 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
Concept Art
Halo Bulletins
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
ARG Forum
Links
Admin
Submissions
Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
Angel Wings Prologue: The Note
Posted By: Neil Yudsponwy<mark_price@hotmail.co.uk>
Date: 19 June 2008, 7:31 pm
Read/Post Comments
|
The handwritten note had simply read:
Marcus Garrison, UNSC vessel: The Paragon Article. 3 million credits.
David Bugler
It left co-ordinates for the Jupiter moon of Io and a time, nothing more.
So here I was, staring at the staff records and Marcus was nowhere to be found. The note didn't specify whether Garrison was the bounty or the meet; which means a little detective work ahead of any potential action.
I'd deliberately dropped into Jovian space camouflaged, knowing full well that it pays to be vigilant and invisible for these kinds of circumstances. The UNSC Carrier is considerably larger than my baby, something like a rhino to a meerkat in size. But I have the advantage of surprise and a few other missiles carefully positioned up my sleeve.
My mind hovers over the arming trigger of a 'sweepstake' rod. So called because when it goes off, everyone gets a piece.
Naval Command calls them 'City Slickers' for their leveling abilities, the Covenant call them 'Purifiers' for much the same reasoning.
While banned by all sides participating in the Great War, no-one seems to care about a stupid ream of paper plonked on some pen pusher's desk; at a reasonable 90K, munitions plant shelves are still bare so someone's sure as hell taking them.
Admittedly they can be a little unstable and hard to determine for their blast yield because enrichment processes aren't regulated the way legally graded military weapons are. But once charged, there's no going back; they're either fired or explode.
The Paragon officially registers three thousand and four hundred staff, with a little over a thousand signed-in guests; the real number remains a mystery and Marcus Garrison must be part of it.
There's something unsavoury about indiscriminately wiping out four thousand people with a ninety grand missile for three million credits all in the pursuit of one man, but business is business and large bounties like this don't come along everyday.
I run an alternative search on Bugler but still come up with nothing. If my luck doesn't improve, this could end up just another memorial day for the UNSC.
Nova patrols run consecutively around their diva queen, with two corvettes yo-yoing over her port and starboard sides, meaning that if I do have to take her out, I better make a sharp exit and take exile in Covenant-controlled space. Not really my kind of party and the company's not the friendliest but three million would sure compensate for the loss of maritime privileges.
On a hunch, I take a stab in the dark and tap Bugler's name into a Jovian public SEC. I refine the list to include the ship and the United Nations Space Command to filter out the chaff.
Bugler's name comes up as pretty as a picture, the guy even has his own blog, referring to himself as a 'Commercial and Naval Liaison Officer'; cute, people love to talk up themselves and their roles. It's one of those things bitter folk do and hope that certain others see and feel envious.
He's married with two young girls but other than stating their existence, there's not much info regarding their lives. It's all Dave in Bugler's world.
Reading his latest entry dated the fourth of March, I see he's booked a holiday for the end of May that runs into July. All aboard the Earth 2 liner, Eudaimonia; a lesson in affluence and indulgence if ever there was one.
Clearly he's ranked quite high if he can afford that much time off and to spend it in such a desirable locale -clearly he's not integral to the war effort either. These days if they can spare you, they don't really need you.
On a separate line of enquiry, Connie brings up a list of three ships and eleven bodies relating to them, seven of which are old drinking buddies; all of which are chilling in the mortuary, all dead from massive trauma and more than a touch of blood loss.
The latest glamorous entrant to the dead pool, Candera Valance, had weighed in at 40 kilograms; which was considerably lighter than the last time I saw her tucking away a second helping of frazzled turkey at our annual scumbag bash in December.
Candy had talked with her mouth full about a big job coming her way, that leathery bite turned out to be her Last Supper.
The post mortem photos of her remains are enough to put even a starving gravefly off its food.
Whomever the hunter encountered had left a lasting impression -or maybe just a warning- to others.
The reason for my being here is beginning to make sense.
I decloak and let the Carrier know of my presence -right along her port side.
The panic machine meanwhile goes into overdrive.
The mothership veers from her normal orbital trajectory and orders her minions to aide in her defence.
Nova pilots trained for such occasions always forget their table manners when they feel their big dog threatened.
The first fighter rolls in at a high angle, roaring over the com as he comes to a smooth stop and powers up his cannons:
"Pilot, state your fucking intention before I skull-fuck that piece of shit of yours!"
He's carrying quite a lame payload; it would sting but wouldn't do any real harm.
"I'm looking for a David Bugler." I calmly reply, hoping the nice level-headed approach will stop him from becoming antsy and I lose out on three million credits.
His buddy chimes in from his ship nudged nice and tight in my ass:
"No David Bugler here, pal, so take a hike before we get mad."
For three million credits I would obliterate their puny ships, heck, I'd do it for a laugh if I didn't think it would get me into legal bother.
The bogey on my six is a little green in the seat, he's lined himself up directly behind me and if his partner gets itchy and decides to fire, Connie will ensure it's my anal hanger-on that gets the shafting.
Why talk to the monkeys when you can get more sense out of the organ grinder. I bypass protocols and hack the Paragon's main network again, getting straight through to an information desk jockette. The girl on the other end seems a little startled to be cut off mid-sentence, with her caller seemingly just as dismayed.
"The coffee machine will be–"
I repeat my initial statement exactly the same as before.
"I'm looking for a David Bugler."
"Who?" The girl cries out bewildered.
The caller on the other hand:
"Wait your turn, dickhead, I was here firs-"
Clearly feels his coffee problem is more of a priority.
Considering I almost destroyed the carrier and everyone on board, including mister 'dickhead' (solving his coffee problem in the equation), cutting him off wasn't much of a dilemma. I reiterate Bugler's name and title, hoping that she'll know of someone in a position to help me.
The monkeys around me, meanwhile, have doubled in number and are just as uppity; with the Carrier's port corvette scooting on its tightest turn. My baby keeps a track on their weapon status, just in case they want to play at shit-throwing. The greenseat up my rear has backed off after a dressing down by his superior; all on a supposedly private channel away from my prying ears.
The girl finally puts me through to someone in logistics, a woman with a high-pitched and hollow whiney voice. After telling her about the note, she promptly instructs me on my next move.
"David Bugler?" Comes across so nasally in tune, it sounds more like Diymid Byooler, and I have to stop myself from correcting her too many times before we both get wound up. Maybe I should have just typed that into the search criteria.
"Diymid Byooler can be located through the Hell's Kitchen docking bay." She confirms. "I'll give you clearance to land and have someone there to meet you."
"Thank you, m'am." I reply.
"Er, dur, I'm a man!" She unprofessionally declares.
I console the little dearie in her delusion as I bolt through the harass of monkeys on my back and gun for their queen; the greenseat being the only ship in a suitable position to give chase.
"Sure you are, honey."
|
