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Elsharm
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|  | "The Second Star," Part Three
« Reply #15 on Mar 31, 2005, 9:20am » | |
The Lieutenant's mind raced and in brief seconds pondered what to do and his own course of action: three things had gone wrong at once. The Grunts were up to the men on the wall now, and the loss of the second laser presented the same difficulty to the same men. Those on the ground now, and inside, had to take action concerning the breach in the gate.
Every step was torment, but the battle had come to a point here, and whether it was in line with the odds or not, fate had dictated his position for the necessary defense of the town. A drumbeat as of war played in the Lieutenant’s blood and echoed through his ears as made his way to the center of the gate, leaning on a cane in his left hand. The sounds of battle faded to a distant, muffled roar.
Instincts told him that the entire battle had come to a single point here at this one bit of dust and this one moment of time. The Lieutenant was ready to meet his fate, whatever it might be. The world faded, leaving nothing but the gate, the Lieutenant, the aliens close before him, and the lead flying through the air.
He ordered the other men back, on their knees inside the safety of the walls. He would ask no one else to join him in this suicidal folly. Yet he stood there in the opened gate and waited.
An Elite was coming for him, an Elite and three Grunts. One Grunt was shot dead, then another. Then a bullet hit the Elite’s hand and it dropped its plasma rifle. Excellent. The Lieutenant dared to grin in what was surely his last moment.
The Elite stood at thirty yards. It came on without its weapon, the Grunt behind it.
"And battle and war!" cried the Lieutenant, "Death rides a wild wind Just a warrior and his sword, truth wins in the end."
The sword was the standard-issue Marine-Corps assault rifle, the little green numbers telling the lieutenant that sixty bullets were ready to be emptied into his foe. The final Grunt collapsed, and the Elite’s shields glittered as random bullets struck it from various angles. The Lieutenant raised the rifle in his right hand, his left hand still leaning on the cane.
"You don't understand," he whispered as if his enemy could hear him, "you don’t stand a chance. I am swifter than light as it shines off of glass."
He squeezed the trigger. A random plasma shot unexpectedly struck the assault rifle, and the heat instantaneously scorched his hand up through the wrist. Through the heat he felt the gun firing as a faint sensation of vibrating metal, but could not control his fingers.
The Elite came on at about ten yards. The heat vanished, and the Lieutenant, remembering for a moment how much he abhorred the never-ending and excruciating pain of this relentless war, steeled his mind for the last stand.
"Here I stand," he cried decisively, "and here I will dance," as he took a step forward, "and here I shall fight, and you shall not pass!!"
If the aliens had understood Humans, or if the Elite had been able to read the fire of the Lieutenant’s resolve burning in his eyes, perhaps it would have quailed. But that was not to be, and the assault rifle was thrust up against its mouth. Five bullets ripped into its shields, and four bullets lodged in its ugly brain. One bullet exited the back of its head, and the lieutenant watched as it bounced off a grey shield.
Hunter! He heard his mind helplessly screaming it. Hunter!
It was right up against him and its shield was about to come down and crush his skull and break his neck. The Lieutenant aimed at its groin and pulled the trigger for the last time. The rifle kicked up, the Lieutenant’s hands no longer possessing enough strength to control it even a little, and the rifle’s last bullet hit the Hunter’s orange soft spot in the neck. The beast lurched forward and crashed down on the Lieutenant, stone dead.
And like a stone the Lieutenant lay still. He flitted back and forth between consciousness and unconsciousness. The sounds of the battle were far away. The Lieutenant wondered for the first time since he had first incorporated the term "categorical imperative" into his thought processes: just why had he done so? Why was it his duty to protect Humanity?
The answer came fuzzily as if in a dream, and the warrior viewed with his mind’s eye the supreme motivation and goal of any warrior—a woman—and for the first time he began to understand. He remembered the beautiful girl inside the town. The warrior realized that Humanity was, also, a thing of beauty, worth protecting. Worth fighting for. Humanity, like a beautiful woman, was worth dying for.
He realized that the sounds of battle had all but disappeared. Voices were nearby him, and then he heard someone say, "Hey, Sarge Is that the Lieutenant’s foot?" And then the blackness was chased away by blinding sunlight, and cool air breathed on the Lieutenant from a sudden wind upon his face, and he knew that he would live to fight another day.
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Elsharm
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| | "The Second Star," Part Four
« Reply #16 on Apr 1, 2005, 1:11am » | |
Sundry thoughts rolled around in the Lieutenant’s head while just two thoughts stayed in the background. Battle damage: defenses secure, but for the gate. Survivors: Thirty-nine walking. Twenty wounded. Time to dustoff: nineteen hours, at eight AM tomorrow. Time to the next dawn . . .
A certain premonition told the Lieutenant the Covenant would again crest the hill in a wave of destruction at that time. Seventeen hours.
A smaller thought in the background of his head was the continuous dull pain: every muscle in his body ached. The last thought that flitted back and forth in the recesses of the Lieutenant’s mind was a nagging suggestion that his entire motivation for everything that he had done had been wrong.
No, not wrong: incomplete.
There she was! There was the girl. No, the woman. No, the girl. No matter.
An overwhelming urge suddenly consumed him. It obliterated every other thought in his mind and its potency threatened to tear him apart; that, at least, was how it felt. This creature was a thing of beauty, and he wanted to protect it. It was strong in its own way, able to take care of itself. But its great glory was not its strength; its glory was in its beauty. And strength it had; but strength to defend itself against the Covenant hordes, it had not. Perhaps no one had, but at least the Lieutenant had a little bit more than she.
At least he would use it toward that end, that the thing of beauty would be preserved at the cost of his own blood, and that should any foul thing mar its loveliness, the Lieutenant would be dead before that end came to pass.
But that was all a given, old news. What else could he do to protect her? The Lieutenant’s fingers wandered across the smooth surface of the metal object attached to his belt. That was one thing he could do. "Excuse me, miss," he said against his screaming fears. Don’t make life any more complicated! he heard them telling him. Wait a while, think about what to say! Wait till your head is clear, talk to her after lunch!
Her eyes leapt up and he saw them with his own in all their mysterious wonder. A weaker mind would have faltered. The Lieutenant did not waver, though he felt instinctively that he was speaking to a being whose worth was greater than his own for being innocent and for being the end and purpose of his own struggles. "What is your name?" he said.
She replied, "Maria."
He realized he had not heard a woman’s voice in weeks. It was lovely. He tried to speak, felt words catching in his throat, and quickly decided to fake a cough. After mumbling an apology and blaming it on the dust, he dared again to look at her face, fearing to look at her eyes too long. Composing himself, he said, "Do you know how to use this?" The pistol lay flat in his palm, fully loaded.
"Show me," said Maria.
He demonstrated the thingying mechanism and the safety; then he removed the clip and put it back in again. "Now you do it." She did, a little slowly and clumsily but without any mistakes.
The embattled Sergeant was within earshot. The Lieutenant ordered loudly, "Sergeant, bring me a dead Grunt."
"Yes, Sir!" barked the Sergeant. The Lieutenant and the girl watched as the embattled Sergeant with the help of a private dragged up the corpse of one of the slaughtered Covenant Grunts. The Lieutenant addressed the beauty: "Fill it with lead, Maria."
She acquiesced without a word. She seemed a little bit frightened of the powerful weapon in her hands, but seemed to recognize the necessity of using it. At the first shot she let out a tiny cry, but then her eyes hardened with determination, and she gave it three more shots. She looked up at the Lieutenant, who felt his lips twisting into a smile without his permission. He stopped himself, wondering if she had seen. "Keep going," he said gently but without emotion.
The girl nodded and looked back at the Grunt, steadying the pistol. She closed her eyes, tensed, and opened her eyes. She pulled the trigger twice more, and the Lieutenant was impressed by the focus in her eyes.
"Stop!" he cried after three straight shots, his hand straying towards her. It went farther than he intended and brushed against the garment draped across her shoulder. He remembered that he had not physically touched a girl in months. "Stop–stop," he said again, just to give the thought time to pass.
Now he said, "Aim for . . . aim for the foot . . . Maria."
As she fired more shots the Lieutenant thought about how good it had felt to say that name. Maria’s index finger stopped moving only after twice hearing the click of an empty chamber. "That was very good," said the Lieutenant. Each shot had hit its mark.
"Why do they have blue blood?" she asked him.
"Hemoglobin," said the Lieutenant. "It carries oxygen in our own Human blood, and it's what makes our blood red. These things breathe methane, so they don't have any hemoglobin."
"So they have some blue thing in their blood that carries the other stuff?"
"Beats me. I'm sure somebody knows that little detail. I just know why their blood isn't red." There was a pause in the conversation, and then the Lieutenant handed Maria three more clips and told her to keep the gun. As he walked away he thought that maybe he had muttered something about it being nice to meet her. He had forgotten how scary women were.
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Elsharm
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| | "Darkness Descending," Part One
« Reply #17 on Apr 1, 2005, 1:48am » | |
And time passed. Time to dustoff: sixteen hours.
"Resources . . . we have some resources left . . . I was thinking that after the third laser, we can still make some mirrors just to blind them . . . I suppose we could rig up some system to redirect the light at any time of day. And we have . . . horses . . . twenty-four. I was going to check with you and the leading civilians left in the town, since they’re their horses and all, and then eat them if that's ok with everyone. You know, the condemned man always gets a good last meal."
The embattled Sergeant grinned when he said that. The Lieutenant wondered why he found himself chuckling at that; it didn’t strike him as very funny. Maybe it was because the Sergeant was Human; maybe there was just something beautiful about being Human, and something Human about being with Humans.
"None of us have had any fresh meat since we got here, and some of us in weeks and months," the embattled Sergeant continued.
"Don't kill them yet, Sarge" said the Lieutenant. Creativity had probably won many a battle in history, and certainly it had served well this morning. But a cavalry charge . . . It bordered on lunacy.
But what the heck. When you're already doomed, you might as well make your death a crazy one, right? "Can anyone ride them, Sergeant? Some of the men from around here, maybe?"
"Far's I know."
"I want to speak to the men of the town. See who can ride . . . and who might be interested in an honorable death for the sake of their wives and children. Ok, the wives and children are mostly gone already. For the ones that are left . . . or just to give the rest of us a bigger chance. And if any of our own men might want to learn to ride in just a few hours." The Lieutenant was pacing back and forth, partially to consider how such a crazy idea might be accomplished and partially to wonder at his own stupidity at considering it.
"Lieutenant . . . are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"
"Yes, Sergeant, I am: at dawn. With mirrors. It will be useless, of course, against Elites and Hunters."
"But Grunts. And . . . Jackals . . . squashed!"
"Right."
At ten hours to dustoff, it was night. The Lieutenant looked at the stars—brilliantly bright. Lamba Seven's sky was a new arrangement of stars to him as he had never been in this sector, but some of the constellations looked a little bit familiar. Oddly out of shape they seemed, yet familiar.
He was likely to die in the morning. They all were. But as long as they were still alive, they might as well live. So the Lieutenant looked at the stars.
But his eyes were drawn down when a slender shadow slipped from a nearby building, merged with the night. It turned to look towards him.
To the Lieutenant it looked for a moment like a pale elphen princess in the moonlight, then like a simple, comely Human girl, then like Athena the goddess of wisdom and war, then again like the fairy-land princess. A cool wind blew across her face, making her hair to dance in its breeze. He looked at her and her bright eyes reflecting the starlight within the pitch black of her hair as it merged with the night seemed to him as were the bright stars overhead.
Then she turned and vanished into the shadows.
Suddenly two lines of though in his head came together and completely linked for the first time where before they had only very nearly come together. He had sworn silently to himself that day to, above all, protect Maria. His body was almost broken, and it was weak, throbbing all over. That was because Maria’s body was unhurt. When he had first written his battle poem, months ago, it had taken him hours to find the right words. This time the words came quickly and easily.
"And battle and war . . .," was his only reality. "The children breathe a cool wind," was the state of reality behind the lines of battle, where those who were children uninitiated into the ways of pain breathed clean air without the taste of blood in it. "Just a warrior and his sword" spoke of the battle once more. "Behind him peace wins," spoke of the objective of every just war.
He thought of what he had been through, from the first storm of plasma lightning over his shoulder as he had fled into the hills . . . to the monsters he had cut down in their tracks that morning. "I alone understand," he whispered, feeling that he had by now become one of those who know most vividly the horror of living. "I'll give them a chance. I'll show them the light. By my blood they will last." And again he thought of Maria. "For them I stand, For them I here dance, For them I fight, And this test I will pass . . ." for her, for them, for the children, thought the Lieutenant beneath the stars.
And he gathered the strength of his will for the final stand.
Goldfired morning. Two hours to dustoff.
The mirrors were in place. The certain premonition was more certain than ever. It was time.
The Covenant crested the ridge for the third and final time. They had been reinforced in the night; some of the men on guard duty had counted: one hundred and thirty-one enemy dropships.
The defenses were arrayed thus: the first line was, of course, the wall, bristling with assault rifles, sniper rifles, pistols, and rocket launchers. Thirty-four Marines were there. The second line was the wall of boxes, bricks, and sandbags within the walls. Just five Marines had been placed there, at the center facing the gate, which was the definitive weak spot, having now only the weakest makeshift wooden doors. For half a mile behind that wall along the town’s main road were various boxes, buildings with windows, three smaller sandbag fortifications, and several bunkers. They were all currently empty; things to be used in a retreat. The last bit of ground to hold was the clearing in the center of the town where the dropships would arrive at 800 hours. It was surrounded by a four-foot wall. The eighteen Marines who were wounded and able to sit up were already arrayed there, ready to pull assault rifle triggers. Their most significant task would be to cover the retreat of whoever came back from the outer lines of defense. The handful of women helped the two most badly wounded Marines, and did whatever they could for the scientists and other Marines: all in the buildings on the back side of the clearing, where it seemed a little bit safer. The women, too, were carrying assault rifles now, retrieved from the bodies of their former carriers. A smattering of the men of the town were stationed on the outer and inner walls.
The Lieutenant had a few special cards to play, but the effectiveness of any of them was debatable. The first special card was two out of the three new reflective DEWs. As the light first peeked over the horizon and intensified to its full fury in virtually no time at all, the Humans observed it and—at the right moment—swung the mechanisms into position. The light further intensified within the beam, and the oncoming Covenant began to feel its wrath; it was the wrath of Humans defending their homes and families, and everything that was Human to them.
But the first special card was a disaster, for the enemy's lesson had been well learnt. In only a matter of seconds the lasers and their operators were brutally melted and incinerated in the vast wave of plasma that caught them almost before they could react. The only weapon now capable of slowing the onslaught was the sniper rifle. There were seven rifles left, and the bullets had been evenly distributed; no one had more than four. In seconds the snipers had cast the useless weapons aside and begun to aim the assault rifles. They had destroyed three Elites, ten Grunts, and two Jackals: fifteen drops in an immeasurable sea.
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Elsharm
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| | "Darkness Descending," Part Three
« Reply #18 on Apr 1, 2005, 2:00am » | |
The Lieutenant's rocket launcher was the first to fire. The rocket streaked towards a certain clot of monsters, leaving its characteristic smoke trail behind it, and the next objects to be launched through the air were screaming aliens. A few more launchers fired, taking out Jackals and Hunters by the ones, Grunts by the fives. Elites and Jackals were slowly succumbing to the pistols. The Lieutenant fired his second rocket, eliminating a Hunter, and then realized that the things were already within fifty yards of the walls. Assault rifles were now in action. With the bullets distributed among so many enemies, most of the Grunts were only wounded, and the Elites' shields were probably not even broken. The Lieutenant decided he would give the signal for the other mirrors in sixty seconds.
Forty-five seconds and two more rockets launched. The Lieutenant was now crouching below the fortifications. To stand up would mean almost certain scalding burns from the plasma that filled the air. It wouldn't take very many of those to kill a man. The Lieutenant raised his assault rifle above his head and blindly emptied the sixty bits of lead into the hellfire. Then he caught the eye of the embattled Sergeant down on the ground, and gave him the hand signal to prepare the second special card's ground-side component. The embattled sergeant, always reliable, obeyed orders quickly and flawlessly. The Lieutenant dropped to ground-level, picked up the special package that was the third card, and screamed into his walkie-talkie the signal for the second card's wall-side component.
Now began the most beautifully heroic moment on Lambda Seven’s final saga. First the mirrors swung up: more than twenty of them, directing the sun's light into the eyes of the enemy's massed forces before the gate.
Then the gate was removed, blown outward from the inside with plastic explosives, its remains driving into the enemy and breaking the flesh, surely, of at least a dozen.
The horses charged forward into the light. Well-trained animals, they were driven by their heroic riders to their doom. A renewed blast of assault rifle fire broke out from above, and the twenty-four horses darted into the flaming whiteness. The only cavalry charge of this horrendous war saw them die, trampling their enemies, some. Cutting down a few by means of their assault rifles, some. Dying, all: all the men of this little town on Lambda Seven, kamikazes, into the burning whiteness rode, and in the whiteness died, and in the brightness and light bought a few more minutes of precious life for their surviving comrades behind the walls. Maybe it would be enough.
And some of the enemy fled. Victory!
Yet there were too few left inside the blasted, blackened walls. Twenty-four fewer with the heroes gone to their death on the horses. The Lieutenant wondered how so few left could survive.
No, twenty-five, he corrected himself.
The Lieutenant would have delegated this mission to no one else. He would also have seen to it that no one but himself volunteered. It was better that the others be given a chance to survive; let his own blood be the price of that. The embattled Sergeant could lead the survivors home to Earth, if anyone survived.
He was in the dust, in the lingering wake of that heroic charge, jogging now, now slowing to a walk. His index finger was now poised on, now lightly brushing the button that would set off the special package he was delivering to the Covenant.
One thousand tons' worth of TNT. Reduced to the weight of one ten-thousandth of that, and the size of an apple. The apple rested in the left hand, the detonator in the right. There was only one of these weapons on Lambda Seven; the factories back on Reach had manufactured as many as they could, but they were fairly expensive and slow to make. The Lieutenant had been lucky to be given just one before he had come to Lambda Seven.
The objective was to get as far away from the town as possible and set it off. The charge had carried the horses several hundred yards. They may have almost even reached the ridge. The Lieutenant was surely near the ridge now, and the dust was still there. He began to see flitting shadows of moving enemies in the drifting brownness. Some fired their plasma rifles at objects on the ground.
He was among the ghosts. The blessed ghosts of the heroes whose bodies lay strewn on this cursed field. And the ghosts of the evil enemy. The Lieutenant felt that he too was a ghost in this light, and he was prepared to go on to the other side and join the heroes. He knelt down, crouching behind a dead horse, and placed the bomb beneath its body. It seemed good to hide it, but he was not sure just why. He was ready to die, and the slightest unintended movement in his right hand would bring about his instantaneous incineration. Or, the slightest intentional movement: if they neared him in the drifting dust (there was no wind) and saw him, he would set it off. He was willing to die. It was the categorical imperative. It was duty.
But what if living were possible? He was resigned to his fate, but if there were the slightest millionth of a chance it was duty’s decree to at least try it. He was laying down next to the dead horse, watching and looking and wondering if he should just press the button now. But surely it was time to at least try to go back to the town. Maybe it would be possible to make it back inside the gates. He had done it last time he had left the city. He began to jog backwards, his back parallel to the ground as he crouched as low as he could. Then he stopped at the edge of the dust, seeing that the town’s walls were still thirty yards: there were no enemies in this drifting dust firing weapons or charging the town, but there were sounds of battle: Human and Covenant weapons shouting, and Humans screaming hatred and pain.
He stood frozen amongst the drifting dust, and thought. Ah, of course: the cavalry charge had gone straight out from the gate, and the Covenant had been massed all along the walls. The ones to the sides of the gate would not have been swept away in the charge. They would be attacking the town. That thirty yard stretch was no-man’s land, and it had enemies on both sides.
In other words, there was no going back.
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Elsharm
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| | "Darkness Descending," Part Three
« Reply #19 on Apr 1, 2005, 2:23am » | |
In other words, there was no going back.
If he was to live, he would have to get away from the bomb; he could go sideways and try to disappear; he might be seen but might not be met by a monster. He could go back, back to the aliens, where he might not be seen but he would be found. He waited, lingering on the edge of the drifting cloud, and plunged back into the swirling dust.
He didn't know why. He only felt that it was necessary, as if the call of fate were driving him back into that murkiness.
Thank God the dust was drifting straight away from the town; he counted his paces and estimated when he was about where he had left the bomb. He counted thirty more paces. There were aliens everywhere, but for reasons incomprehensible they were not killing him. Perhaps in the dust he was indistinguishable from the Elites. They were barking, growling, communicating and . . . planning something.
At least it sounded like they were. How many paces had he gone past that bomb? The creatures were everywhere; one brushed against his side. He shivered, shuddered for a moment; then his body danced and waved in spasms of terror and a scream caught in his throat, stifling his breathing. With infinite courage he forced himself to move, to move at all costs . . . and found that he was running.
There were sounds of alien voices around him; they knew he was there now, and they knew he was not one of them. Fear consumed him and he fled faster, but, catching himself and his mind, and realizing he must do something, he recklessly dove for cover behind a large rock. Then he lay still there.
He observed that he was now barely on the far side of the dust-cloud. But then a violent gust of wind came, and the dust at last rolled away entirely.
He shuddered again, realizing that he had no idea where the detonator was. He felt nothing in his hands. The chill of ultimate failure ran down his spine, and in despair he looked at his hand.
The detonator was there, by a miracle—his fingers still poised above the button. Why hadn't he been able to feel it?
The aliens were just over the rock, scarcely four feet away: Three Elites, talking in their deep voices. They were looking away for the moment: towards the town, where plasma continued to bombard but by now there was hardly any answering fire. That meant that they were waiting for him to set off the bomb; they didn’t dare to show their faces above the walls or the plasma would destroy them.
Being waited for sparked something in the Lieutenant, and infinite courage was realized again. He knew what he wanted to do. Few men had ever looked terror and fate full in the face. Fewer still lived. But to stare at death and defy it, to look in the eyes of a monster that hated Man, and spit in its mouth and watch it die half an instant before oneself: that was strength. Or if nothing else, it was the call of fate: and defiance of infinite terror and hate.
Well, at least mine will be a manly death.
And so he stood, and leapt over the rock, the detonator high in his hand above his head, and planted his feet behind the nearest Elite and cried out in Human tongue that he defied them. It turned around in a flash and raised its arm, a limb with quite enough power to crack his skull or break his frail Human neck. At the final moment he adjusted his legs so they would be, as near as he could figure, behind the monster's legs. Its arm was in the air falling, but the death-blow never fell. The Lieutenant's fingers closed on the detonator's button . . . .
A powerful radio signal radiated out in all directions, quickly as light piercing the rocks and bodies and finding its target. The receiver inside the apple caught the beam and relayed a signal to the firing mechanism. The mechanism sparked and the spark caught the fuel, and a sun erupted among the aliens. The ground within a three hundred-yard radius was cleared, and hundreds of Covenant were roasted in the fire. The blast caught the Elite in full swing of his mighty arm, hurling its body away, forward, away from ground zero. The killing machine became a protective shield that absorbed all of the shrapnel and flying rocks, and most of the fire, and saved the Lieutenant from the devastating explosion.
The Lieutenant was seeing intense hate in the thing's eyes; if they could hate, did that mean that they were creatures capable of love? Didn’t love come first? But even more intense was the terror in its small eyes. Small, the lieutenant felt, was his own courage, but it was enough to stand firm. Then the blue mass lurched towards him. The whole word shivered, and all things leapt in that direction, all things but the solid earth. The vibration-wave caught him, too, and his body moved several inches backwards and then back. It was a sickening sensation, and painful; but it didn't last. It must have been the shrapnel and rocks that drove the Elite to move more than the wave had carried it, several feet and into the Lieutenant. The world of red fire faded into darkest black.
He came to, not knowing how long it had been, and found himself alive and some distance from the town. He forced himself up and began to move. At first he was in too much pain, shock, and weariness to move but a few paces in half a minute, but after a few minutes of half-conscious agony he found that he was accelerating. He passed the gates after twenty minutes, just as the Covenant massed at the tip of the ridge for an enraged final assault. He was greeted with a deafening cheer by the Marines, and could not help but grin so widely that he felt that the skin on his face must surely split.
Enough was enough. It was time to abandon the walls: they were broken where they were still up, and cracked where they weren't broken. He tried to pick five volunteers to die with him behind the second wall. Every Marine volunteered, and the embattled Sergeant threatened mutiny if the Lieutenant did not retreat now to the final line of defense to await the dropship. The Lieutenant was adamant at first, but so were the Marines. Finally ten Marines were picked out of the much larger number of volunteers to man the second wall. Two were assigned to each bunker, and the rest of the tiny handful of survivors retreated further back.
The Lieutenant joined them, but could only walk very slowly. He would not consent to be carried. But there were sounds of war nearby, and growing nearer steadily. Suddenly they knew that the gate was breached. Behind them the third and final laser held its ground for a moment, and the assault wavered, but the wave was too strong: the tide rolled in over the helpless defense. Last grenades were dropped by dying hands, and more aliens were sent screaming through the air: more drops in a sea . . . .
The Lieutenant and the four men with him were caught by the first scattered plasma shots near a bunker. With no other choice, the Lieutenant stumbled inside and readied his weapon, pausing for a moment to order the other three to run for their lives. His eyes were powerful, his burning glance like lightning, and his words would not easily resisted. Two of them obediently ran for survival, and two crazy soldiers showed a strength of will strong enough to withstand even the Lieutenant's demand.
"I’m dyin' with you, Lieutenant," said one firmly. The other was silent. The Lieutenant cursed their disobedience, swearing he would beat them both senseless if he could. But inside he wondered if he were not going to cry. The men could see this, but the Lieutenant would never know it.
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Elsharm
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| | "Darkness Descending," Part Four
« Reply #20 on Apr 1, 2005, 2:53am » | |
They gathered at the bunker's window and watched. A second bunker was destroyed in green fire; it was scarcely fifty yards nearer to the enemy than they were. The aliens turned their fire on the Lieutenant’s bunker. First came the purple needles, dancing randomly above and beneath their window. Then came the blue plasma, just far enough away to not kill the Humans immediately. Then came the green plasma bolts, some small and some larger. The larger ones would have caught onto the humans and tracked them slightly—though not nearly so well as a needle—until it hit them, but the opening was too small for them to lock on.
But there were so many of the larger green plasma bolts. The Grunts and Jackals were just outside, the Elites were in the doorway.
One man cried out "Hunters!" and another man covered his beloved Lieutenant with his own body, and then the world disappeared in green fire.
For the second time that day, the Lieutenant found himself wandering from the dead. He groped around and found a human hand. Slick and sticky with blood, but a warm, living human hand. He squeezed it for the comfort of them both.
When his strength returned he pushed himself to his feet, looked out the bunker window, and saw one Hunter coming onwards. It was the only Covenant visible. No, no, there were more behind it; but the Hunter was close, and rapidly advancing.
Then the Lieutenant realized that he was carrying the human hand, and that it was no longer attached to a body. He cast it aside in repulsion and then in wonderment that it was probably his last human contact, and he felt that perhaps he should not have detested it so. "God, forgive me," he whispered, wondering if he now believed in God.
This place was hell. He had lived in hell for days now, or was it forever? Was it since . . . since the before-time, in the arid hills? Or was it only since he had stepped off the Pelican onto Lambda Seven? Why was he still alive? It was impossible for a Human to survive as long as he had in this war. No one could survive this long in hell. What superpowers were keeping him alive? Had he called it luck?
Strategy?
Fate?
Strength?
Yes, they were all true, but now he realized another reason: part of it had been a fiery spirit and a fierce will to live that could not, would not be conquered. A final reason to fight one last time entered his head: if he survived, he would see beauty again. Now he recalled her name, but dared not to whisper it for fear it would be in vain.
Deciding beforehand not to allow any considerations of despair, he began to move: walking towards the door, jogging out the door, darting underneath the Hunter's falling shield.
Where did he come from?
The Lieutenant began to run.
There are many different kinds of running. First, there is the simple, basic jog where one runs as if for fun, energy being expended until the energy diminishes. Then there is the running hard, the running with a purpose. This is the running that takes up all of the runner's concentration. It requires determination and endurance. This is the running employed by many people who run both for joy and for health. Then there is the running that takes one to the limit. It is employed when strength wells up out of the depths of a man’s soul and drives him to move against all odds: against all weariness and all physical pain. It is the running of those who are truly committed to war games, the running of those in the final stages of a marathon, and especially the running of soldiers fleeing from the battlefield.
The Lieutenant had reached his limit. He pushed the pain back inside his head; it was something to be ignored. He felt the fear but focused on the will to live. A man had many false limits, and one’s true limits are never found until one goes much, much farther than he thinks he can go. This he had learned well in recent years.
The pain throbbed deep inside his bones, and his skin was burning with the need for more sweat. The Lieutenant had reached his true limit, and he had no more strength. He was about to fall in the dust, to be burned and his body torn to pieces and lie dead in the dust.
He called now upon his last, his very last strength of will. He pushed himself just a touch beyond the limit. The pain was now like a roaring waterfall screaming in his brain. The Lieutenant remembered duty and the will to live because he was a Human, and there was something beautiful about being Human. He pushed himself just a little bit farther. He was now running like a whirlwind, and the pursuing Hunter was falling behind. Like a hurricane he swept past the objects of the burned-out town, and passed swiftly across the dust like the shadow he had been in the twisted hills of sand when all had changed and his innocent life had been transformed this hell.
He remembered a word: beauty.
What is beauty? In his exhaustion he could not think what it was: there was only running in this world. Running and its pain. Running, and running was his glory. He was free, unconquered, wild and strong, a man, and running was his glory. And somewhere else there was another world (before things had changed) and somewhere ahead, perhaps, lay another change beyond which beauty would be visible and freedom could actually be enjoyed.
Beyond the limit he ran. Beyond human endurance. A brownish shape loomed before him and his subconscious whispered to his conscious that it was his destination. He felt his conscious replying that he had no idea what that meant, that there was no reality save running, save this throbbing, agonized, hellacious pumping of arms and legs.
And then, for some reason, the Lieutenant fell. One last tearing spasm of pain ripped through his body and he felt nothing. Behind him the Hunter came on, roaring with rage, its shield raised to crush.
The Lieutenant was dimly—barely—aware of the final pistol shot fired on Lambda Seven.
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Elsharm
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Joined: Nov 2004
Posts: 18
| | "Redemption"
« Reply #21 on Apr 1, 2005, 3:04am » | |
Behind him the Hunter collapsed.
The Lieutenant was dimly aware of something soft but strong on his hand—another hand—and hands on his waist, his back, moving him. He felt his nerves telling his muscles to strain to lift his own body up, unaware that his nerves had relayed a message from his brain telling them to do so. He felt nothing from his muscles.
He came to, and the world felt like a dream. There was immense pain, but it was all inside him. Outside it was soft. Warm but not hot: quite cool, actually, compared to hell.
But hell had been called "Lambda Seven." It came back to him: the disattatched human hand, the dust, the blood, the innumerable corpses, the flying plasma.
And he also remembered that he had been drinking fresh water a moment ago. He had not known it at the time—at least, not that he knew of—but now he somehow remembered it.
Beside him was a lovely face. He now remembered what the face was called . . . Maria. He found he could slowly move; at least some of his fingers were moving. Someone was telling him something, but he could not make out what it was. He slipped back underneath his exhaustion and, for a time, dwelt in darkness and felt that he was chasing after a light. A light that had a name.
He awakened when he heard someone say, "Medic! How’s he doin'?"
Someone said, "It's . . . it's impossible, but he's alive. His heart is ok." The voice sounded sophisticated somehow.
"How bad's he hurt?"
"It's like every other bone is broken. Muscles torn. Blood loss. Dehydration. Second- and third-degree burns. He should be dead. By rights, he should be dead."
The Lieutenant's eyes were now open. As a test, he tried to move his fingers and found that he could tap the surface the rested on. He tried to thump his hand and felt it twitching. He tried to move his big toe and failed. He fought once, twice, thrice to move his head. With pain, he succeeded.
There was Maria. At her feet was a pistol. He closed his eyes, and went back to the nightmare, driven back to hell by curiosity.
Yes . . . yes . . . there was one pistol shot. It might have been hers. He opened his eyes again.
There were more people. A few feet away on the other side of the ship was an old friend, a brother, a blood-brother, someone he must have known since he was born. Wasn't this the dearest friend he had ever had . . . but what was his name?
He remembered it was the embattled Sergeant across the way, one with whom the Lieutenant had shed his blood, now become his brother.
People were talking about something else now. Someone said that a Spartan had survived, whatever that meant. The Lieutenant wondered what calamity it was that the Spartan had survived. Suddenly the Lieutenant realized that he had been asleep and had just woken up. Now they were talking about a ring. A huge ring floating somewhere in space. They had been repeating the word "halo" for some time. Someone said, "The MC just got back to Earth now."
The Lieutenant tried to speak for the first time. He tried to ask where they were going, but the words were slurred and incomprehensible. With effort he cleared his throat, let someone pour water between his lips, and again asked, "Where are we headed?" He was barely able to croak out the words.
"To Earth," someone said. "For the end. The end of . . ."
". . . of hell or humanity," finished the Lieutenant, his voice raspy and full of weariness. "It's one or the other."
After a pause the embattled Sergeant said, "Say, Lieutenant, what’s your name?"
"Adams," he said slowly. "Jeremiah Adams. What's yours?"
"David."
"Who survived . . . David?"
"Five Marines, ten more civilians counting Maria here. All the scientists."
The Lieutenant would have wept for his fallen brothers, but knew that he would be too exhausted to for a while. He would have to rest, and most likely get back to the bloodred war after a time, though maybe he could take some vacation time even after they left sick bay. Sick bay: thank God, if there was one, for a few weeks in sick bay to do nothing but sleep and maybe read books. The way he felt, it might be months in sick bay. Later when he didn't feel so tired he would have to check himself and make sure there were no body parts missing.
This time in hospital he would pay strict attention to the books to see if he could find a final answer. If there were any philosophical system, any God, any religion, anything at all, that commanded duty and adored beauty without any contradiction between the two, that belief must be truth, and the Lieutenant would have to find it. If there were any system, any God, any religion, any philosophy, that explained just what is so beautiful about being Human, that said why humanity is worth fighting for . . .
He was still barely more than a child in his years. Once again he wished that he were not too tired to weep for the death of innocence and for the loss of good lives. He wept for his comrades in arms. But then he looked at Maria and wished he could have wept that her beauty had emerged from the battle unscathed. Her eyes betrayed deep sorrow at the loss of her home and—who knows—maybe some of her relatives had died—maybe he would ask her—but her beauty seemed all the brighter for the sorrow.
And so finally the boy warrior and Lieutenant resolved later to weep, through his own scars, someone else might be preserved. And, bearing scars, he would live on. If he had a chance, he would find something better than what he had now. For now, it was time to sleep.
But that is the beginning of a new story—the story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is ended.
–The final words of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s "Crime and Punishment" (trans. Constance Garnett)
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