The Six Generals: General Goyer
Posted By: Mainevent
Date: 23 July 2005, 5:49 am
You think its over, but it never ends. No rest for the wicked, and I've done some pretty wicked stuff. I don't like my work by any stretch of the imagination, but I understand it. In the end that's all I really have to do. Nobody pays me to think too hard; they want a smart weapon, not a too smart weapon. If there wasn't a bigger world out there I'd be on their side, finishing what was started. I've lost too much to accept what's happened with a simple, "It's over" and a handshake.
I don't even think they believe what they're saying. The Covenant are tearing themselves apart at the seams, and I'm loving every minute of it. My heart tells me that something divine intervened to save our pathetic existence from utter annihilation at the hands of a superior race, but the hard edge of military logic insists that it was simple luck. Both agree that sooner or later we're doomed to be back on the grill with our asses on the coals.
With the new systems and technologies we've ripped straight from the Covenant itself, mostly thanks to Cortana, the UNSC has begun a rigorous series of retrofitting and upgrading our ships as quickly as possible to better combat and withstand the Covenant onslaught. But these preparations weren't enough for some in charge. They demanded that we strike them at their heart in an all-out invasion. Muster every ship left that can fight and head out on history's greatest cavalry charge. But they fell on deaf ears, only to find they were soon muted by those higher up.
But I don't have time to dwell on why I'm here or how fucked up this mission is; because it's just that: a mission. My squad may be gone, but the job isn't over until I'm dead or ineffective.
David-066 stood casually on the platform's metallic edge. His fiery red armor blended in smoothly with the pleasant summer sunset. For Brigadier General Goyer it had been a perfect day, but soon, it would become a hellish night. His personal contingent of two thousand highly trained soldiers, primarily special forces operators, had quietly and efficiently neutralized this remote backwater colony's few defenses with little resistance; but all that was about to change. There was little doubt to the last remaining Spartan why the Covenant hadn't found this mantle piece of human grandeur and benevolence. Even Humanity seemed to have forgotten about this tiny moon's existence, and for good reason. The moon itself was mostly barren desert with several large lakes providing water. Gathering the liquid itself had become a quite profitable business here due to the thick, nearly impenetrable layer of gel that served to contain the key to existence. More recently, the sale and manufacture of the gel itself had become quite a unique business; one that especially attracted the attention of military development groups seeking new materials for their various projects.
The thick gel was an extremely resilient and almost bulletproof substance that had been secretly used in conjunction with the production of his own Mjolnir Mark VI exoskeleton battle system. It's curios tendency to change temperatures when subjected to varying amounts of electrical stimuli made them highly effective temperature regulators for their super-soldier wearers.
Darkness descended on the dirty city quickly as he took one last glance into the beautiful and serene distance. Ambient purple light from the nearby planet cascaded pleasantly onto the distant sand dunes, reflecting softly off of their gentle peaks and forming a wavy, dry ocean beyond the city. Watching the scenery was one of the few pleasures David ever had as a Spartan, but he never managed to retain it long. Always moving, always changing; never stillness, never peace. Fifteen stories below he could make out the subtle silhouettes of people scurrying about the street; racing home before the newly imposed curfew was in effect.
His feet professionally maneuvered across the high-rises thin I-beams. The unfinished building would be the largest tower in the city once completed, and made a perfect perch from which to gaze upon the unsuspecting city. With cat-like elegance he dropped suddenly off of the steel girder and landed one story below. Dangerously he leapt to the next story, but couldn't manage a foothold. He pushed off quickly and tucked his legs to his chest; performing a mid-air spin that positioned his feet towards the next beam. Mental calculation told him that he'd never make it, but he'd have to slow his descent to survive the fall. His momentum drove him into a sturdy corner crosspiece, which he used to catapult himself head first to a beam on the opposite side of the square column the construction had created. His hands gripped the beam with the fluidity of a gymnast, and his body moved into a free-falling somersault over the quiet city streets. His legs soared over his head as he sailed freely through the air. His arcing pattern quickly brought him to the roof of a building; his feet unsteadily impacting the gravelly surface. He tucked both legs into his body on impact and rolled head over heel to a screeching stop.
The golden visor reflected the purple aura as his body lay motionlessly on its back. You're too damned cocky son! That'll get you killed one day, he remembered the speech Drill Instructor Laramie had given him after a particularly rash stunt during a live-fire exercise. What nobody could dispute though, was that the stunt worked brilliantly, and even managed to get the young cadet the new course record. Several blinks flushed the vertigo away, but he wasn't fully operational yet. He moaned to himself as he rolled over; pain coursing through his joints from the particularly hard impact. A chuckle escaped his lips at the sight of a large indention where he'd landed.
"Cat like my ass," he muttered while slowly trudging towards the rooftop access door. Mark-112, one of two Spartan's he'd been dispatched with at the time of the Reach incident, had once mentioned that the enhancements had made David the most nimble of the "post-aug" group. His three-man squad had been too far away to be easily recalled for a secret mission being staged near Reach, but they were also too far away to help when their comrades fell on the fortress planet too. Missions he didn't care about; there'd always be missions for him. But his friends were all he had, the only ones who understood what he'd been through; what they'd all been through. Others considered the Spartans freaks of medicine that didn't deserve to live, and only a select few non-Spartans even acknowledged their humanity at all. Those people he'd never cared for, but the Spartans were irreplaceable.
The ten floor descent to street level took thirty seconds. Luckily, he'd landed atop what appeared to be an empty warehouse. He approached one of the wooden crates and tore the top off with one hand; stripping the wood clean as several screws were jerked free. His lips parted in a wry grin as he discovered the package's contents. Greedy fingers removed the modified battle rifle from its container and gripped the weapon firmly. The cleverly disguised wooden crate was actually a UNSC special operations gear container. The planet's recent attention as one of the few remaining colonies had garnered it several small shipments of weapons and equipment from the headquarters on Earth, but little else in the way of protection.
He checked the weapon for modifications. Nestled under the barrel was the thick tubing of a grenade launcher. It's micro-explosive bullets allowed for twelve bullet-sized grenades to be stored in the tube before it was discarded and replaced. The standard two-times optical zoom had been replaced with an adjustable five or ten times zoom that, coupled with the barrel adjustment, made the weapon nearly as effective as a sniper rifle while still retaining its burst fire capabilities. A pinpoint laser sight had also been incorporated in the top of the scope for enhanced accuracy; though that had never been a problem for Spartans. An adjustable butt stock allowed him to easily adjust the weapon to his larger stature.
The weapon clanked against his metallic armor as he slung it lazily onto his back. This warehouse was a treasure mine full of every death dealing instrument he could hope for. Rows and rows of standard weapons filled him with a childish glee as he thought of the firepower available. He quickly grabbed a drab navy blue satchel and strolled through the aisles of stored weapons. Two heavy-caliber M6E pistols caught his attention, and he quickly holstered them in his jet-black leg straps. Several boxes of high-explosive pistol and rifle rounds were tucked neatly in the slots on his ammunition belt; as well as a quartet of M9 HE-DP fragmentation grenades were strapped into the small clips built into his waist.
On the far rear wall were several Lotus anti-tank mines, as well as multiple bricks of C12 high-explosives. I know just what to do with this, he thought to himself as he packed the gear into the rucksack. He zipped the bag lengthwise and grabbed the two canvas straps that acted as handles. Outside, shadows passed by the windows and left spidery tendrils creeping along the dimly lit walls. The front of the warehouse shrank into a tiny, separated front office with a desk, computer, and several chairs for various waiting personnel. Thick, white acrylic lettering covered the large, fifteen centimeter thick, military grade Plexiglas front window with the words "Joe's Topology and Rhinoplasty Services".
Street lights across the street projected an incandescent orange light through the slightly tinted window and onto the stealthy intruder. His helmet reflected the light, and caught the attention of a patrolling pair of guards. David cursed under his lips and slowly unslung his rifle, making sure not to give off outwardly visible movements. The thin, wiry soldier approached the window with an apprehensive curiosity; still unsure whether what he was seeing was an illusion caused by the street lights or something inside of the oddly named building.
"Damnit Ricky, stop window shopping and lets go. God damn son, I'm ready to get back to the ship. It's cold as your mom's bedroom out here."
Ricky shook his head with a chuckle and cupped his hands over his eyes to keep the outside light from blinding his view. His impatient partner took a cigarette out of his breast pocket and ripped the lighter off of the tip. A small red flare lit up the night as he took a drag on the stick. The corner of his mouth formed into an irritated snarl while the man's head moved up and down the glass.
"Hey Chuck, I think I see-" he was cut off mid-sentence as a thick red hand burst through the super-strong plastic window and collided with tremendous force against the man's head. The soft cartilage in his nose was instantly crushed and forced through his nasal cavity and into his brain. The sharp, violent blow killed the young soldier instantly, sending his limp body into a heaping pile of flesh and bone on the ground. His overweight partner's mouth hung open in shock; the half-smoked cigarette briefly adhering to his lower lip before falling to the ground and extinguishing itself in a small pool of water.
Chuck's hands fumbled for his weapon, and sluggishly brought the rifle up to the window. His fat fingers slipped over the dew-covered grip before finally squeezing the trigger. A bright yellow muzzle flash erupted from the gun barrel and reflected off of the glass in front of him. He was firing blindly, and in the rush of excitement felt the wind knocked out of him. What's happening to me, he asked himself as he wheezed for a breath that wouldn't come. His desperate lungs gasped for oxygen as he slumped breathlessly to the ground. The eerily warm feeling of liquid rolled down his chest and soaked a crimson pool in his shirt. Then he saw it; the smoke wafting lazily into the cool night breeze. Sergeant First Class Chuck Buford's last realization in the living world was that the muzzle flash he'd seen in the window hadn't been his own.
The screeching snap of metal breaking brought his quickly fading attention to the shop's single door as it burst open. Standing motionlessly in the entrance was a...it couldn't be. His blurring vision focused long enough for him to clearly see his killer. He looked different, but there was no doubt it was him.
"B-but," he struggled while coughing up blood, "yo-your on our side," he whispered as his head rocked to the side and came to rest on the gunmetal gray jumpsuit's shoulder.
David cocked his head quizzically to the side at the dead soldier's comment. He'd never seen the soldier before, but he also didn't have time to wait. He had a cruiser to catch. The roar of heavy-duty engines betrayed its driver before the warthog swerved around the corner. A confused and unintentionally angry Spartan raised his weapon and fired without looking at his target. The explosive bullets zipped easily through the unarmored windshield and struck the vehicle's occupant in the neck. The half-truck jerked to its left and slammed into the light pole; only feet away from the slumped corpses of its driver's allies. An unsympathetic, almost robotic hand grabbed the wounded marine and dragged him out of the bucket seat before dropping him onto the rough, gray asphalt.
"He-help," he screamed hoarsely as blood gushed from the arterial wound on his neck and spattered onto the cold ground.
I'm not a monster, David thought as he watched the soldier struggle for his life only feet away. He had to help end the man's pain. The bullet left the gun and entered his skull before the sound had notified him he was dead. In a way, he was sorry he'd had to kill this man here today. A man, who only weeks before, would have been his own ally in the war against the Covenant. But today, this man was his enemy, and Sixty-Six had never sympathized with his enemies; never. The hog's thick mud tires easily rolled over the sprawled bodies in the road as he drove towards the nearest starship tether. Only smaller ships, such as Frigates and Freighters, were able to enter most planets atmospheres and still retain their slip-space capabilities. General Goyer was likely here for re-supply and refitting before he left to rejoin the separatist fleet and acquire a larger, more fitting ship. The HEV insertion had likely piqued Goyer and his crew's interest; as UNSC destroyers weren't common so far out here, but they'd likely see it's quick arrival and departure as a sloppy search for the larger separatist fleet . In any case, they'd be leaving as soon as possible to minimize the likelihood of being caught alone in such a weakly armed and armored ship.
Time was of the essence; David had to get on board that ship. It would lead him right to the other six generals, and end this useless shedding of blood once and for all.