked the newly discovered pistol out. With one fell swoop he had the thing cocked and aimed at the enemy. Amidst the den of hellish noise and volatile cacophony of war that waged around him he could distinctly hear the repeat of his semiauto pistol bark precision-guided death into the air. At fifteen meters the second Grunt flew backwards, a pistol slug tearing through its crowned head. At ten meters the foremost Grunt doubled over with a bullet wound gushing blue ooze from its neck. With a concerted effort to rise, Lieutenant Chiron aimed and fired his rounds at the Elite. The thing glimmered and pulsed as the slugs ricocheted off of its energy shield, harmlessly landing at its grotesque feet. Chiron watched in horror as the monster drew a bead on him with its plasma rifle. He could see the small eerie eyes of the thing set atop its four tooth-filled mandibles. Its four-sided jaw opened in a growling snarl as it drew down its rifle on Lieutenant Chiron.

Suddenly the Elite jerked as the energy shield around it lit up. Bullets bounced off of the right side of its body. Lieutenant Chiron turned to the left to see two Marines rushing in with battle rifles blazing. The spray of rounds halted the Elite's oncoming rush mere meters from Lieutenant Chiron's position, saving him from a gruesome death delivered personally at close quarters. The thing turned with rage upon its new assailants who advanced fearlessly upon it with exacting vengeance. Chiron watched with admiration as the foremost Marine, a tall lanky chap with cold eyes and broad shoulders, moved elegantly over the strewn debris towards his prey. Behind him a much smaller, stockier Marine kept pace all the while drawing down on the Elite with a precision that seemed remarkable. In moments they had popped the Elite's shields and were strafing it, moving as a dais in a concentric pattern. The beast went down in a hail of strangely colored blood that sprayed all over those close by, including Chiron.

"Lieutenant Chiron?" the tall one asked as they huddled behind a shadowy wall, hidden from sight. Chiron nodded his acknowledgement, wiping his hands clean of alien gore. "I'm Sergeant Ptolemy, this is Private Nyx. We're of Fire Team India."

"You are Fire Team India," Chiron declared. "The rest of them are dead." The two only nodded their heads. "Thank you, Marines. I've never seen such good goddamned timing."

"We got lucky," Nyx said sheepishly.

Ptolemy ignored him. "So what's the plan?"

Chiron grinned devilishly. "Have you ever heard of a Phokian Wall?" he asked.

"A what?"

"Sounds like something we used to do back in college when the cheerleaders got drunk," Ptolemy answered wryly.

The lieutenant shook his head. "It's a defense. I've got a way of pushing these lizard-fuckers off this ship but it'll take time and an orchestrated effort."

"Lead the way Maestro," Ptolemy proffered, "I'm game." Without hesitation Chiron motioned for them to follow him. He made his way deeper into the dark hallway of the commons room alley, apart and hidden from the Covenant marshalling some forty meters behind them. Ahead were the auxiliary stairwells that would lead to Deck 35. Directly above them the sounds of Marine fire teams fighting tooth and nail could be heard as the battle continued.

"It's an old tactic really," Chiron stated as they entered the cramped access area to the left of the alleyway. "We need to gather all our bunkers and tables and try to build a wall at least a meter high. Then, while laying down cover fire, we advance with the walls in front until we're right up on their-" Suddenly he stopped mid sentence, wheeling back and issuing a shriek from his very soul. Terror gripped the three as a lumbering shape bolted forward in front of them, out of the shadows of the stairwells. All three reeled in horror at what had manifested three meters in front of them.

Towering over them like a gorgon beast from the abyss stood a Hunter, its orange, formless mass shrouded in the thick blue armor and two-meter long shield. At its side glowed the infamous plasma cannon. It roared at them, sending shivers of absolute mania down the Marines' spines. No one thought to raise their weapons. No one even thought to run. They just stood there.

With a tremendous jolt the juggernaut leapt for them raising its shield high overhead before bringing it crashing down. It hit all three of them at once, sending the Marines flailing backwards into the narrow hallway. The thing was over them in an instant. All three simply cowered in fear of the inevitable, any semblance of courage or destiny fled from their spirits. It raised its shield high above ready to bring the two tapered edges of its lower portion down into the bodies of the humans, skewering them and pinning their lifeless forms to the floor.

A fresh burst of thunder erupted from somewhere in the distance then, reaching the three's ears just as their eyes beheld an inexplicable sight. The Hunter's stomach exploded sending showers of orange wriggling goop all over them, painting the hallway in its putrescence. The thing roared like a thousand awful tempests before finally toppling over in a clamorous tangle of armor. There it lied, still as stone on the burnished steel floor of the narrow hallway, filling the breadth of the passage with its impossibly wide frame.

Chiron exchanged looks of bewildered relief as they rose from their positions on the floor. That kind of fire didn't come from any standard issue small arms. That was something special, like a sniper rifle. But there were no marksmen down here. How could there be?

"What in the Hell was that?" Nyx asked in shock.

Ptolemy shrugged. "I don't know, it sounded like some damned sniper fire."

Lieutenant Chiron had no time to answer. His transponder was beeping furiously. Reaching up into his helmet he secured the earpiece which had come substantially loose.

The voice crackled over his speaker. It was Captain Dytharimbos. "Grey Wolf, come in."

"I read you sir, go ahead."

"I thought you should know that you've got some extra help down there; someone who I thought we'd lost in the first attack wave."

"Who is it?" he asked with a tone that suggested he need not suspect.

"You've got a Dark Arrow in your midst, lieutenant. I'm sure he'll prove to be a real ace in the hole."

Perfect timing, Chiron thought, why didn't anyone tell me we still had SpecOps units on this ship? He birthed a sardonic smile. "Yeah," he replied knowingly. "He already has."

The Phokian Wall Part III: Loki
Date: 8 March 2005, 10:47 AM

The Phokian Wall Part III: Loki

It's just a job. At least, that's what I tell myself whenever things get hairy. It's just business. I mumble those words over and over as I run stooped over from cover to cover. I say it's what I get paid to do as I dodge streams of plasma fire and the enveloping ionization of plasma grenades. You can see my mouth move when I jump behind a piece of plasma-scored rubble charred beyond any recognition of whatever the hell it might have once been. It's a job, it's a job, it's a job, it's a job.

Luckily this hardly ever happens. Rarely do the Covenant see me and even when they do they're hard pressed to get a bead on me. I live in the tangle of blasted architecture. I breathe in the darkness of shadows. Where others huddle for a brief respite to reload or where wounded hobble to suture their bleeding arteries, that's where I reside. It's my home. The shadows.

A lot of the Marines love it; they think it's pretty great that I can skulk about undetected and shoot the eyes out of Grunts or skim a mandible off an Elite's face. They're impressed with the whole thing. They approach me afterwards and call me "badass". I'm always flattered with this, embarrassingly so. But what those Marines never realize is that it is I who is impressed with them. They are the ones willing to wade through the hell of combat and expose themselves to the exigencies of war. They are the ones who proudly stand behind cover in some blasted field or around the corner of some starship corridor and face the Covenant head on. Me? My job is different. I used to be one of them, but nothing good lasts forever, and nothing great lasts for long. I had a knack for accuracy and it wasn't long before SpecOps had snatched me out of my fire team and sent me off to supplemental school for specialized training. God I miss my fire team. No amount of notches on my gun can fill that void. It's no surprise then that I hold those Marine Regulars in the highest regard, far higher than I hold myself or those like me. They're braver than I am. They're tougher than I am. They get all the glory, and they deserve it. I love those guys.

Nevertheless I do feel sorry for them. After a battle they can always be seen picking pieces of blown shrapnel out of their greaves or shoulder paldrons, sometimes the shards come right out of their helmets. This doesn't happen to me, not anymore anyways. Like I said, the Covenant never really find me, they just flail about helplessly as I pick them off; stalling them long enough for Marine Regulars to affect an attack supplemented by my distraction. It's good thing though, for I don no real armor, just my tactical suit and web gear. The suit is air tight allowing me water insertion or even, for a brief time, forays into vacuum. It's thermodynamically controlled so my heat signature never registers. Likewise, I don't carry the standard issue sniper rifle. There's another reason why I pity the Marine Regs: those damn rifles are enormous...and heavy. The contrail alone from that thing would be enough to spot me. No, mine is smaller, more compact, and elicits no muzzle flash or contrail. The bullets aren't armor-piercing like the standard issue sniper rifle, but I don't give a damn. It's not my job to bring down Wraiths and Phantoms. I'm an infiltrator; antipersonnel; and RiF unit, or Recon in Force. I carry sixty rounds in my rifle and a backup M1A2 pistol. I also carry a small knife, just for me. Most Marines carry knives. They'll take them out and wave them around to their friends or slam them tip-first onto a card table while downing a dozen beers. Theirs are butcher knives. It's overkill. You only need an inch of steel to get the job done, even on the complex biologics of the Covenant. There's always a sweet spot that can exploited.

But hopefully I never have to get that close. Of course, there's a certain dignity in killing your opponent up close and in the shadows. It saves their comrades from watching them die. I must admit I feel a twinge of mercy when I open up the veins on the side of a Grunt's neck. I'm doing him a favor. It could be worse: I could blow the top half of his head off while he's waddling down a corridor, painting the walls with his bluish purpled innards. But this also has its merits. There's always something to be said for making a mess of your opponent's body. It creates a distraction. I can't convey to you how many times I've set up my perch waiting for a Covenant fire team to advance down a corridor only to see them clustered together; four Grunts and a pair of Jackals all huddled around a towering Elite like a pack of toddlers around their disgruntled father. This, to me, is a perfect setup. I target the Grunt second from point and shoot him right above his brow. This sends his brains splattering in a triumphant shower all over those behind him and painting the walls. His comrades reel in confusion, blinded by the spray of goop. The Grunts scream with terror while the Jackals swivel in mania. The Elite roars with frustration as he tries to wipe his vision clean of the blue matter. But it's too late. In the second after the confusion I shoot whoever is on the right flank and, hopefully, turned around to inspect the lifeless form of their comrade, forcing the formation to veer left. They do this because they think my only line of fire is off to the right. They are sorely mistaken. The next target is the Elite, before he can get his sight back. It takes at least two shots to take him down. The only pitfall to my smaller rifle is that the bullets don't pack quite as much punch, though there are certainly more of them, eight rounds per magazine and one in the chamber making for nine rounds opening salvo. So now I'm half spent with a few Covenant left. I shoot the hands off of the Jackals because they are the most commonly exposed extremity. This sends the remaining Grunts fleeing in terror. By then I can pick them off at leisure.

But not always can I affect a turnabout. Sometimes I am faced overwhelming odds. Take, for example, our current plight. The BCS Aspis, a heavy battleship used mainly for blockades, was overrun with Covenant nine hours ago. The battle, itself and extension of a three day defense campaign, had been waging for two hours prior with little fortune going in our favor; we were holding our own but just barely. We're somewhat used to this by now. We were not overwhelmed this time, then again we rarely are. Second Fleet contains nearly a hundred and forty combat ready UNSC vessels with full compliments of Marine detachments and wings of Longsword fighters. Our particular flotilla, Battlegroup November, enlisted seven ships of substantial size and armament. The Aspis was one of our best. But it was not good enough. Nothing ever is against the Covenant. With each passing hour our situation grows more desperate.

Our lead ship, the Titan X, a massive Ravager Class Starship, had taken up point in a bottleneck created by two neighboring fields of asteroids. It was suicide to travel through the belts of celestial debris and the Covenant knew it. They'd have to pass through our choke point. We had hoped to hold them here, knowing full well that it might be a suicide mission. But with the rest of the Second Fleet engaged elsewhere and heavily occupied with Covenant battlegroups, there was nothing we could do. We had to hold by ourselves. We should have just lined the place with neutron bombs and blown it the second the Covenant entered. I sometimes wonder why starship captains take a more direct approach to fights rather than implementing a little ingenuity. A fantastic asteroid shower could have been accomplished with a few well placed explosions. But apparently our lead captain felt otherwise. Needless to say, it might have been a mistake. The Titan X fought valiantly in the fore, while behind the rest of us tried to affect some decent cover and suppression. But it was to no avail, there were too many Covenant vessels. I could feel the explosion from the Titan X's reactors going critical while still inside my armory, preparing for the inevitable. Seven hours later and our hull was breached on the foredeck. The sound and the fury of those alarms still wail in my ears like a banshee's call. The red lights rotating in their shells still elicit ghastly emotions of dread in me. I hate starboard combat. One wrong grenade throw or rocket blast -hell, even one wrong bullet near an explosive tank! - can create a hole in the ship and suck everyone into the vacuum. The screams that erupt from humans and Covenant alike are enough to curdle the blood in my veins. It shakes me to the core. But I manage to keep my composure, my training has conditioned me to; the necessity for my services compels me. Therefore, while the red lights strobe overhead and the sirens shrill into the pressurized air of the starship I kiss my Saint Michael medallion and silver cross before zipping up the inner layer of the rubber-like body glove. I then don my VacSuit and assemble my web gear. When this is done I load my weapons, taking a few seconds to fine tune my scope and clean the bores one last time. I wipe the blade of my knife on my sleeve, once for each of the two edges. This is for nothing other than good luck. Call me superstitious, but after three and a half years of skulking about I've learned that luck often enough can save a person's life. After that I grab my multi-visored helmet and seal up the air tight clamps. The thing pressurizes itself and I see the systems diagnostic come alive in my HUD. I have a compass at the top set to C&C for "North". To my bottom left I see a bar graph displaying my various suit diagnostics: heart rate monitor, communication antenna strength, temperature control, pressure seal integrity, reserve air tank, and radiation levels are all displayed in the same small bracket of colored bars. Then my helmet runs through the three modes of vision: Light Enhancement, Thermal, and Targeting. When this is done I say a prayer and close shop. I head out of the secured armory and report to C&C. The shipboard AI, Dienekes, describes the situation to me via my implanted communicator.

"Twenty-one Covenant boarding ferries have been picked up on radar but more CCS battlegroups are pouring through the chokepoint," he tells me through the communicator. It feels more like someone talking in my brain than speaking into my ear. I ask him what their ETA is. "Six-point-one minutes," he declares with a precision so inane only an AI could produce it. "Captain Dytharimbos has already issued the order for the Marines to respond to the foredeck. He wants you to go swimming and sabotage their boarding craft from the outside." 'Going swimming', as Dienekes calls it, is our captain's coded slang for gaining access to the exterior of the ship by way of maintenance hatches. This is a difficult job. But I trust Captain Nathan Hooper Dytharimbos. Before I know it I am changing my vector for one that will lead me to the nearest exterior hatch. I'm on Deck 15 so it requires me to take a gravity lift. "Better hurry," Dienekes urges with the typical contrived emotion, "they're picking up multiple waves of Covenant bombers moving into an approach vector."

"What's their trajectory," I ask as I push the numbers for the uppermost level of the ship.

"Seventy clicks to port and closing. But they're not headed for us directly; it looks like they're going to take out the Xyphos first." The Xyphos is a small pursuit vessel used to chase down any blockade runners or perform atmospheric bombardments of specific enemy positions. It's a small ship with inadequate armor and ordinance to sustain a barrage by a full wing of Covenant bombers. It won't last long. "My calculations indicate the Xyphos's destruction will buy us two minutes." This, strangely enough, is said with little feeling from Dienekes. Apparently he doesn't care about other ships. Or perhaps they have a shipboard AI that he doesn't like. Who knows with AI?

I'm still thinking about this as I ride in the gravlift. I decide to check my weapons while I wait, the force of the drag tugging on my web gear. Suddenly an explosion ruptures and shakes the area around me. I know what it is: breaching charges. The Covenant are here. My Thermal vision kicks into gear and I see a wave of heat from the explosion bombard the double doors of the lift. This, luckily, does not disrupt the operation of the elevator. Dienekes decides to chime in, alerting me that the foredeck has now been breached and that the Marine Regulars have made first contact. Blood has been shed. I can feel it as a shaman feels the loosing of a daemon's spirit. I'm still embracing this notion like a stepfather embraces an unruly child as the lift doors part to reveal the uppermost deck of the Aspis. A series of gangplanks and catwalks line the low-roofed shadowy bulwark of the ship's top level. Dusty and grease congeal on long-neglected ceiling walls as a scattered array of multicolored lights blink and twitter like cat eyes in the night. Ahead thirty meters I see the ladder leading to the access hatch. Taking no chances I brush my left hip against the handrail of the catwalk as I exit the lift and advance towards my objective, gun held at port and my Light Enhancement vision activated. In case another explosion racks the ship I'll be able to brace myself against the railing with my hip long enough for me to find the thing with my hand. It's a small precaution but one that has saved me from a nasty tumble in the past. I approach at a swift stoop, trying not to think about something unforeseen stranding me out in the cold dead of space. Seconds later and the hatch and enter the code to unseal the pressurized compartment clamps. With a strong hiss and a rush of vapor the door lurches open. With a concentrated shifting of my jaw I switch my vision from Light Enhancement to Thermal. This provides me with far greater details for the rigors of space combat. I peer out the hatch to get a peek at the scene that will great me. My head pokes up for a split second before ducking back into the safety of the bulwark. At once my photographic memory catches and registers everything my eyes have just witnessed.

It's chaos out there, pure and simple. About eight clicks off one of our sister ships, the Cuirass, has received a flogging of incomprehensible proportions. Her hull is lit like a Christmas tree. Spots of orange flame cover her charred surface like the negative of a leopard's skin. Plasma charges continue to crash into her hull creating plumes of blue flame that mushroom out, showering acres of metal plating and shrapnel into space. What little is left of her armor ejects from the surface in flaming shards resembling fireworks. It's a brilliant display of light. In between the Cuirass's impending doom and our own battered hull I see flights of Longsword fighters dart across the black void chasing their prey with salvos of cannon fire or be blasted apart by the deft streams of plasma turrets. I grind my teeth as I watch them die. But there is little time to lament them. I must get moving lest I join the dead. I hop over the hatchway and make a concerted effort to reach for the first rung of the maintenance ladders that course the length of the ship when Dienekes screeches in my head for me to duck. I slam my body against the unforgiving frame of the starship's hull just in time to see a flotilla of Covenant boarding craft zoom overhead, close enough for me to brush with my fingertips. They're flying low on our hull to avoid radar detection. I know this but for some reason Dienekes feels compelled to repeat it for my own edification. I silently curse his existence.

"We've got to get back inside and warn Captain Dytharimbos," he urges. I grunt my compliance as I pull myself back inside, closing the hatch with a sealed thud. The sudden onrush of gravity tugs at half my body as I enter the upper deck. It is nauseating and can never be reconciled no matter how many times I attempt it.

Within moments I am racing back towards the lift. As I enter Dienekes informs me that there is a jamming ray focused on our ship preventing us from alerting Captain Dytharimbos. He goes further as to alert me that it is Deck 34 that they are headed towards. I punch in the numbers and we are off, racing for the deck in the gravlift. It doesn't take long to reach the vector. Deck 34 is a commons deck directly below the mess hall and above the storage galleys and I am there in no time flat. As soon as the doors open I lunge out and examine the untouched interior of our ship. There are rows of couches and elevated tables ringed with chairs and railings across the entire four acre level. It is very open and roomy with high ceilings domed and arched with architecturally pleasing windows lining the walls. They could enter at any one of these so I must be cautious and keep to the rear. Without disturbing anything I head off to port and wait behind a low-roofed adjunct hallway, one of the many that lead to the upper level eateries. Yet it is so quiet that I almost wish not to disturb this relative serenity. No sooner do I place myself in the shadows than the first of what will be seven boarding craft come into view. The strangely constructed purple craft lumbers awkwardly about the exterior directly outside the starboard-most window across the commons. I see another swoop in behind it and head for the port-most window. This is a standard enfilading maneuver designed to maximize fields of fire without compromising safety. Essentially, they're playing it safe. In the distance I can see two more approaching, their braking thrusters burning like fallen tiki torches in the night. I check my rifle and cancel my Thermal vision just as the window's glass is melted by the circular entry ring of the boarding craft. The Covenant come pouring through this nightmarish tube like demons spawned from Hell's birth canal. I feel as though I am witnessing a blasphemy in action; the birth of monsters that squawk and chatter at one another in a way that only aliens can. Yet I do not hate them, I admire them. I honor them. But they are the enemy. Twenty stream out of the vessel before it seals the breach and detaches to allow the next one to deliver its compliment of Covenant pirates. The other two are not far behind. I watch and wait silently for the right moment to strike. They will never see my point of origin but they will see the direction of the wounds the Covenant take. I will have to be swift and deadly. I espy a red armored Grunt waddling to the fore and jabbing his pistol hand at his lessers, issuing orders. I choose him as my first. It's an honor, really. I slowly pull the trigger, the lower trajectory of my shot will be perfect for what I'm about to do.

A sound like thunder erupts from my rifle. Everyone jumps even as the red Grunt's jaw is blasted away in a gruesome show of violence. He cannot scream for his throat has collapsed from my shot and he drops to the ground like a sack of onions, blood oozing onto the floor. I empty my clip before I can spit, killing four other high ranking Grunts on the rightmost area and two red Elites on the left. This affects the entire boarding party to scrunch up, my fire creating a funnel with which they huddle into for safety and a higher percentage of success in their eventual counter. It makes little difference. I reload and fire every round with maddening succession. Six Jackals go down and another Elite, this one blue. With two of my eight clips spent I slink through the shadows of the hallway to redeploy somewhere else. I get about ten meters when suddenly Dienekes comes into my head.

"Jamming has ceased, I've alerted the captain of our situation," he tells me hurriedly. "He wants to speak to you." I tell Dienekes to patch him through, my mind multitasking the ever-frantic positions of the enemy in concert with my own movements and the reloading of my weapons. I watch where they look and randomly stream fire. I watch where they run and hide, planning my counter accordingly. My heart leaps as I see a pair of gold armored sword-wielding Elites exit the central boarding craft. Things just got more interesting. The captain comes over my com as I load a special clip of four standard issue armor-piercing rounds into my rifle and set up my nest behind a dogleg staircase.

"Dark Arrow Loki," the captain hazards. I acknowledge his hailing. "Hold your position; we've got reinforcements on the way. ETA is six minutes." I confirm his orders and take aim at the gold Elites who expose their faces to me when they turn in my direction. I ignore the sick churning in my stomach as I get a bead on them both. I cannot help but curse under my breath, though if you were to look at me you'd see my lips mumbling.

It's just a job.

The Phokian Wall Part IV: Batten Down
Date: 10 March 2005, 10:05 AM

The Phokian Wall Part IV: Batten Down

      Lieutenant Chiron switched off his com unit, bending down long enough to scrape away the wriggling orange goop that had caked in his greaves. Beside him, in the shadows of the rear hallway, stood Sergeant Ptolemy and Private Nyx. Still on the dangerous level of Deck Thirty-Four, the three had only moments ago watched as the daunting Hunter that threatened them have its stomach blown into a football-sized orifice of oozing innards. The monster now laid sprawled and lifeless a few meters behind them. About fifty meters beyond that, on the same floor of the commons room, the Covenant invasion of the ship raged with a harrowing cacophony.
      "Was that the captain?" the still-bewildered sergeant asked, elevating his voice over the far distant noise.
      Lieutenant Chiron nodded his head as he rose, holstering his sidearm and throwing a sidelong glace towards the entryway where his BR55 surely remained. "Yeah, apparently there's a Dark Arrow among us."
      "Holy shit," exclaimed Sergeant Ptolemy. "Gotta love those NavSpecWar blokes, they always know just the right moment to make their presence known."
      "Yeah, they're somethin' alright," the lieutenant replied sardonically. "This one's got a real knack for punctuality."
      "That certainly would explain the dead Hunter," Private Nyx added. "Looks like our luck might change."
      Chiron gave him a level stare. He moved to open his mouth but the CNI transponder at his waist began beeping furiously before he had a chance to issue any words of reproach. Gnashing his teeth he pressed the receiver and hunched his armored shoulders to absorb some of the noise from the still-raging battle.
      "This is Grey Wolf, go ahead."
      "Glad to see you three are alright," a gravelly heavily accented voice said casually over his earpiece. It was elegant, a slightly misplaced British tint to the hue of his tongue. His voice also sounded muted and hushed to Chiron's ear, as if the man were right upon him whispering his words in a stoic baritone.
      "Most of us are, but I sure as Hell could've used you ten minutes ago."
      "I'm here now," the voice came back. "Go to the maintenance stairwell at the end of the hallway."
      Suddenly the voice ceased and the transponder cut off, leaving Lieutenant Chiron a bit taken aback. He searched the shadowy culvert beyond the hallway towards the rear of the floor. Beneath the overhang of Deck Thirty-Five lay the darkness-shrouded area surrounding the elevator. A few articles of mangled tables and chairs lie scattered in front of the shadowy realm providing more visual ambiguity for the SpecWarrior to crawl behind. All the overhead lights along the length of the overhang had been shot out or simply ceased to function; a product of the beating the BCS Aspis had taken. Chiron peered into that space of the floor as he strode over to the equally secretive stairwell, keeping low at a crouch with Ptolemy to his right two meters back and Nyx at his left in the same distance. For the moment they moved as a triumvirate; a three-man wedge used to enter rooms potentially swarming with hostiles. The typical snake formation was good as well, when there were four corners to attain and fields of fire to garner. But the stairwell alcove afforded no such geometry. It was oddly shaped like a rhomboid and the stairwell itself provided an obstacle that abolished the typical fields of fire approach. A triumvirate also allowed a minimalization of casualties should the place be mined or booby trapped with automated turrets. The one hazard to the standard snake formation was that a single turret could wipe out the closely-bunched string of troops. But hopefully this would not be an issue. Hopefully no Covenant had yet accessed the stairwell. There would be adequate protection there, so in case they were spotted since facing the Hunter they might stand half a chance at surviving whatever the Covenant threw at them.
      Lieutenant Chiron made his way over there now, flagging the two Marines behind him to follow his lead.
      "What'd he have to say, sir?" Private Nyx inquired as they raced for the safety of the stairwell.
      "Nothing yet," the other replied.
      Nyx fumbled with the grip on his battle rifle, nervously checking to make sure everything was the way he liked it; a replaced clip of 36 rounds; rate of fire left at the standard three-round burst; shoulder strap wrapped around his left shoulder in case another Covenant bastard tried to get the jump on him. He only wished he had an Oracle scope to supplement. His had been smashed when he and Sergeant Ptolemy had leapt to the floor of Deck Thirty-Four in a frenzied attempt to save the lieutenant. It was a foolish move that somehow paid off, despite the crushing of his blessed rifle scope. But what surprised Nyx the most was that none of the other Covenant really seemed to notice their presence. Granted, they were a good forty meters back from the "frontline" but still, the area was well lit by the overhead lights of Deck Thirty-Five, the Covenant should have been gunning for them from the start. But perhaps it was best not to tempt fate; better to take a good thing and run like hell with it. Still, it irked him.
      When they reached the stairwell they found nothing but shadows obscured periodically by a flickering overhead bulb. In the center of the oblong room the stairwell reached at a ninety-degree angel before wrapping around to meet the door four meters above their heads. A small bit of instacrete rubble littered the floor, a few sizeable chunks lying near the foot of the stairs themselves. Lieutenant Chiron moved cautiously, swinging his battle rifle up off his slung shoulder and into position. A split second later and Ptolemy could be heard cursing behind him before drawing his own rifle up and setting its stock in the crux of his armored shoulder. Nyx only had to wipe the sweat from his palm in preparation for the advance into what looked like a trap. Above the stairwell doglegged to a maintenance room and then a monitoring station before opening up to Deck Thirty-Five where the remaining two dozen Marines fought to suppress the Covenant ship boarders. Chiron could hear their cries and shouts over the booming thunderous clamor as weapons barked ballistic rounds down onto the lower level. It brought back thoughts of Sergeant Alexander and Corporal Telamon. Hopefully they were still alive, as he considered them the only two who would be capable of implementing a Phokian Wall defense.
      "Where is he?" Ptolemy ventured angrily.
      "Maybe he's like the Candyman," Nyx offered, "you have to say his name three times?"
      "Five times," Ptolemy corrected quietly as they proceeded at a snail's pace.
      "Huh?"
      "You have to say his name five times." "It's the Bell Witch whose name you say three times."
      "Oh right," Nyx nodded. "Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman."
      Ptolemy scowled. "That's six, retard."
      "Dammit!"
      "Over here," rasped a quiet voice from their left. Immediately Chiron, Nyx, and Ptolemy swiveled where they crouched, rifle lamps popping on to expose the source of the voice. They found nothing but the geometric outline of the gravity plating walls of the Aspis's interior. A frantic search ensued as the three jerked their eyes in every direction trying to pierce the darkness with their rifle lamps. A second later the assassin appeared from beneath the first flight of stairs, moving the small chunk of an instacrete bunker that rested at its foot. He seemed to unfold from the shadows, birthing into the light from what seemed an impossibly obscure and miniature location. How he could have ever wedged himself into such a crevice was beyond all three of the Marines. But then again, that was why they loved the NavSpecOps guys. They were badasses.
      "That color doesn't suit you," he observed, looking them up and down as he rose from the makeshift cubby hole. A sardonic smile crept over his angular features as he pointed casually to the orange matter staining their OD uniforms and Marine Armor.
      "We have you to thank for the dye job," Chiron replied dryly. "I'm Lieutenant Chiron, that's Sergeant Ptolemy and Private Nyx." He threw a thumb behind him to indicate the two at his four and eight o'clock.
      "Dark Arrow Loki," the other announced simply. "Pleasure to meet you three."
      Nyx took a minute to take in the visage of the man before him. Even in the obscurity created by his oil-black suit covered by a matrix of blocky pressure armor and web gear, and the shadows that embraced him, the Marine could see that the soldier was somewhat less than imposing looking. He wasn't particularly tall, nor was he built. He did not resemble the SPARTAN IIs that he had seen once while on Reach. This man was short, lithe, and aside from the set, squared jaw that rested below an angular nose, he appeared no more intimidating than the average Navy deck officer. Perhaps that was part of the plan? Maybe his unassuming image was intentionally nurtured in order to promote his obscurity.
      Yes, he thought, I certainly would never see him coming.
      His silvery blonde hair was cut in the typical military crew. Above it sat a strange looking mask/headgear resembling something out of a Norse mythology museum collection rather than a piece of military hardware. His blue eyes were more of a white hue than anything else; cold and utterly piercing. Private Nyx couldn't help but notice how casual he seemed to carry himself, nothing like the stark military aura of a SPARTAN or the grizzled, hard assed predatorium displayed by sergeants and the like. This man was unassuming, with a half-smirk on his square face and a look of jovial ambience. He stood with his hips half cocked to the side, his gloved and light-twinkling vambraced hands caressing what appeared to be a cross between a SRS99C sniper rifle and a BR55.
      If I were an Elite, Private Nyx mused, I sure as Hell wouldn't be afraid of him.
      "I guess a 'thank you' is in order," Lieutenant Chiron said suddenly, his throaty voice snapping Private Nyx back into reality.
      Loki shook his head humbly. "Don't mention it, lieutenant; just tell me what the plan is."
      The lieutenant turned around to face his two subordinates. He lobbed a gesture in the direction of the two corners abutting the entrance to the maintenance room. Nyx and Ptolemy replied with a pair of quick salutes before hopping over to the corners and crouching low, guns aimed at the open expanse of the commons room ready to pick anything off that made a move towards them. "Have you ever heard of a Phokian Wall?" the officer asked, turning back to face the assassin. The Dark Arrow nodded with an enlightened grin. "Well we're going to try and use it to push these puss-suckers back until their wiping their asses on the cut glass of their entry points."
      "I like it," Loki commented. "But it won't be easy, lieutenant."
      Chiron nodded resentfully. "I know, but until Captain Dytharimbos comes up with something it's the best we've got." With that he made a motion for the team to follow him up the stairs. Loki fell in beside him while Sergeant Ptolemy and Private Nyx continued to watch their rears as they advanced the stairwell. As they drew closer to the door leading to Deck Thirty-Five the sounds of hellish combat grew thicker and more sickeningly prominent.
      "Nothing like using a three thousand year old strategy to beat a coalition of space-faring aliens, is there sir?" Loki commented excitedly as they reached the sliding titanium door of the maintenance room. His superior only shrugged. In moments they were all through the door and passing through the untouched sanitation of the maintenance room. At once the Marine officer turned around and motioned for Private Nyx and Sergeant Ptolemy to watch the door to the stair well. They took up firing positions behind a pair of floor-buffing zambonies that flanked the door to the monitoring station.
      Lieutenant Chiron dialed his transponder while Loki moved to a shadowed corner and crouched low, the cubit-length meter of his rifle barrel barely poking out between a clutch of boxes and aimed at the maintenance door.
      "Corporal Telamon," Chiron called, "this is Grey Wolf, come in."
      "I read ya, boss," the other replied through the crackle and clatter of small arms fire.
      "I need some C-7 in this room and a lockdown hack on this door." The demolitions officer replied quickly, adding that he would lock the door from the monitoring station's terminal before entering. Chiron gave his approval and ended the transmission. He took up a post near the right side of the monitoring station door, raising his battle rifle in case any Covenant managed to find their way to the stairwell.
      In seconds Corporal Telamon was slowly entering through the door, crouched low and rifling through a large pouch on his web gear with his left hand. In his right he carried a titanium case roughly the size of an ammo box. When he saw that the room was clear he rose to his full height and turned to salute the lieutenant.
      "I need a seal on that door and a contingency of explosives just in case," Chiron declared. With a quick nod the thin officer got to work. He produced a square object roughly the size of his fist from the pouch on his web gear and moved to the interface keypad to the right of the door. Placing the piece of gear on the keypad he went to work encrypting a lockdown separate from the encoded matrix of the shipboard systems. When he was finished he stooped low and unlocked the handheld case producing a spray canister labeled with the symbol for "High Explosives."
      "This should stop anything short of a Hunter," Telamon noted as he administered the spray. An acrid stench filled the air as he emptied the canister's contents on the floor. "You did say that they were below deck, right lieutenant?"
      "Yeah," Chiron replied. "And I don't even want to think about how they got those damned things on board."
      The Marines squinted their eyes as the explosive foam was discharged onto the floor surrounding the door and up along the walls of the frame. Thankfully it was empty before the stench became unbearable. No doubt suffering the worst from the odor, Corporal Telamon quickly reaching into the case and extracted the firing stick for the C-7. He jammed the thing into the portion of sticky substance that lined the part of the doorframe closest to the encrypted keypad. With an even swifter motion he latched up the container and retreated to the olfactorial sanctuary on the other side of the small room.
      "There," he said rubbing his nose furiously in an attempt to free it of the congealing snot. "The bitch is locked down from a remote encrypter. And if anyone tries to decode it the electrical signal will register in the firing stick sending those bastards straight to Hell."
      "Good work, corporal," Chiron thanked. "Now we have a bigger task ahead." Without another word he turned around and went through the monitoring station's door. The quad of Marines was right behind him. In seconds they were back on Deck Thirty-Five with their embattled Marine compatriots.
      Chiron leapt straight for the central bunker where the survivors of Fire Team Zulu remained huddled making a pathetic attempt at return fire. Their protection was a half-melted combat barrier and a collection of metal table slabs. It looked like a scrap heap in front of them. But it seemed to do the trick. Four meters to their left another more substantial table protected Fire Team November and beyond that Fire Team Bravo clustered around a square column, MA5B assault rifles jutting out and sputtering to life at odd intervals. Grenades were still being thrown intermittently down into the ever-growing formation of Covenant boarders. And each time one was through a fresh concentration of plasma fire would shower that area in homicidal replies. Ordinance was sparse; Chiron noticed this at once as he looked across the floor below the Marines' huddled feet. Scores of MA5B and BR55 ammo clips littered the titanium ground like strewn candy bar wrappers amidst the spent casings and shells of their respective weapons. Discarded ammo boxes and empty M19 SSM Rocket Launchers lay carelessly tossed onto the ground not two meters behind them creating a veritable border of foot-high orchestrated -yet empty- metal. In between this collection of useless munitions were the lifeless bodies of those who had perished. Those few who survived lied writhing in pools of their own grime-clouded blood. Bits of carrion and charred flesh dotted the ground near them, more prominent around those who had black and crimson stubs for limbs. The two medics who were left moved at a crawl from those still moving, most of them resigned to looking for shock-induced shivers as their only signs of persevered life. Smoke still obscured everything, and the acrid stench of Telamon's C-7 was opined for once Chiron's senses beheld the noxious spectacle that clouded the air around them.
      "Holy succulent shit," cried a boyish-faced Marine as he turned in shock to behold the image of Chiron not a foot behind him. "I thought you were dead, lieutenant! What happened?"
      "We had a Bagrada below deck," he replied, ducking down to avoid the overhead arch of a thrown plasma grenade. The thing sizzled the air above him like a trailing comet before bouncing off one of the stacks of combat barriers left in the corner abutting the rearmost wall. It exploded harmlessly, meters behind them. "We've got a plan, Sergeant," Chiron said to Alexander, gritting his teeth as he regarded the combat barriers. "But it's not going to be easy...or pretty."
      "At this point, sir, I'd be happy just to do something. Captain Dytharimbos hasn't issued any orders and I'll be damned if we're going to make it playing death volleyball with those squid-faced fuckers below us. We need some semblance of strategy."
      "Good, then spread the word: I need two teams of three men to gather up those racks of barriers and bring them to the fore. We'll lay down suppressive fire as they get them set up along the area directly in front of our battle line..."
      "-In front, sir?" Alexander repeated disbelievingly.
      Chiron nodded. "We'll focus on grenade funneling and cover one team at a time. If we do it slowly we can maximize protection."
      "Better not do it too slowly," Telamon chimed in. "We're running low on ammunition."
      "Right," Chiron said. "Better get to it then." He ordered Corporal Telamon to relay the words to the rest of the platoon. Seeing its completion he turned around and searched for Sergeant Ptolemy and Private Nyx. The two were in the far right hand corner behind a warped metal slab that laid slanted atop the floor. Chiron called to them as Nyx poured battle rifle fire into the enemy while Ptolemy scrounged through the dead body of a Marine, plucking all manner of ordinance from his web gear. "Get over to those racks and start deploying the barriers!" he yelled. Private Nyx replied with a muffled curse while Ptolemy stood up behind a nearby column glaring at the officer with a look of stark defiance. "We'll give you cover you bastards, now move!" he said as he plucked his sidearm out from its holster. Chiron watched the two exchange looks before reluctantly rushing over to the racks of barriers.
      "Why do we always get the shit jobs?" Private Nyx shouted to his sergeant as they raced, hunched over, for the safety of the rear wall and the combat barrier rack.
      "Hell if I know, but I'll tell you right now, if this doesn't get me killed I'm going to beat the living hell outta that bastard Chiron!"
      "Can't argue with you there," Private Nyx replied. "And here I was thinking it was going to be you that got me killed!"
      Lieutenant Chiron didn't remain stooped for long. In seconds he put the two young bucks out of his mind and made to face the engagement before him. "Cover fire!" he shouted as he turned around and opened up with his Magnum. A fresh storm of bullets punctuated by a pair of grenades followed on the heels of his words as those around him answered the call. When his pistol ejected its last cartridge Chiron dropped down behind the protection of his bunker and dialed for Loki on his CNI transponder. Half a heartbeat later the Dark Arrow opened up the frequency.
      "Can you give us cover while we distribute the combat barriers?" he asked into his com unit.
      "My pleasure," the other replied softly. Chiron had no chance to answer before the transmission crackled to a close. Gritting his teeth he popped in the second of four clips for his Magnum and rose to take aim at the Covenant below. Fresh streams of plasma rounds scoured the air above him, drumming into the titanium surfaces like a hell-spawned snare. Globules of charged plasma pistol fire weakened the metal barricades with a sickly splattering of acidic accuracy. Through the mist and haze before him the blue orbs of plasma grenades arched into existence only to land in front of the bunkers, blasting into the air whatever loose bits of ill-fated protection had been chipped or melted off.
      Over the next three minutes the Marines worked in orchestrated efforts to maneuver the combat barriers into position. They had to leap frog the enterprise: one fire team laying down suppressive fire while a triumvirate of Marines hastily placed a barrier in position. During this ordeal Corporal Telamon went from bunker to bunker with a dolleyed tank of instacrete that he had found in the maintenance room, filling in whatever weak spots he could amidst the barrage of enemy fire. It afforded them little advantage, though, and in time the bunkers were in place, despite the constant exchange of homicidal salvos.
      Chiron looked over the line of fresh combat barriers and the twenty or so Marines huddling behind them. Four fresh casualties littered the slick crimson floor of Deck Thirty-Five. Their sacrifice meant that seven of the vertical breastworks were erected; each with three Marines crouched down behind them. Behind his own barrier Corporal Telamon and Sergeant Alexander stooped waiting for orders. He eyed them both as he opened up a broadband channel on his transponder.
      "All UNSC Marines, this is Grey Wolf, commence advancement of the Phokian Wall on my signal." He looked down the battle line of wearied, battered troops. All eyes were on him, and if they weren't they were momentarily looking down at their weapons or wincing under the oppression of fresh Covenant proximity assaults. This was it. The hatches were battened down. The storm was upon them. He exchanged a look of confirmation with Telamon and Alexander. The two barely held back expressions of concealed terror. He touched them both once on the shoulder.
      "Advance! Advance! Advance!"

The Phokian Wall Part V: Guardians
Date: 11 March 2005, 11:24 AM

The Phokian Wall Part V: Guardians

      Ten meters. That was how far the beleaguered force of twenty Marines had advanced their wall of combat barriers along the overlook of Deck Thirty-Five. It was a perilous push fraught with hazards as fresh waves of Covenant boarders continued to pour through the breaches on Deck Thirty-Four. By now they had assembled a makeshift breastwork of exotic purple crates and strangely shaped oblong objects resembling logs, one which sustained whatever few grenades were hurled down upon them. From this relatively protected position the Covenant continued to pour fire up onto the upper level where the defenders of the BCS Aspis had marshaled to repel them. Outnumbered and running low on ammunition, what was left of the Marine fire teams did their best to cut off their adversary's advance with a Phokian Wall defense. This, supplemented by sealing off the maintenance stairwell doors and disabling access to the elevators, had given them a concentrated field of fire to maintain; one that they could focus on without having to worry about a flanking maneuver. But where a sliver of hope had manifested in their cutting off of the enemy it was quickly dashed as blood upon the rocks by a new and equally terror-inducing sight. They had drawn up only a handful of meters away from the edge in time to see Covenant boarding ramps reach up and grip the end of Deck Thirty-Five's floor.
      Lieutenant Chiron watched in horror as the telescoping two meter-wide platform extended with hungry mechanical claws at its tips towards the lip of their level. When it touched the ends of the floor the clamps sunk with a demonic biomechanical fury into the titanium flooring, securing the diagonal ramp for use by the Covenant invaders. The lieutenant dropped behind the protection of his combat barrier, bawling up with enough gumption to prepare for what was coming.
      "Everyone down!" he yelled across the line of battered defenders. "Get the fuck down and stay there!" He cupped his hands over his face and buried his head in the base of the combat barrier. He felt Sergeant Alexander and Corporal Telamon follow suit on either side of him as they crouched behind the bunker, one of them yelling "Bum rush!" before dropping down to relative safety. Seconds later a resounding chain of explosions rocked the area directly ahead of the Marines, the bleaching aura of plasma grenade ionization flooding into the relatively quiet aftermath. When Chiron was convinced the clearing barrage was finished he popped his head over the upper rim of the barrier, pistol gripped tightly in one hand and his combat knife in the other. He threw a sidelong look examining those Marines who had survived the bombardment. To his amazement only two of them had incurred any wounds, the rest were readying their knives or getting their rifles ready for a nice bash. Chiron looked over to see Corporal Telamon slinging his M90 shotgun around and pumping the first shell into the chamber.
      Here they come, he thought grimly before switching on his CNI transponder to a broadband frequency.
      Sure enough, through the smoldering white fog of the ion residue came the low lurching orange and blue glows of Jackal shields, followed closely by the scurrilous waddling of plasma pistol-wielding Grunts and then the authoritative stride of a dozen masterful red Elites. They advanced over the two ramps so fast and with such a manic tenacity that Chiron was, for a moment, unsure they even saw that the Marines were still alive. Hopefully the ruse would continue until they were right up on them. It would have to be close; surprise was all that might save them now.
      "Wait until you can slap 'em, boys," he ordered quietly over his com unit. A few muted thumbs up from the battle line confirmed his message. He switched off the transponder and leaned over towards Sergeant Alexander who crouched huddled not two hands to his right. "Toss a couple frags down those damn ramps when we pop up Mike," he ordered softly. "Chances are they have a second wave in tow." Sergeant Alexander nodded silently.
      Just a few more seconds, he thought. Already he could hear the clattering of their alien hoofed feet on the titanium floor and the sounds of their strangely tenored tongues barking and chattering at one another as they drew nearer. Almost...almost...
      "Now!"
      Like a line of raised spear points jutting into the war-fogged air the Marines rose along the battle line of their bunkers and greeted the Covenant advance with a wave of close order small arms fire. Their blood and multicolored ooze of the Covenant sprayed and showered all over the Marines as their weapons discharged at proximity along the line of combat barriers. The Jackals nearly fell over backwards as the thunderous barrage of bullets crashed into their meter-tall energy shields. Several were caught in a close cross fire resulting in the indiscriminate discharging of their plasma pistols. Those Marines who did not fire their weapons leapt over their bunkers and went to work with their empty rifles and combat knives. In waves the bullet-spent Marines went over the Phokian Wall and began to deal death out to the overzealous and clumsy Covenant at close quarters.
      Lieutenant Chiron emptied the last magazine of his Magnum pistol in no time, dropping three Grunts and three orange-shielded Jackals in the ensuing melee. Beside him the sonic blasting of Corporal Telamon's shotgun could be felt as much as heard in his attempt to end the threat of any nearby Elites. He held his fire long enough for an Elite to leap over the bunker before blasting it with a shell and then bashing the thing in the head, sending it sprawling over the bunker in a gruesome show of gore. As the last of the Marines fired off their rounds they leapt into the fray and began bludgeoning the foe. Chiron refused to hesitate and set to work on his enemy. He was on the rightmost side of the battle line, in the place of honor among officers and their subordinates, and decided to move in a flanking action towards the center under cover of Sergeant Alexander's grenades. The frags were thrown wide and long, one toppling off the leftmost ramp and exploding with relative harmlessness below deck, the other landing right where it should: at the feet of an approaching blue-armored Elite. In an instant Lieutenant Chiron saw the luckless Elite go sprawling into the air, bluish purple ooze spraying from the charred stump that was, only moments ago, its right knee. A hideous cry erupted from its alien lungs as its hurdled down to the deck below. But Chiron had no time to revel in the success of his subordinate. He had to keep moving. With a deft agility he leapt for a small red Grunt, tackling the thing before it could draw a plasma pistol on one of his Marines. In moments he had the thing pinned down on the ground and was sinking his combat knife deep into the left side of its torso even as it clawed the flesh off his exposed left thigh. It took some work but he managed to wriggle the blade in between the creases of its armor, all the while the dwarf-life thing squealing with agony as the sharpened steel blade sunk deeply into its innards. Lieutenant Chiron retracted the blade in an infuriating spray of blood and plunged it again into his helpless opponent, this time hitting its neck just below the strangely armored jaw. When the job was done he had risen to a bloody hobble and was moving on to the next opponent; a pair of Elites standing over a bleeding and helpless Marine. The pain and gushing of blood at his leg never even registered.
      Not far away, in the midst of the melee, Sergeant Ptolemy had charged headlong into the center of the battle line. Private Nyx was not far behind, finishing off his last rounds before slinging his rifle to free up his hands for a combat knife and a pistol. But Ptolemy was quickly moving ahead of him. With a fell swoop he landed the butt of his BR55 into the unprotected skull of a Grunt, caving its head in and sending what he could only assume were its miniscule brains across the sullied floor. He followed up with a boot to its chest, sending the hideous gnome flailed backwards before landing in the middle of its comrades, the troupe sprawling out on the floor and screeching with mania. Ptolemy was quick on their heels with his battle rifle in hand. He swung the thing like a baseball bat across the left cheek of a Grunt's face as it tried to regain its footing. Half a heartbeat later and the crazed Marine had wheeled around to face the other three, a look of raving bloodlust in his eyes.
      "Come on you scum-fuckers!" he barked as he buried the smoking hot tip of his battle rifle into the right eye of a yellow-armored Grunt. "Get up! Get up you freaks!" He wasted no time in finishing off the last one, who had made an attempt at flight but gotten no further than three feet before Sergeant Ptolemy had him face down, his boot on his back and the butt of his rifle snapping the thing's neck. The sound of kindling that erupted from this gruesome death made Private Nyx's stomach churn. He winced even as he sank his combat knife into the elongated and exposed throat of a Jackal, but the monster got its shot in, burying the red-hot tip of its plasma pistol into Nyx's throat. But it only fazed him for a moment. He turned to his right to see two more Jackals lay before him prone and helpless. In no time he was on them, exacting his vengeance. He got to the second one when all of a sudden Ptolemy was there, snapping its neck with a kick of his boot and digging the muzzle of his rifle into its chest cavity. "That'll give him something to bitch about," the sergeant announced with a radiant smile.
      Private Nyx wheeled on his superior. "You can't just let me have one fucking kill can you? You glory-whoring sonofabitch!" The sergeant only looked at him and grinned before moving on to the next easy target.
      They didn't get a third the length of the battle line before being intercepted by a pair of crazed Elites. The two towering monsters were roaring maniacally and swatting away with their plasma rifles. One Marine was unfortunate enough to get caught between them. His life ended in a shower of blood and limbs as the two Elites ripped his arms off and blasting his face to a charred black mass resembling a piece of coal. Private Nyx skidded to a halt as he witnessed this, not wishing to suffer such a gruesome demise. But Sergeant Ptolemy would have nothing of it, casting away his trusted battle rifle and removing his combat knife.
      "Come on, you chambermaid!" he called to Nyx as he closed the distance between he and his prey. "Get over here and carve these bastards up!"
      One of the Elites heard him and turned, his four-mandibled face opening wide to issue forth a baleful roar. The thing drew up, right there in the middle of the chaos, and beckoned Sergeant Ptolemy forward with an arrogant wave of its hand. Wasting no time the tall Marine closed in on the proud Elite.
      It was then that Private Nyx witnessed what he could only describe as a miracle. He didn't know how it happened, or why, but it did. It was the kind of act that bore a furious eye rub and a pinch just to verify that he was not dreaming. He watched as the Elite leapt for Ptolemy...and promptly dropped like a sack. If he had had time he might have slapped himself, though there was still some thirty-odd Covenant willing to do that for him. Wasting no time, for Private Nyx or his second opponent, Sergeant Ptolemy crossed the meter or so of distance and closed in on the other Elite. Private Nyx watched again as his superior seemed to merely reach out and touch the thing with his knife, the infamous energy shield illuminating for but a moment before deactivating as the Elite dropped dead. When at last the second corpse hit the floor Sergeant Ptolemy stood over them both and laughed with a flash of hysteria. Private Nyx fought his way through two Grunts before reaching him.
      "How-in-the-Hell?" he asked with a profound delirium.
      Sergeant Ptolemy turned to him. " 'The slow blade penetrates the shield'," he replied with a toothy grin.
      "What?"
      "I saw it in a movie once," the other stated casually with a shrug. "I thought it might be a good idea."
      "It's a goddamned miracle," announced a wheezy voice from behind Sergeant Ptolemy. The lanky victor turned to see Lieutenant Chiron rising to his feet, casting off the limbs of the Elite. "That thing was about to send me across the river," he declared. "Son, I swear on all the gods in Hell, if we somehow get out of this I'm gonna fill your chest up with so many ribbons and medals you'll need a damned back brace to walk!"
      "I can live with that," Ptolemy answered. Private Nyx supposed it was his way of saying thank you.
But no sooner had that thought occurred to him than the three were diving for cover. Chiron had spotted an incoming plasma cannon charge and had yanked the two Marines by their breastplates to the floor. The green globule arched only a few feet over their heads before landing in the center of the Phokian Wall, demolishing the two bunkers it hit and sending a cluster of Marines flailing into the flanks, bits of flesh and sizzling limbs showering down. Private Nyx turned from his prostrate pose to see an awkward looking pair of Grunts burdened by an oversized and cumbersome machination surmount the rightmost Covenant ramp. The two wore a strange black and silver armor and in their dwarfish hands lumbered the glowing matrix of a plasma cannon. Nyx felt the vomit rise in his throat as one of the monsters eyed him and the others.
      "Move!" shouted Lieutenant Chiron, hauling the two troopers to their feet before running pell-mell for the safety of a far distant combat barrier. The others were right behind him.
      Another earth-shattering blast quaked the ground beneath Private Nyx's feet as he and Ptolemy narrowly escaped a second volley of plasma cannon fire. The green acidic heat of its explosion seared the backplate of Nyx's armor. It wasn't long before a third, and then a fourth blast landed nearby, each one drawing closer and closer. The fourth actually knocked Sergeant Ptolemy on his ass, Private Nyx rising long enough to haul the man up and drag him to safety. They wheeled around the nearest bunker just as two simultaneous blasts careened overhead, landing near a pocket of three Marines who were busy pilfering the dead for munitions. This was not to say that some Covenant did not suffer in the ensuing barrage. Four of their fellow Grunts were caught in the mix, along with just as many Jackals. Only the deft reactions of the Elites managed to keep them out of harm's way.
      Lieutenant Chiron leapt over the top of the combat barrier ready to make his mad dash for the next bit of cover. "Stay on my ass!" he shouted to Nyx and Ptolemy. He crossed the first few meters of open ground before catching out of the corner of his eye the quick jerk and tumble of the two plasma cannon-wielding Grunts. A second later and their cannons discharged, taking a score of their fellow Covenant with them. Suddenly his transponder beeped in his ear. With a shaking hand he reached and activated the channel.
      "You're welcome," came a familiar gravelly voice. It was Dark Arrow Loki.
      Lieutenant Chiron smiled. "You really are my ace in the hole, Loki," Chiron declared.
      "Not for long," he answered. "I've only got ten rounds left. We need to do something here."
      "What does Dienekes have to say?" He could hear the sniper huff on the other end.
      "The AI's not much good, sir," Loki intimated.
      A beep from his transponder interrupted the flow of sound. Lieutenant Chiron looked down to see Captain Dytharimbos hailing him. "Loki, it's the captain," he said.
      "Pray he's got some good news." With that he ended the transmission.
      "This is Grey Wolf, go ahead captain."
      "Grey Wolf, Captain Dytharimbos here, We've got reinforcements moving into position for dockside pickup; E-T-A four minutes. Six Pelicans from the SCS Lakedaemon. Recommend you abandon position and defilade to starboard docks. It's getting really ugly out here and they won't be able to wait around."
      "Roger that, captain," Chiron said excitedly. "These guardians of mine and I are already on it." The transponder closed and he turned to dial a broadband frequency. "Attention all fire teams, Pelicans are moving in for dockside pickup, E-T-A four minutes. Abandon Phokian Wall and defilade by groups of five to the lift. Fire Team Zulu goes first."
      In no time at all the remaining two members of Fire Team Zulu had retreated to the rear of the battle line, freeing themselves of the hellish close quarters combat that had enveloped all of the Marines. Lieutenant Chiron quickly located Corporal Telamon and ordered him to set satchel charges and whatever explosives he had left on the flanking pillars to help funnel the Covenant into a small field of fire. The Marines no longer had any of their own ballistics weapons but instead were using the awkward and loathsome Covenant weapons to keep their enemies at bay. Even Alexander had given up his assault rifle and M6B pistol in favor of a needler. He had also taken it upon himself to cover Corporal Telamon while he placed his traps. The demolitions officer managed to get half way done before the flood of Covenant had overwhelmed their position.
      "All Marines fall back!" Chiron shouted over the cacophony of the melee. Instantly the humans began hopping over the Phokian Wall bunkers and making their way back to the lift at the rearmost wall of Deck Thirty-Five.
      The Covenant continued to pour in, even as the Marines retreated to a bunkered semicircle of defense consisting of no more than eight Marines. Corporal Telamon was on the left hand side of the deck with Sergeant Alexander when they were overrun. He swung his shotgun around and blew the chest off of an advancing Grunt. Pumping the weapon he repeated with a searing shot at close range to the shields of a murderous Elite. The thing recoiled in a painful stupor giving Sergeant Alexander enough time to empty his needler in its chest. The thing exploded in a pinkish spectacle sending limbs and bits of gooey alien matter everywhere. Yet just as he died two more Elites moved in to take his place, closing the distance between them and the Marines even as Alexander tried to reload his needler.
      "Move it!" Telamon shouted at the young Marine as he pumped in what he knew to be his last shell. The Elites closed the distance and showered the two soldiers with plasma fire. Corporal Telamon dove to the right missing the volley of scorching plasma by inches. Alexander wheeled around to huddle behind the cover of the explosives-armed pillar, finishing up his reload. When he spun around he saw the two Elites a mere two feet away from him, bearing down on his person with homicidal rage. Corporal Telamon watched as he pulled the trigger, frantically trying to inject some of the glistening shards into his opponent. The spray of the weapon went wild as the nearest Elite swatted it out of his hand. With his other he reached out and grabbed Sergeant Alexander by the throat, slamming him up against the pillar. Seeing his only chance Telamon reached for the detonator.
      "No!" cried the voice of Lieutenant Chiron behind him. "Don't do it!" He turned around in a paltry glance to see Chiron, Sergeant Ptolemy, and Private Nyx were the only ones left guarding the lift. In the distance, even as the furious combat continued to rage around them, Telamon could hear the voice of Alexander invoking every blasphemy and slur his mind could conjure. He watched as the Marine struggled valiantly with the insurmountable Elites. The two were pounding him furiously with their rifles. It was now or never. Telamon turned to his officer and grimaced with a profound look of remorse...and pushed the button.
      The pillar exploded in a brilliant spectacle, the two Elites bursting apart in chunks of flaming carrion. Around them a half dozen Grunts and Jackals were flung about. A few more Covenant were caught in the ensuing blasts from the other side creating an envelope of napalm and C-7 death.
      Moments later Chiron, Ptolemy, Nyx, and Telamon were in the elevator lift and racing for the ship docks. Not a word was spoken as the four men stood checking their commandeered Covenant weapons or clearing the blood and chum out of the creases in their gear. Only the ambient sound of the lift's motors could be heard humming below them. No one said a word.
      After an eternity in silence the lift drew to a halt and the doors opened to reveal the docks. Through view ports along the way the great open expanse of space laid some hundred meters off displaying the furious battle that raged without pause or relent in the starry vacuum. In the distance the shimmering blue and white horizon of the planet Arkadia could be seen glimmering as Covenant and humans battled above her. In the fore of the open, box-like docking bay squatted three Pelicans on circular landing pads, their repulsors billowing smoke as they awaited the survivors. Various members of the surviving crew sprinted to these vessels of safety, most of which seemed to come from the command deck. Nearby deck officers herded the personnel into their respective transports before sending them off into the launching bays that laid beyond the cyclopean blast doors. Lieutenant Chiron was the first to step out of the lift and head for the deck officer relegating the Pelicans. In the distance one of the birds steamed up and lurched off the ground, her bay doors closing before she arced into her exit path. In moments the small transport was through the shielded bay and into space. Chiron made for the next transport with Ptolemy, Nyx, and Telamon behind him. As they drew upon the ship a cluster of crew from the command deck rushed in front of them.
      "Lieutenant Chiron," heralded the bass voice of a man to his left. The battered and bloodied lieutenant turned to face him. It was Captain Dytharimbos. The man was short and stocky, a great mesh of curly black hair cut close to his head. His uniform was pristine. He smelled void of the trappings of war. Or perhaps that was because all Chiron could smell was sulfur and shit. "Glad to see you've made it. You and those guardian angels of yours get on board while we still have time. There's still much to do in this war." With a pat on Chiron's shoulder and a grin the captain lurched up into the Pelican. Chiron could only grimace as he followed suit.
      "What a jackass," Private Nyx muttered under his breath as he moved to climb into the Pelican. Beside him Sergeant Ptolemy and Corporal Telamon grunted their compliances.
      When all four had crammed themselves into the sardine can that was the Pelican the thing closed its hatch and made to rise.
      "Buckle up, boys," warned a broguish voice over their earpieces.
      Private Nyx sat down next to Sergeant Ptolemy and strapped himself in. A general mill of wearied discussion was emanating from the eleven passengers inside the Pelican. Only Telamon and Chiron refused to speak, or even in each other's direction. Private Nyx looked towards the front of the bay where the cockpit resided. There he saw someone he had no recollection of being in the Pelican.
      Standing casually with a hand reaching up for an overhead rail, slung the short fit form of Loki, shrouded in his black VacSuit with his small sniper rifle slung across his back. He stood peering out the Pelican's cockpit window. He tapped Lieutenant Chiron on the shoulder and pointed at the Dark Arrow.
      "Looks like I owe you a couple beers, Loki," the lieutenant said with a gratified grin.
[indent[The Dark Arrow turned to him and shrugged. "It's just a job." His head swiveled back around to face the view port.
      In the lurching and heaving of the Pelican's flight through the battle Private Nyx managed to stand up and approach the assassin, taking two hands to secure his space-legs to the shifting floor of the Pelican's interior. He watched as scores of other Pelicans and small pursuit class UNSC ships made for the low horizon of the planet. "What the Hell is that?" he asked, pointing to a particularly stalwart-looking UNSC vessel. Its pitch was noticeably lower than usual, and the only fire on its hull was that of its own weapons discharging.
      "That's the Lakedaemon," Loki stated proudly.
      "Well, what in God's name is it doing?"
      Loki turned to him, all smiles. "Looks like they're taking this fight to the ground."

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