All the little lost boys and girls (Update: 26/5/12)

[Mr. Coffee]

Honestly though, any update is a good update. maybe you can do a Voyage of the Sin Eater next... on second thought, it probably wouldn't be as fun. Carry on!

Actually, I wouldn't mind reading about that. Given what BC's done in past stories with epic space warfare, cultural back stories, and political shenanigans I think a story about just what the fuck Halos are and why everyone in the galaxy looks at them with a mixture of awe and horror would be pretty damn interesting.

[Nuts!]

Hmmm...a few guesses:

1) The Watcher was originally the researcher Dr. Black. Leaving aside how he lived so long, (maybe he's a Halo, or maybe the Terran Imperium had similar gene-treatments) the Watcher frequently mentions hating Hayes and "the children." In addition, his name squares with how "the children" would see him; always watching, always looking.

The Watcher was looking for something in that compartment which our merry band just opened up. I don't know what it is, but there's a few options: a "cleaning" warbot that can take on the Ribbons and the I-series, Umbra or a shard, or...hmmm...

2) The Halo planets are full of unbelievably smart people without ideological blinders. They've had six hundred years to research freely, along with oodles and oodles of resources to do so. They should be light-years beyond the old Earth Imperium's level of technology: even if there were some hard limits to the pace of technological research, they still should have been able to replicate the marvels of old. Yet, somehow even Imperial medical scanners are potentially priceless, and a fabricator engine is completely beyond anyone's ability to build.

Perhaps most importantly, no one can replicate Halos themselves. After all, wouldn't some enlightened government want its citizens to be smarter, live longer and healthier lives, etc? Wouldn't one group out there take what makes Halos special and make their own supergeniuses? After all, the Halos were originally genengineered by someone, so with a sample of Halo DNA shouldn't you be able to do it yourself?

Something is wrong here.

My theory is that Halo and Earth were far, far closer than anyone might think. Even six hundred years later, fleets hang over the Halo planets ready to exterminate the golden egg-laying goose. I think that most of the Halo leadership is continuing the fight from centuries ago, even if for their own reasons, and that the Weyland-Yutani Board is only part of a larger puzzle. A group of someones wants the galaxy divided, leaderless, barbaric, and war-torn. So far, they've succeeded.

The problem for this cabal is that they don't have a war-winner. Halos don't fight, after all, and they have neither armies nor fleets. Barring a secret shipyard, there's no Sin Eater to level the playing field. They need the I-series to fight the war, and Umbra to win it.

3) Halos are stronger, tougher, faster, and infinitely smarter than anyone else out there. Judging by how Shannon thinks, they are partially affected by Umbra but are still able to operate effectively within its influence. The Halo planets were settled by the Founders, a semi-mythical group who haven't been seen since - and whose genetech can't be replicated.

I believe that Halos are derived from Umbra somehow. Something is special about Halos, in a way that can't quite be understood. Great-granddaddy Hayes even noticed the similarities between his I-series and Halos; I think it's not a coincidence. Thoughts?

[Bladed_Crescent]

Nice updates Blade, somehow I missed the last three!

Thanks.

Shannon seems to be one of the few sane things to come out of Drop 47. And she went back.

As Lady Tevar says, Shannon has never been to DROP 47 before. If she had, she certainly wouldn't have been so blase about going back there. Less of a 'it's a job' and more of a 'fingernails leaving scratches in the decks as she's dragged screaming onto Kerrigan'.

maybe you can do a Voyage of the Sin Eater next... on second thought, it probably wouldn't be as fun. Carry on!

Don't tempt me. Heh. Not sure what I could do; I prefer the unknown aspect of Sin Eater, to be honest. Something so powerful, so terrifying that it's passed into legend. Quantifying a myth just isn't that much fun, not when you can allude to the kinds of horrors that that ship was responsible for, the terror of those facing her, their determination to stand against it, and the scope of their victory when they finally killed it and trust in the imagination of your audience fill in everything else.

Actually, I wouldn't mind reading about that. Given what BC's done in past stories with epic space warfare, cultural back stories, and political shenanigans I think a story about just what the fuck Halos are and why everyone in the galaxy looks at them with a mixture of awe and horror would be pretty damn interesting.

Heh; thanks.

You mean other than being able to build the kinds of weapons that megalomaniacs have wet dreams about? Heh. There's some resentment in there, too. For making it out of the war intact, for siding with Earth in the first place, for being superior (and knowing it), for their holier-than-thou attitudes... I do plan to get into the background of Halo and its inhabitants in the course of the story and shed some light on their history... Heh.

The Watcher was originally the researcher Dr. Black.

...cautious feet padded in, stepping over the cooling body of Senior Researcher Justin Black, the man’s face still frozen in an expression of surprise, outrage and fear.

Nope.

The Watcher was looking for something in that compartment which our merry band just opened up. I don't know what it is, but there's a few options: a "cleaning" warbot that can take on the Ribbons and the I-series, Umbra or a shard, or...hmmm...

Oh, you'll find out. Very soon. As will our band of plucky heroes.

They should be light-years beyond the old Earth Imperium's level of technology: even if there were some hard limits to the pace of technological research, they still should have been able to replicate the marvels of old. Yet, somehow even Imperial medical scanners are potentially priceless, and a fabricator engine is completely beyond anyone's ability to build.

Not all of the Imperium's technology came from Halo; they were a technological juggernaut even before Halo joined Earth. Recall that Halo allied with Earth to speed up the end of a conflict whose outcome they considered forgone due to (among other things) the Imperium's already substantial technological lead.

And I've alluded to, several times, retreating Imperial forces deliberately destroying anything of value to prevent the Coalition from getting their hands on it. They were very thorough. If they weren't, DROP 47 wouldn't be the prize that it is.

Halo wasn't exempt from that cull - and if it hadn't been, it would have been torn apart by the Coalition's many factions, each of them wanting their "fair" share of the spoils. That... and whichever faction got their hands on Imperial tech would look around at their erstwhile allies and discover just who was about to pay for their economic and industrial revitalization. On Halo itself, the best, most advanced Imperial tech was scuttled/wiped/destroyed specifically to prevent that. In some cases, Coalition forces who saw the writing on the wall did it to keep anything usable out of the hands of their soon-to-be rivals. On most planets and systems, retreating Imperium forces enacted a policy of scorched Earth with a fervour that would make the Russian army blanch.

Maybe Halo does have some bits and pieces of proprietary Imperial knowledge left lying about, upgraded and improved over the centuries, or hidden away in the deepest, darkest bunker they can find. If they do, they're wisely keeping it very quiet. Remember - there are nations in the galaxy that will go out of their way to destroy anything Imperial that they can get their hands on, no matter what the cost in innocent lives (ref: Nightingale). Because of their role in the war, Halo was (and is) on shaky enough ground - there's no chance that they'd ever let the existence of the most valuable technology in the galaxy (if they even had it) become public knowledge. Their world would become a battleground as every scavenger, would-be Imperium and their opponents descended on them.

Perhaps most importantly, no one can replicate Halos themselves. After all, wouldn't some enlightened government want its citizens to be smarter, live longer and healthier lives, etc? Wouldn't one group out there take what makes Halos special and make their own supergeniuses? After all, the Halos were originally genengineered by someone, so with a sample of Halo DNA shouldn't you be able to do it yourself?

Genetic engineering has brought those benefits to many worlds, though few to such an extent as Halo's citizenry. The Primaries did their work well and guarded their secrets . Sure, you could get Halo DNA and try to replicate it. This is easier said than done. Firstly, just having the DNA doesn't equal having the secrets of Halo bioengineering. If the US were to give Ethiopia the specifications for a CVN, could Ethiopia build one on their own? How about Saudi Arabia? Vietnam? If they had the raw materials, but no experience or expertise in building those kinds of ships how well would their first attempt turn out?

More to the point, Mendellian genetics is a simplistic interpretation of genetic traits. For some characteristics, you can get away with aa x AA, AABb vs aaBB and so one, but for others, you get multiple gene loci interacting in the expression of phenotypes and individual characteristics. Trying to find out which ones will give you what you want, what other genes they influence and what genes those ones interact with is a bit like playing Jenga, only each time you screw up you've pissed away millions and millions of dollars. That gets very expensive very fast. And if you do "succeed", how will you know? It'll be years before you can measurably define your subjects' intelligence and usefulness and any unintended consequences of your genetic tinkering, which leads into moral ground which can get very sketchy very fast - see the Imperium's views on the I-series and how they were bred, generation after failed generation.

The Primaries that created the Halo race did pour this massive amount of time, treasure and resources into fulfilling their vision, aided in no small part by the state of the galaxy at the time. The Imperium, with its crushing technological edge and medical expertise couldn't replicate Halos* - what chance is there that one of the vagabond nations left in their wake is going to succeed?

And that's leaving aside the fact that a) Halo would not be happy once they'd caught wind of this. They don't have a military, but they have a lot of money and we know there are interstellar mercenary outfits, and b) remember, the galaxy is not united; they're at each others' throats. The only thing holding all these hundreds - thousands - of nations together died six hundred years ago. No nation wants to see its rivals get some shiny new toy and if word gets out that somebody's trying to make their own pet Halos... you can guess what comes next.

*that asterisk is there on purpose, yes

...fleets hang over the Halo planets ready to exterminate the golden egg-laying goose.

That's not quite accurate. It's more of an international peacekeeping effort. Halo is forbidden by treaty to develop their own military (not that they'd have much interest in doing so), so their safety is assured by a conglomeration of other nations' military forces, who see it as a chance to a) suck up to the Halos, b) keep an eye on what the Halos are doing and c) spy on the other nations' personnel who are doing a and b themselves. This also means that no single power can make an alliance with Halo without every other major player in the galaxy knowing about it and thus prevents anyone from getting too much of an edge. There's trade, exporting, importing and such going on all the time, but nobody gets a decisive advantage.

For military tech, it's generally much safer to host your own R&D programs for whatever horrible weapons you want to create than to subcontract out to Halo. You might not have your Universal Sodomizer as fast or as efficiently constructed as you want, but its easier to control security and information flow and doesn't raise the Imperium's specter amongst your friends and rivals. It's also a bad idea to give Halos a spark of inspiration; you might get the Universal Sodomizer, but your arch-enemy could fork over some cash and end up with the Universal Sodomizer Mk II: the Ultra-Penetrator.

I believe that Halos are derived from Umbra somehow.

Not in the least. They were created by the Primaries who were visionaries and unparalleled intellects themselves. After all, they created an entire race dedicated to peace, rational discourse, understanding, science and culture.

Great-granddaddy Hayes even noticed the similarities between his I-series and Halos; I think it's not a coincidence. Thoughts?

[Night_stalker]

Well, that confirms it at least.

The question is, HOW are they connected?

[bilateralrope]

As Lady Tevar says, Shannon has never been to DROP 47 before. If she had, she certainly wouldn't have been so blase about going back there. Less of a 'it's a job' and more of a 'fingernails leaving scratches in the decks as she's dragged screaming onto Kerrigan'.

Fair enough. But with her Grandfather having worked there, while she is the most violent Halo, I can't help but think Drop 47 had some minor effect on her before she got there.

[Bladed_Crescent]

Well, that confirms it at least.

The question is, HOW are they connected?

How, indeed...

Fair enough. But with her Grandfather having worked there, while she is the most violent Halo, I can't help but think Drop 47 had some minor effect on her before she got there.

Perhaps in an extremely roundabout and indirect way, but nothing more than that. There's nothing on DROP 47 that could reach across time and space like that, nor has anyone else in her family had any more involvement with the station than she currently has - except for her great-grandfather, of course. As I think has been hinted at here and there, Everett's had something to do with the current state of affairs in the Twilight Fields, intentionally and unintentionally. Shannon herself wasn't affected by the station and all its incumbent... quirks... until Kerrigan entered the Mists.

[Bladed_Crescent]

In this chapter: Shannon was right.

Coming up: Clotho spins, Lakhesis measures, Atropos cuts: one thread ends. It's Mother's day.

Chapter 60:

Pain.

fire

Hurt.

burning

Screaming.

my voice, that’s mine

Weapons fire.

can’t think can’t focus hurts so much

Grenades, the pounding of shockwaves and the feel of their heat.

what’s happening I have to know

Someone grabbed her, she thrashed against them, but a voice she recognized hissed in her ear. She couldn’t understand the words, but the tone kept her from fighting.

where are we going

Shouting. The dull thud-thud-thud of weapons. More of it. More. The feeling of movement as she was pulled along, trying to stand but her injured leg wouldn’t let her.

what’s happening

Acceleration. Voices. Raised, angry, afraid.

“What...” she tried to form the words, but the effort was too much and she slipped into blackness.

~

“Is she dead? She’s dead, isn’t she! She’s dead, that thing killed her-”

“Shut up!” Abigail screamed at Lutzberg, more than a touch of her own fear in her voice. She knelt beside Shannon. There was a neat little hole right through Four’s helmet , the edges melted and charred. She could smell a mixture of burnt flesh, metal and hair through the hole. “Delphini, get over here. Now, dammit.” Don’t be dead, Shannie. Please don’t be dead.

The tram accelerated away from the station, slugs and energy bolts ripping through the windows . Abigail could hardly hear herself over the overwhelming torrent of fire pouring back at their pursuers. There was barely enough room in the tram for the six of them, wedged between the somnolent forms of war droids. The Watcher’s ‘lads’, come to save them... or rather, the necklace that was worth all their lives. The price of an alliance that Shannon believed would never exist. But the chance of it... the chance to stop running. That was what they had suffered for, lost a man for. A chance. Abigail repressed the sudden urge to start laughing.

Emily squeezed through the press of machine bodies. A spent casing, ejected from a combat drone’s arm, fell past her ear. “I’m here,” she told Abigail. “I’m here.”

Abby nodded, reaching up and pulling off Shannon’s helmet. She let out a sigh of relief. She’s breathing. Still... the burn cut across the right side of her head, starting at the temple. The tip of her ear was burnt away and pus, liquefied skin, burnt hair and blood matted the side of her face. “It’ll be okay, Shannie,” Abigail whispered, hesitantly stroking her “little sister’s” cheek. “It’ll be okay.”

crack

One of the Watcher’s automated soldiers fell backwards, decapitated. Its limbs twitched as a long-neglected secondary control net tried to assume command and failed. Abigail ignored the machine’s corpse, looking up at Emily. “Tell me what to do.”

~

The Watcher’s automata laid down a withering hail of fire, but the machines were old and the stopgap repairs the old man effected made each combatant a little less effective, a little less capable each time they were patched, re-wired and rebuilt. The Lost One’s army, though strong, was slowly rotting. The day would come when they would dig him out of his hole, but that day suddenly seemed a lot farther off.

Recognition subroutines and pattern-analysis programs built into their armour’s gestalt pulled up data, as Vigil’s stuttered whispers spoke to them. As the tram vanished around a bend in the track, her lips curled back in a mixture of disgust and dismay. “Lot 717,” she said, looking at the lead. He was crouched on the deck, studying the patterns the preys’ sprays of blood had made. He’d absorbed a lot of firepower and only her intervention had kept him from being skewered on the heavy trooper’s blade. She hadn’t made a kill, but neither had the intruders. At best, a draw.

The lead nodded. “717. Finally unburied.” He relayed the information to their reinforcements. That cargo must’nt be allowed to reach its destination. He looked up, nodded at her side. “Your wound?”

She held out the Old One’s weapon, a simple stainless steel combat knife, the blade coated in her blood. “Sore. Healing.” Under his stare, she relented. “My suit’s reporting internal injury, but I’m healing.” His systems interrogated hers.

“You won’t be at full strength for some time from that kind of wound,” he noted.

“I can still fight. I can still hunt,” a note of desperation entered her voice. There was no shame in being sent back, but she still felt as if she’d failed. Twice, she’d fought the Old One and twice, she’d lost. She wanted this kill. She needed it.

The lead looked away, into the darkness. He knew she couldn’t move at full speed with that injury and the more stress she placed on it, the longer it would take to heal. Enough strain, and the damage could overwhelm everything her own body and their medical technology could do. “They’ve outpaced us,” he finally said. “They’ll likely encounter our support squads before we can acquire them, even at full speed.”

“Then they’ll die,” she asserted. “But they won’t. They’ll never make it to the Watcher.” She felt a smile slide across her lips. “And then they’re ours.”

~

“She’s not going to lose her eye.”

That had been Emily’s pronouncement several minutes ago and Louis had been repeating it ever since, mumbling it as he crouched on the tram floor. The bolt had been too high, too off-center to be a killing blow. It had been intended to be one, a quick, clean shot between the eyes that would have burned through Shannon’s skull, vapourized her brain tissue and superheated the remaining liquid into an explosive overpressure that would have blown through the newly-created holes in her head. That had been the intent.

Except Shannon had moved at the last second – the last instant. Not enough to dodge the beam – no one was that fast – but enough that the barrel of the gun was no longer aimed so precisely. Maybe the enemy had tried to counter and track back for the killing shot, but Abigail hadn’t given him the chance.

She wasn’t what you’d call a berserker on the battlefield – indeed, the coldblooded way she fought was what scared people more. They’d said things like “thousand-yard stare”, “serial killer” and other unflattering terms to describe her; she hadn’t cared. You killed the enemy. Anyone who tried to stop you, tried to hurt you or yours was the enemy. You put them down hard, fast and you didn’t care how it was done as long as it was done. That was how the streets and docks of Port Royal taught her to fight. Just now, though... back at the tram station as she’d seen Shannon fall, seen her clutching at her helmet, reeking steam wisping out of the hole and hearing the Halo’s screams... all she’d seen was red. All she’d wanted to do was to kill and keep killing, to grab that invisible motherfucker, and start tearing pieces loose until she could see its face and then drive a knife right into its pleading, terrified eyes. To rip and claw and bite under there was nothing but red on her hands, on her face and dripping from her mouth.

It had been Emily, oddly enough, that had broken through the haze. The petite little doctor in her stained clothes, trying to pull Shannon into the tram, screaming for Abigail: “I can’t carry her myself!”

Then, there’d been the thunder of grenades as she and Louis had thrown them into those suicidally-close quarters, Jane sheltering the civilians from the fire and shrapnel, the Ghost using the threat of her useless cannon to keep the specters back, watching them retreat as the fire from the Watcher’s robots chewed through the deck and bulkheads, bullets whining and lasers hissing through the thin air.

Hunched down and cowering as the tram sped away, the Watcher’s nonsense in her ears as he demanded, over and over, his lover’s damned trinket. Abigail had ignored him, watching as Emily had worked, cleaning Shannon’s wound and wrapping the young woman’s head in antiseptic bandages, smearing burn cream and dosing her with antibiotics to prevent infection.

“It was plasma,” Delphini had said, talking down to them without even knowing it. “That’s hot. She’s got severe burns across the right side of her face. No exposed bone, so we’re lucky on that count, but...” she trailed off. “The bolt didn’t even hit her and it seared that line right through her skin. I can’t know what that might have done to her brain tissues.”

“You said it never hit her,” Louis all but accussed.

“She had a graze from a weapon about as hot as the inside as an industrial reactor,” Emily didn’t look back at Louis, her tone patronizing. “When the brain overheats it shuts down. She was conscious at first, so that’s a good sign. Burns are painful and this had to be...” she trailed off.

“She passed out from the pain,” Abigail summarized.

Emily nodded. “Yes. But like I said – this was a plasma weapon. I’ve treated burn victims before, but not like this. For all I know, that bolt might have cooked part of her brain inside her skull. Her pulse is already weak from blood loss. I don’t think it should be this low, though... Her temperature’s high, even for an accelerated metabolism and combat drug use...” she bit her lip. “You said one of them stabbed her – was the blade... was it poisoned?”

Abigail shook her head. “I don’t know. She didn’t say...” Her jaw tightened. “She didn’t want us to worry.” The Darkknell reached out and, with a surprising tenderness, brushed some of Shannon’s hair back from her face. “What can we do for her?”

“She’s not going to lose her eye,” Emily said. “But I need better diagnostic equipment, I need... something. For her, she looked over her shoulder at Hernandez. His expression was unreadable. “For you. And,” she turned to Abigail. “For you.”

“She’s not going to lose her eye?” Louis asked; the first time he’d spoken since they’d escaped. He looked up at Abigail and Emily; one eye covered by bandages, the other by his eyepiece. “She’s not going to lose her eye?” He repeated.

Emily shook her head. “It doesn’t look like it.” She didn’t understand.

“She’s not going to lose her eye,” Louis said again, rolling the entire sentence down his tongue, as if he’d never heard any of those words before. “She’s not going to lose her eye...”

Abigail didn’t say anything in reply, staring at Louis, though her hand started to drift towards the knife strapped to her boot. She didn’t like Hernandez’s tone. It sounded too much like someone thinking about something truly unpleasant. “No, she’s not, Nine.” A statement, challenge and threat all in one.

Louis laughed, the sound shallow and ugly. “She’s not going to lose her eye,” he giggled, leaning back. He reached up and touched the bandages on his face. “She’s not going to lose her eye.” Each time a new inflection, a new meaning. He chuckled again. “That’s funny. That’s really fucking funny, innit?”

“I’m sure someone finds it funny,” Abigail said softly, her voice starting to lose tone. “Someone will find anything funny. It’s a pretty fucked-up galaxy, Nine.”

“Yeah,” Louis said. He wasn’t looking at her, staring into space. “Yeah, Three. It is.” He didn’t say anything more for a long moment, scratching at the back of his head, laughing to himself every so often as he repeated his new mantra.

Abigail watched Hernandez for a few seconds longer, pushing the image of her knife in his throat out of her mind. For now. If he started going buggy, if he even tried to do anything to Shannie... Abigail hadn’t had much in her short life. No friends worth a damn, no family to speak of. Until that ‘retarded puppy’ of a Halo had walked into an Artemis base.

Anyone who tried to hurt you or yours was the enemy. Once that happened, you put them down. Hard, fast and permanently. With an effort, Abigail pushed the dark thoughts out of her head, meeting Emily’s eyes. “Is there anything you can do for her with her kit?”

The doctor shook her head. “You all need more than first aid and battlefield triage. There’s enough in here to do that and do it well, but for more than that... no. We need to get back to the Watcher’s camp for me to do more.”

“I’m afraid,” the Watcher’s voice intruded, harsh and buzzing from the voice box of one of his machines. “That’s no longer possible.” Abigail looked up, anger etched across her face and suddenly, belatedly, she realized what was really in the car with them. Matte black armour glinted faintly under the tram’s running lights, the orange flickers sliding off each joint, each curved barrel or sloped plate. Serial numbers were stencilled across armoured, shoulders, breastplates and thighs.

717-003. 717-007. 717-008. 717-011. On and on... and above each unit number there was a small emblem, the gaping maw of a massive reptile – a dragon. Dragon’s teeth. The sigil of the Imperium’s military cybernetic divisions.

They were in a tram car filled with war drones.... and not just the Watcher’s old, patched and creaky models.

Imperial war drones, an entire platoon’s worth of pristine killing machines, never touched by decay or neglect.

Ancient servos whined and hiccupped with pops and hisses as the slumbering giants shuddered to life, twitching limbs stretching for the first time in decades, diagnostic LEDs flashing as operating systems loaded, function systems came on-line, metal digits spasmed and flexed.

Abigail’s HUD flashed urgent red warnings as it detected the sweep of the drones’ scanners, each of them orienting on her and her group. “Identity unknown,” chorused from more than two dozen lipless mouths. “IFF failure. Weapons detected. Hostile targets.” Energy weapons began to charge with the hiss of steam and burning dust as slugthrowers clacked ammo belts into place.

“Engaging.”

[The Vortex Empire]

Man, they just can't catch a break. How the fuck will they get out of this one? Will they?

[Alan Bolte]

That was how the streets and docks of Port Royal taught her to fight. Just now, though... back at the tram station as she’d seen Shannon fall, seen her clutching at her helmet, reeking steam wisping out of the hole and hearing the Halo’s screams... all she’d seen was red. All she’d wanted to do was to kill and keep killing, to grab that invisible motherfucker, and start tearing pieces loose until she could see its face and then drive a knife right into its pleading, terrified eyes. To rip and claw and bite under there was nothing but red on her hands, on her face and dripping from her mouth.

You are huge! That means you have huge guts! Rip and Tear!

Much as I've enjoyed this story, some times I think it veers too far into... well, whatever that paragraph is.

[Night_stalker]

Man, they just can't catch a break. How the fuck will they get out of this one? Will they?

Using Louis as a distraction, and then just flatout running for it?

Or they could pray that the Watcher could hack the IFFs, but so far, their luck isn't that lucky...

[Dass.Kapital]

For Night_stalker and folks in general.Spoiler

Ahhhh...but you assume the combat machines are doing something wrong. *shiver* What if they are just a part of the Watcher's end of his double cross.....?

*Shiver* All things end...

With some in smiles and some in tears. Some in joy and some in fear. These things end with death and worse, since these things end with naught but promise cursed.

[Bladed_Crescent]

Man, they just can't catch a break. How the fuck will they get out of this one? Will they?

Through cunning, guile and good fortune.

Wait, they've never had any of those things.

Uhm...

Hm.

Much as I've enjoyed this story, some times I think it veers too far into... well, whatever that paragraph is.

That particular paragraph was intended to show how Abigail's being affected by the station. She went a little nuts when Shannon was shot, (and would have done so in any circumstance) but when she admits to wanting to feel blood on her hands and face, it's supposed to make you think: "That sounds a little extreme..." and realize that, while Louis might be talking to himself and seeing things, Jane might be obsessed with killing the weak, Abigail's not exactly a pillar of stability either.

They're all frayed at the edges and now, you can see the cracks starting to form. (wooo mixing metaphors!)

Well, that was the intent behind that passage anyways... I'm not sure about any others you might have had in mind.

Using Louis as a distraction, and then just flatout running for it?

Or they could pray that the Watcher could hack the IFFs, but so far, their luck isn't that lucky...

They're not quite at the stage of throwing each other to the wolves yet. Give them a few more days, weeks or months and then they'll go the way of Jane and her Ghosts - ostensibly unified in purpose, but in reality a hair's breadth from turning on each other.

And I'm not sure that any entreaty to the Watcher would be all that well received, since he's the one that turned them on in the first place...

Ahhhh...but you assume the combat machines are doing something wrong. *shiver* What if they are just a part of the Watcher's end of his double cross.....?

I hadn't intended there to be any question about that, really...

With some in smiles and some in tears. Some in joy and some in fear. These things end with death and worse, since these things end with naught but promise cursed.

Blinded by faith
I couldn't hear
All the whispers
The warning's so clear

I see the angels
I'll lead them to your door
There is no escape now
Now mercy no more

No remorse 'cause I still remember
The smile when you tore me apart

[Night_stalker]

Well, that removes plans A-V off the table, leaving only plan W.

Which is to run for their lives, and hope the robots will run into the DROP's residents before them.

[Themightytom]

I don't think running is an option. Personally I am guessing that BC has set the sstage for Spoiler

Shannon to be recognized as genetic descendant of Everett so that the droids will recognize her as a commanding officer/ Ally. That's why the link accross time between the Halos is so significant. Even the hunters recognize her as The Old One.
On the other hand, she's unconcious, and for this group to gain access to reinforcements seems uncharacteristically charitable of BC.

[Night_stalker]

Yeah, BC isn't about to toss the characters a bone.

And we all love his work for not doing so.

[LadyTevar]

I'd like them to have a few more Lucky Breaks... I wanna see Shannon bring the Others out of the cloud

[Mayabird]

So, was that supposed to be chapter 61 or chapter 60? I put it in C & C as 60, but can change that if they're supposed to be out of order.

Sorry for taking forever to get that caught up. Happy Halloween, everybody!

[Bladed_Crescent]

Which is to run for their lives, and hope the robots will run into the DROP's residents before them.

Well, as they're in the middle of a train car filled with robots running isn't so much of an option...
Spoiler

Shannon to be recognized as genetic descendant of Everett so that the droids will recognize her as a commanding officer/ Ally. That's why the link accross time between the Halos is so significant. Even the hunters recognize her as The Old One.

An Old One. There's a distinction there, trust me. As to Shannon's relationship to Everett, it's unlikely the war drones would recognize it, or act on it as such. Imperial security would recognize Everett's genetic code (but 'would the drones?' is a question in itself. This batch are mainline combat units, not security 'bots), but Shannon's would, at best be considered (rightly) a blood relative who does not enjoy Senior Researcher Hayes' level of access. At worst, it would be considered an attempted security breach and responded to with the appropriate level of force. Guess what that is.

That's not to say that there aren't other avenues open to Shannon et al, but at the moment those drones aren't open to (or capable of accepting) any sort of armistice.

On the other hand, she's unconcious, and for this group to gain access to reinforcements seems uncharacteristically charitable of BC.

Well, they do have a completely bugged-out Ghost out there somewhere...

...I forget whether that's supposed to be a comfort or not.

Yeah, BC isn't about to toss the characters a bone.

And we all love his work for not doing so.

Hey! I'm not that bad...

...well, at least I'm not George R.R. Martin bad.

I'd like them to have a few more Lucky Breaks... I wanna see Shannon bring the Others out of the cloud

Reeeeeeeeeally?

Ah heh. Heh heh heh.

Ah he he he!

So, was that supposed to be chapter 61 or chapter 60? I put it in C & C as 60, but can change that if they're supposed to be out of order.

Oh. Derp. It was supposed to be 60, then I changed it to 61 when I started another flashback, then realized I'd probably be strung up by the thumbs if I put it in there (plus it worked better to have it after this chapter), so I moved this chapter back to its original position.

...Which is an extremely pointless and convoluted way of saying 'yes, this is chapter 60 and I shall fix it presently'.

[Nuts!]

The Watcher was originally the researcher Dr. Black.

...cautious feet padded in, stepping over the cooling body of Senior Researcher Justin Black, the man’s face still frozen in an expression of surprise, outrage and fear.

Nope.

Oops!

It's also a bad idea to give Halos a spark of inspiration; you might get the Universal Sodomizer, but your arch-enemy could fork over some cash and end up with the Universal Sodomizer Mk II: the Ultra-Penetrator.

Ahhh...so you mean that Halos are Sparks.

EDIT: A quick question - what are the war drones made of here? You've said that they're "cyborgs," but much as I love 40k servitors I have to acknowledge that it's a pretty stupid idea. Are these regular-metal monsters, or something else?

[Bladed_Crescent]

A quick question - what are the war drones made of here? You've said that they're "cyborgs," but much as I love 40k servitors I have to acknowledge that it's a pretty stupid idea. Are these regular-metal monsters, or something else?

Imperial war drones are not cyborgs; they're artificial machines through and through, with varying levels of capability and intelligence depending on their model type and mission profile. What they're made of through really depends on the materials available to the factory/fabricator engine. High-end Imperial war drones would make most super-soldiers weep with envy. More common models would find kinship with Super Battle Droids. So they're entirely metal monsters, but since they're pristine Imperial tech, that's more than enough here and now.

(on reading this question, I actually went back to check my notes to see if I'd had a typo somewherre, but the only reference to cyborgs is when Daniel Barrett mentioned "Spartacus" defeating one and in that case, the cyborg in question was a posthuman.)

[Bladed_Crescent]

A twofer! In these chapters: tying past betrayals into present treachery

Chapter 61:

Then:

They had it all wrong.

All of them. Sarah, Thorne, Whitham – every last one of them. They were wrong. Surviving wasn’t about hiding, about running and quivering in corners, praying for help to come. Survival meant fighting. It meant taking what you could, when you could. It meant being ruthless, it meant doing whatever you had to. It meant sacrifice.

That was survival.

Dyson let the beam from his flashlight play across the room. The air here was cold and dry, smelling of machinery and metal. No one had come here for a very long time. No one had had a reason to. Not until he and Sarah had found Thorne’s little toys and put them somewhere more... convenient. He ran a hand over a diagnostic bench, letting his fingers trail through the dust. No diodes blinked, no screen shimmered to life. Everything in here was dead, starved of power as the station redirected energy into the nearby hydroponics and air processing sections. Without power or life, there was no reason to ever come here. A perfect hiding place, one provided by his... associate.

The technician smiled as his eyes swept through the room. They were still here. Three squads – thirty units – of Imperial combat droids. Most were humanoid – some pushing the boundaries of that – although not all were.

Dyson felt a tug of relief as he patted a cold metal chassis. He’d been worried, ever since Sarah... it probably hadn’t occurred to her to do anything with them, just as it never occurred to her to wonder what happened that day when she’d fallen asleep. It was simple – a handful of powder from the appropriate pills and she’d been out like a light. She was so trusting, she’d accepted that she’d simply been so tired that she’d passed out and the cut on her wrist was from tossing in her sleep. He felt the faint stirrings of regret at the deception, but his partner had been adamant. Sarah’s life for his and her help with his... projects. A fair trade, all things considered.

Thinking of his ‘partner’, Dyson felt himself stir. Despite her condition, she was very... energetic. She’d never give him a name so he called her Tiffany, after his favourite porn actress. He chuckled to himself at the inside joke. There was a bit of a resemblance there, but only superficial. Tiffany... now, she was a curious thing. On her good days, she was almost coherent. He had no idea what had happened to her – maybe she’d even been born that way. A more freakish variant of humanity whose mind had snapped on DROP 47. She might even have been born here – it was hard to piece together, especially since talking about her past made her more... fractured than normal. Definite family issues, though.

He didn’t know what his partner wanted with Sarah, only that she’d be taken care of. Probably wanted a pet of her own, not that Dyson could blame her – Sarah was a comely little thing and a pleasant enough armful in bed. He chuckled dryly, covering up his own unease. He did feel bad about the whole affair, but it had been necessary. The sacrifices that survival demanded. What Thorne and the rest of the idiots didn’t realize was that nobody was coming for them. He’d lied when he’d told them that their ship’s last transmission was almost too garbled to be recovered, but that they’d managed to send a distress buoy before... going off-air.

He wished that was the truth. There’d been no hidden data code for him to uncover, no last brave words or promise that rescue was coming.

There’d been nothing but the screams.

At the time, he had lied to save morale. To give them something to hope for – to believe that rescue would come. Now, he realized just how naive he’d been. DROP 47 was nothing but a pitcher plant. You went in, drawn by the scent of honey and once you were in... it ate you alive. The natives called it Acheron, one of the rivers of Hell.

Well, if you’re trapped in Hell, you might as well look to rule it. Dyson smiled, comforted by the thought. It was time. Time to get rid of Thorne and rally the survivors to his banner. Then, he’d deal with the masked savages and their white-painted little proxies. He’d even heard of a third tribe living somewhere on the south arm... He’d push back the Lurker infestation, drive them into the core and then wipe them all out. He’d even have the means to deal with the pirate clan here, too. Thirty war droids wouldn’t be enough for all of that, but they’d be a start. He’d play the game until 47 was his, until he reigned in Hell. “It’s all coming together,” he said to himself.

“Are you there?” the voice crackled through the static-ridden comm lines, interrupting Dyson’s reverie.

Dyson paused. He’d forgotten the link was open. “I’m here, Jason.”

“Dr. Whitman,” the cyberneticist corrected Dyson haughtily.

“Fine. Whatever.”

“Are you at the site?”

“Yes,” Dyson replied. “Everything’s secure. Just like I told you it would be.” Bringing Whitham in was a calculated risk, but a necessary one – the man was one of the premier cyberneticists in the Republic, but he hadn’t been right since his wife had disappeared. That was probably for the best, given that it wouldn’t have been much longer before Thorne or someone else would have put a bullet in her. Whitham had still taken it badly, though. He’d refused to do any more work on Thorne’s little find unless they looked for her; his back against the wall, Thorne had agreed to send out search parties, but none of them had been particularly enthusiastic about it (or tried terribly hard).

In the end, all they’d found of her was a few scraps of cloth and a blood trail that vanished into the Lurker-ridden parts of the arm. Thorne had had to call off the search at that point. Dyson had expected rage, threats and begging from Whitman, but it was like the scientist had just withdrawn into himself. He hadn’t said a word, simply stared at Thorne from behind his cracked spectacles with dead, empty eyes, nodded and turned away. He spent the rest of his days tinkering with the station’s security systems, trying to talk to the insane AI. After three days of trying, he’d gotten a name out of it: Vigil.

Dyson had listened to Whitham as he’d worked, the cyberneticist muttering to himself as he’d matched wits with an insane AI. “She’s hiding something,” the doctor had repeated to himself, over and over. “She’s hiding something from me.”

Lot 717. A full platoon of Imperial combat units, asleep in their crypt. Other raiders had come for them, the ground littered with their bleached bones, walls and bulkheads peppered with shot and burned with energy fire as the war machines’ threat-recognition systems identified the would-be looters as a hostiles to be terminated. Centuries old and still lethal, like mythical guardians protecting a tomb. Whitham had managed to pacify them, putting them to sleep, but the machines were still operating on Imperial protocols. Which was a small problem given that no one in their expedition had access to Imperial security codes – as soon as the machines woke up again, they’d fall back on their innate programming to protect themselves.

Dyson had heard of the ‘Dragon’s Teeth’, of course. He’d even seen the infamous ‘Seven Devils’ footage. A rampant Centobite stalking and killing an entire mercenary squad, trained gunslingers turned into whimpering, terrified animals as the drone picked them off one by one. He paused by 717-024, the platoon’s own Cenobite. It was still, its hull cool, its vicious talons still and powered off. He knelt beside it, reminded of Tiffany. Hello, girl. Ready to play? The machine didn’t answer.

“Okay, I’m here,” he said into the comm. “What’s the first step?” He’d gotten them here by reconfiguring their ‘home base’ coordinates. That had been hard enough, but for his purposes, he needed to completely reprogram them to accept his commands or as soon as one of them woke up far enough it would turn on him. “Whitham. I need to know how to safe mode these things. Let’s get them going. Whitham.”

Static came back.

“Jason?” Dyson raised his voice. “What’s next?”

Still nothing.

“Dr. Whitham?”

“Bell horses, bell horses, what time o’ day?” a familiar feminine voice giggled into the radio. “One o’clock, two o’clock, time to away.”

“Tiff?” Dyson pursed his lips, snapping open the worn leather strap of his holster. His hand touched the cool metal grip of his pistol. “That you, doll?”

“The farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell, hi-ho the derry-o, the farmer in the dell.” a different girl’s voice singsonged.

“Tiffany?”

“Don’t call me that,” Tiffany answered, her voice a sensuous liquid purr. “That’s not my name.”

“What is it, then?” His mind flashed back to their first meeting, the hissing, snarling ball of teeth that she’d been, and the question he’d asked then. “What’s your name?”

“The farmer takes a wife,” she laughed, ignoring the question. “The farmer takes a wife, hi-ho the derry-o, the farmer takes a wife.”

“Jason!” Dyson flipped channels on the comm. “Jason, can you hear me? I’ve got a little problem here...”

There was no answer. Either Whitham was playing silly buggers with the comm, or Tiffany and her friend were jamming him – and how the hell could they do that? –Tiffany had no idea how to use the station’s systems.

Or she’d made it look that way, a little voice whispered in the back of Dyson’s mind. “Whitham!” he whispered with greater urgency, unsettled by the idea that the freakish little mutant had been playing him. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” a third voice answered and Dyson froze. That hadn’t been over the comm. That voice... He looked up as Sarah stepped out of the gloom. His mouth went dry as he saw her. Her skin had lost colour, dark blue veins showing beneath it. The discolouration had faded from one of her yellow eyes, but both of them glinted with madness and her hands... her hands were turning black, just like Tiffany’s and they ran over her swollen belly. She smiled, her lips stretching back across teeth stained pink, the light in her eyes making Dyson’s skin crawl.

“The wife takes a child, the wife takes a child,” Tiffany whispered as she slid out off the darkness behind Sarah, moving with a serpentine grace that Dyson had never seen before. “Hi-ho the derry-o, the wife takes a child.”

Sarah’s smile widened. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered reverently. “I can feel it moving.”

And so it was; Dyson could see his lover’s skin bulge and shiver as something – something not restricted to her womb – slithered through her flesh.

“She’s going to be a mother,” Tiffany purred, stroking Sarah’s cheek with the back of one hand, the other woman’s eyes half-lidding with pleasure, her breath turning raspy. Tiffany looked sharply back at Dyson. “Our mother.”

“That’s great,” he whispered. “I’m really – I’m happy for you, both of you.” There was only one exit. He’d have to shoot his way out.

“Mmmmm,” Tiffany rolled the sound down her tongue. “Liar.” She wasn’t looking at him. “I smell your fear. You’re not happy. You cast her out when you were finished. Told her she was pretty, touched her, made her cry out for you and you cast her out. You gave her to me.” There was despair in her voice as she finally turned to face Dyson. “How could do that to her?” Her knife-like fingers raked softly over Sarah’s skin, eliciting soft gasps from the shorter woman. “You gave her to me so your toys would be safe.”

“You...” Dyson could finally speak, forcing his brain to work. “You did this. You were the one that-that turned her into... into this.”

“Our last mother died,” Tiffany said sadly. “Burned and hewn. We need a mother. Isn’t she pretty?” She ran a hand down Sarah’s form, to her heavy stomach. “She’ll give us strong sisters, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I’m sure she will...” Say whatever it takes. “She’s just glowing.”

“Glowing,” Tiffany – whatever her name was – licked her lips. “Glowing. And hungry. Fed already, not enough. She needs more. Needs to be safe. The garden grows, but not fast enough. She needs to eat and grow. I have to keep her safe. They’ll start hunting her if they know she’s here.” She wrapped her arms around Sarah possessively. “I can’t lose another mother.” Red eyes narrowed as her head cocked back at Dyson. “You’ll help us now.”

“Tiff...” Dyson drawled, starting to circle around the women, towards the exit. “We’ve had some good times, you and I. You too, Sarah – didn’t I take care of you? I kept you safe.”

There was a hooded look in Sarah’s eyes as she spoke. “Kept me safe,” she repeated flatly. “You kept me safe. While Thorne watched. While everyone watched. You kept me safe.” She looked down at her belly, at her blackening, scaly hands. “You gave me this.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, baby. I had to do it. I had to do it for everyone, you understand? To keep everyone safe. Thorne can’t be trusted. I did what I had to do. I didn’t want to, but I had to, right? I wanted to keep you safe, I wanted to. But I couldn’t... I couldn’t save everyone. You understand that, right?”

She wouldn’t look at him. “I understand. You always did what you thought was best. I always listened. I always let you decide.” Both women were watching him now, two sets of red eyes staring at him. Sarah licked her lips and whispered something into Tiffany’s ear. “He should decide.”

The other woman crackled, a staccato burr, but she nodded. “You gave me memories,” she said to Dyson. “Gave me feelings, touches, whispers. Made me think I wasn’t what I was. I’m glad of that. I’ll give you her decision.” Her talons caressed Sarah’s face, her touch as gentle as a mother with a newborn. “She needs to eat. You can help her grow, or you can be our brother.” She tapped Sarah’s nose. “You’ll be her firstborn. We can play together and take care of each other.”

Sarah hissed, holding out a hand towards Dyson. “We can be together. Just like you promised.”

He laughed then, a nervous defeated little sound of despair and reached for her hand. She smiled with hope and expectation...

..he grabbed her arm and pulled her off her feet, throwing her to the ground. Tiffany screamed, there was a blue of movement, but Dyson ignored it because he was running, but there was fire in his side and he fell, pulling himself back up to his feet, but his hands were slippery and he couldn’t get any traction but it didn’t matter because they were behind him and he had to run...

~

He didn’t know how he’d gotten here. He was here, that was all he knew. His lungs burned in his chest and he fought for each breath, clutching a hand to his side, trying to stem the blood seeping out between his fingers, a loop of entrails hanging down his side. A single cut and she’d opened him this deep. He fought to hold onto the pain. It was the only thing keep him awake. He needed it. The stench of the spread filled his nostrils, warring with the thick aroma of rotten fruit and growing plants. The infestation had reached even here, creeping tendrils boring into leaves and stems. He hadn’t known it was this bad. She hadn’t told him.

“This is why you said you could keep them safe here,” he said aloud. “You knew. You knew it was close to this. You didn’t want me to have them. You didn’t want anyone to have them.”

He almost wept. He’d been so sure, so confident that he was getting everything he wanted and he’d been duped by a bugged-out mutant.

No, he corrected with a giddy giggle. Blood loss was making him lightheaded. Not a mutant. A Lurker.

Tears streaked down his cheeks. I had it, his mind whimpered the thought over and over. I was almost there. I almost had everything. It’s not fair. “It’s not fair,” he whispered through his clenched teeth.

The computer flashed intermittently, but it accepted his commands. Someone was shouting in his ear, telling him not to do this, but he didn’t pay any attention. He had to do this. This was the last thing, the one good thing that he could do. To make up for everything else he’d done. It had to. It had to. I can stop it. “I can stop it all,” he said. “No more plans. No more schemes. I can stop it all. I can stop all of you.”

Someone was fighting him, erecting firewalls and throwing countermeasures at him, but they were only slowing him. He just needed to focus, just a little more and then he’d be finished. “No one gets the brass ring,” he told himself, needing to believe it as he began to systematically disable the system’s master networking adapters, severing hydroponics from Vigil’s reach. His hands were slippery as he cut the hardline cables, sweat and blood smeared on the keys as he shut down wireless functions. “No one gets out. Nothing gets in.”

They were coming for him. His lovers, the others. He’d thought he was so smart, stringing Sarah and Tiffany along, giving them the affection they were desperate for. He’d had so many plans, so many ways to get what he we wanted. And now...

There was nowhere left to run, no place to hide. He couldn’t think or talk or bargain or plan his way out. He’d been wrong. He hadn’t known what they really were. “I didn’t know,” he said to the air. “I didn’t know.” The voice in his ear had gone silent. Dyson couldn’t even remember who it had been. Maybe it had been Jason. He’d been talking to Jason before, hadn’t he? It didn’t matter, not really. Blackness was beginning to creep in around the edges of his vision, his legs trembling beneath him.

He heard them coming.

“One little duck went out to play,” the girl whose name he’d never known sang, stalking out of the darkness. “Over the hills and far away. The mother duck said ‘quack quack, come back’.” Behind her followed Sarah, cradling her belly. Dyson stared into her mismatched eyes, hoping for something – anything – human, but there was something horrible in them, something he couldn’t bear to see.

Forgiveness. And even worse, in the twitch of her lips, in the gleam of her eyes he saw contentment. She was happy.

I did this.

“I’m sorry,” he said, every mistake in his life running through his mind. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

“I know,” Sarah answered, taking his hand. “I know.” She pulled him to his knees, stronger than she’d ever been in life. “Decide,” she whispered in his ear as her teeth grazed his throat.

“I have,” he answered, holding her to him with one hand. The other touched the keyboard. “I have. We’ll be together,” he whispered to her. “Forever.” He could feel her body shiver and writhe against his and as her teeth found his throat, he ordered the computer to execute his last command.

~

One by one, pressure doors slammed down in an attempt to isolate North Hydroponics from the rest of the station. Corridors were sealed off, air vents were shut down, maintenance tunnels locked and atmosphere flushed out in what should have formed an unbreakable cordon around the contaminated areas.

It had failed. Time, inexperience and sabotage had worked against Dyson. If he’d had more time. If he’d been more familiar with the Imperial systems, if he hadn’t been working against someone else...

“Credit where it’s due,” a voice whispered. “You didn’t completely fail.” Vigil’s control was severed; that, if nothing else, Dyson had done right. It might placate whatever judge was waiting for the damned fool’s soul, but in this place, it was frustrating. “Should have gone for the jugular, Jessup or let your – heh – daughter-to-be finish the job. You girls are too sentimental.”

It wasn’t even a matter of repairing severed connections or replacing hardlines; the damage was in the software of the central hub terminal. Actual, physical access to the computer would be needed to undo it. The figure leaned back in a squeaking ancient chair, looking at the images on a pair of security screens, the last thing the cameras had recorded before their connections had been cut. On one, Sarah gorged herself, her face buried in Dyson’s abdomen, as her companion stared at the computer’s holographic display, captured in a moment of dawning comprehension.

On the other, row after row of perfect Dragon’s Teeth lay slumbering, sealed against intrusion and waiting for the command to awaken. Accompanying this image was the flashing schematic of North Hydroponics, each access point to Lot 717’s site blinking with the red of a sealed pressure door.

On a third monitor, a figure only barely recognizable slouched through a different pressure door a moment before it slammed shut, the last few seconds of imagery playing back in a continuous loop. Knuckles tightened painfully and the figure let out an aggravated sigh. “I’ll find a way,” he announced to the empty room. “I’ll find a way to fix everything.” He touched his fingers to his lips and then, to the third screen. “I’ll do it for you,” he promised, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’ll do it for you.”

Chapter 62:

Now:

“You bastard,” the curse hissed out through Abigail’s teeth. Half a dozen targeting systems were locked onto her, each member of their party under similar attention. A Cenobite-pattern drone stared down Godfrey; intended for close combat, Cenobites were armed not unlike the unfortunate Mackenzie; hands with long, slashing talons. Only instead of the onyx bone that the petty officer had, each of the Cenobite’s claws hissed and crackled with a disruptor field. Shoulder-mounted flechette launchers tracked the trooper as the Cenobite stared at Godfrey from behind its grotesquely-painted faceplate, as impassive as the lieutenant’s own bloody masque.

Armin was frozen with terror. Delphini had slowly raised her hands, as if surrender would save her. Louis remained sitting, hefting Betsy in one hand, pointing the shotgun’s barrel at the closest drone. Not that it would do much good; their weapons would tear right through the mercenaries’ armour. Even Jane’s heavy plate wouldn’t save her from Imperial weapons, not at this range.

“You bastard,” Abigail repeated. “I knew we couldn’t trust you. She knew it too.” She pulled Shannon’s prone form to her, but there was no place to hide, no cover to offer her ‘little sister’.

“Did she?” the Watcher chuckled, his voice rasping in her ears. “And she danced under the strings all the same. You all do, moths and Lost and children all dance to the song of Acheron. You think you can call the tune, but it never works that way. Hope. Fear. Rage. They dictate what you’ll do, all of you.”

“Yeah. Hope,” Abigail said. “She knew what you were going to do, but she still hoped you’d keep to your end.”

“It’s a curse, a Halo curse. To see everything and know everything and still to hope for the best.” He laughed at some private joke. “But it leads where all curses do, doesn’t it, little moth? To the fire at the end of all things.”

“You’re so right.” She heard the feral’s indrawn breath as she pulled out a high-explosive grenade, holding it in one hand, the other clutching tightly to Shannon. “You mentioned hope, fear and rage, you fucker. The first two were hers. Guess which is mine?”

“Bluff,” the Watcher challenged. Another four targeting systems locked onto her.

“No bluff,” Abigail replied. “Deadman switch.”

“You can’t hurt my boys.”

“I know. I don’t care about them. We knew you wanted something else from us and you know what? I’m happy for you. Get your new private army, stick it to the Masks, go after the Turned or those fuckers with the cloaks – I don’t care. But this? This is for me, and it’s for her and it’s for that fucking necklace that we bled for. That we lost a man for. Your drones will survive. It won’t.”

“Abby...” Louis said softly. “Fuck are you doing?”

“I’m negotiating, Nine.” Abigail’s voice was very quiet, very cold and without any trace of levity. “It took you how long to get this necklace back? When all you needed was some patsies to walk into a damned hive of Turned? How long will it take you to put it back together when all you’ve got is molten bits of metal? Shoot me. Go ahead, you fucking pussy. Shoot Louis. Shoot Emily and Armin and Jane and watch the last piece of your lover go up in flame. Any one of us dies and we all die and we take your damned trinket with us.”

The Watcher didn’t answer.

“You think I’m afraid to do it?” Abigail said, her voice rising. “Look at us. We’ve been here a couple days and we’re coming apart. Every God-damned thing on this station wants to kill us. Nobody dies easy. You get gunned down by psychopaths, turned into a fucking breeding machine, eaten or mutated. This... this is clean. This is quick. This is easy. If you want to make this our last stop, then at least it’ll be on our terms. At least I can say I got to spit in the eye of the cowardly little fuck who turned on us. Come on then, you cocksucker! What are you waiting for?! Give me a reason. Give me a reason.”

The silence stretched as the tram car sped down the track, the Imperial drones still watching their potential victims, waiting for the command to fire. Then, abruptly, they lowered their weapons. Disruptor fields shut off, energy capacitors bled off waste heat and safeties clicked on. “The little moth won’t burn today,” the Watcher whispered. “She will burn, but not today.” The car began to slow as it pulled up to some burnt-out tram station just off the main rail. “I will make it so.”

“You do that,” Abigail hissed, refusing to deactivate the grenade. She watched as the others evacuated the car, withdrawing out of the drones’ line of fire. Emily looked as she wanted to come back, but Abigail shook her head no. She stood, hauling Shannon up. The Darkknell felt a twinge of guilt; their respective positions made it look like she was using the unconscious Halo as a human shield, but there was no other way for her to lift Shannon without losing her grip on the grenade, or inviting a cheap shot. She backed out of the car. “One drone.” She looked over at one of the more dilapidated models, a cheap construction model with an overcharged plasma cutter attached to its right arm. “That one. You can leave that one. The others go home. Now.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then we see how much you’re prepared to lose,” Abigail said, her grin widening. The Watcher had been so focused on her ultimatum, he hadn’t noticed the figure stalking up the tram tunnel, its grey armour smeared with blood, grotesque trophies hanging from its waist.

“Corporal Black reporting,” the Ghost hissed. “Ready for duty. Orders?”

“If our friend doesn’t behave, start firing on the tram,” Jane answered. “See if Imperial armour can take what your Hammetong gives.”

Oblivious to the realization that she wouldn’t survive long doing that, Cynthia braced herself into a firing position. There was a wet giggle of anticipation. “I’ve never killed Imperial before,” the Ghost purred.

Another moment passed. There was the sound of grinding teeth.

“All right.” The robot Abigail had indicated shuffled off the tram, the car accelerating away. As soon as it was out of site, the construction drone reached out with the crude pincers of its left hand. “Now, little moth. Give me what is mine.”

Abigail was tempted just to shoot the drone down, but she nodded. “Deal’s a deal.” Without looking, she reached down Shannon’s side, finding the armoured tac case on her thigh. She fished out the gore-flecked necklace and tossed it onto the drone’s waiting manipulators. “You’ve got what you wanted. We’re done.”

The Watcher’s voice took on an almost dreamy tone as his machine marched away. “You’ve done me a service and I’m grateful, little moth. But we’re not done. This is my station. These are my people, my toys, my systems. You don’t even know why you fight to live. You don’t even know what that is in your arms, do you?”

“I know enough,” she said defiantly.

“You really don’t,” the Watcher laughed. “So go on, little moth. Take the daughter. Enjoy the victory that you’ve earned. I’ll find you again. I always do.”

“Fuck you.”

The channel closed.

~

Vigil’s systems reported that the tram had stopped briefly at one of the stations further up the line before continuing on its way. Camera functions were down in that area, but motion sensors confirmed someone had left the car. “You were right,” said the lead, striding through the hallways. “They didn’t make it all the way back.” He looked at his younger wards. “What do you think of the choice of location?”

Her fellow novitiate thought a moment. “No betrayal, but no alliance. Leaving them there is parting on good terms.”

“There’s no good terms with the Watcher,” she said. The wound in her side itched, though the painkillers flooding her system made it no more than that. She paused a moment, tempted to shut down that part of her brain but pushed the idea of biocontrol out of her mind. Despite her armour’s monitoring systems, she needed to be aware if her injury worsened. “He betrayed them,” she continued with certainty. “Either they forced his hand or...” she bit the inside of her lip. “No. Forced or not, he chose well.”

“Why is that?” the lead asked nonchalantly as he checked an empty storage locker. “It’s close to an oasis.”

“They’re not like Vigil,” she pointed out. “They go insane. If this one has, there’s no safety there. That section is in his sphere of influence. Any augurs will be his; he’ll know if the quarantine systems are malfunctioning or not. Even if they aren’t... we haven’t seen many evolved strains. It would be nice to think that the Old One’s purge claimed them too, but they’re the most likely to survive.”

“You think they’ll anticipate this?” her fellow trainee seemed dubious as he swept his weapon across a side corridor.

“I think they’re smart enough to stake out the nearest safe zone in the arm,” she replied, pausing a moment to catch her breath. Her diaphragm had been nicked by the Old One’s blade and until it healed fully, she was having trouble keeping pace. The lead called a halt to wait for her. “They don’t need to know about the New Ones and the Watcher. All they have to know is where the nearest watering hole is and wait until the prey comes to them.”

~

Tabitha was licking her claws nervously, keeping an eye on the figure sitting across the hall. Kiyomi was growling fitfully, Jacquelyn had slunk back into the shadows and even Gemma was disturbed. Remaining utterly still, the soldier watched them from its too-large eyes. None of the women knew what had drawn it here; soldiers only left Mother when prey were too dangerous for the hunters to handle. Now that she was dead, there was nothing that could control the creatures, nothing to reinforce the bonds of family in its mind. The soldier stirred, powerful muscles stretching beneath pale skin, its killing blades flexing slowly. It cocked its head towards the sisters, lips spreading back from its mouth of needle teeth in a parody of a grin.

Tabitha hissed, low and threatening, splaying her hands. The soldier flinched back from her and then slowly turned, rising out of its crouch. It made a gibbering, liquid noise of challenge. Behind her, Tabitha felt her sisters stir, but she ignored them, crouching low on all fours. The spines on her back went rigid as she approached the soldier, looking up into its red-black eyes. Drool bubbled over its teeth and it raised its arms, mantis-like, an instant before spearing them down-

-and she was on her feet, her hands around its wrists, holding its killing strike back. It looked confused, staring at its shaking arms, the blades halted in their free-fall as it strained against this unexpected resistance.

Its slit-like nostrils flared and it hissed at her, its scent one of pure ferocity as it tried to bear down on her. It wanted to kill, to slash and rend everything in its sight. She understood that desire, that need and smiled back at it, the air thickening with her scent. The soldier’s aggression faded, its expression turning confused again as it stared at her, what passed for its mind finally starting to consider the situation, to react to her scent. Finally, it stopped struggling. Tabitha released her degenerate cousin, holding her hand out towards it.

The soldier bent its head in submission, licking her fingers gently. It leaned towards her and she gave it a calming lick of her own tongue, stroking its cheek with the back of her hand. “Good boy,” Tabitha purred, looking over at her sisters. Kiyomi and Jacquelyn were watching in quiet awe, and Gemma wore an expression that shifted between reverence and disgust.

There was a noise, further into the corridor. A low, harsh chuckle. Each of the women looked up, red eyes piercing the gloom. The soldier snapped its head towards the noise, unfurling its scythe-arms, its fingers twitching maniacally. “Will wonders never cease,” a masculine voice growled. “One of you bitches is actually good for something.”

~

Emily and Abigail carried Shannon between them. Although the petite doctor was having trouble lifting the Halo’s armoured form even with Abigail’s help, neither of them asked the other survivors for help. Armin might end up dropping her and Louis’s... episode in the tram car made him unreliable in Abigail’s eyes. Entrusting her “little sister’s” care to either of the deranged Ghosts wasn’t even worth thinking about.

Every so often, Godfrey’s helmet would turn towards the other three women, stealing a quick glance. Abigail was sure Godfrey and Black were talking to each other on a private channel. They were too quiet. Black... Abigail hadn’t had many encounters with her, but she was good enough to earn power armour, good enough to survive DROP 47 all on her own. Even without the bloody evidence of her corruption hanging from her hip, she was dangerous. The splashes of blood discolouring her once clean, pale armour only reinforced that concept.

I can control her. Godfrey had promised Shannon that, but Shannon was unconscious now. The dog had a leash, but without the Halo, Jane had no one holding hers. That was why Abigail wouldn’t let anyone else help her and Emily. She couldn’t be weak. One moment of that, and the Ghosts would turn on them. She wouldn’t let that happen. Gritting her teeth, Abigail focused on putting one foot ahead of the other, heading deeper into the station, towards the icon on her HUD that might just save them.

She’d do what she always did: survive one step at a time.

~

It moved with the sure-footed grace of Tabitha and her sisters, measured and precise in motion, but without the stimulus of prey, it was not as economical as the soldier: fingers twitched, hands flexed, a tongue flicked over teeth. Tabitha bared her teeth in threat, Kiyomi crawled behind her sisters and Gemma stared, running her own tongue over her lips. Alone among her sisters, Jacquelyn did not join in the posturing, instead cocking her head to one side.

Responding to their agitation, the soldier splayed its bladed arms, letting out a hiss so soft as to almost be imperceptible.

“Easy, girls.” The newcomer raised its hands. “I’m not here to fight.”

“Little Tommy Tittlemouse lived in a little house,” Tabitha purred dangerously, her lips drawing back from her teeth. “He caught fishes in other mens’ ditches.”

A pause, followed by a low growl. “That’s not funny.”

Gemma raised her head. “Simple Simon went a-fishing for to catch a whale,” she sing-songed, echoing her sister’s sentiments. “But all the water he had got was in his mother’s pail.”

The growl turned into a dangerous hiss, low and threatening. “You really should learn to share.”

The scent of aggression filled the hallway, but it was overwhelmed by the womens’ pheromones, the soldier starting to twitch and spasm as the need to kill began to cloud out its simple mind, its eyes focusing on the newcomer, scythe-arms trembling. There was no sensation of movement; it was suddenly a step closer to the figure. Its head snapped back towards the crouched women, slitted nostrils flared. Tabitha pointed a single talon at the shadowed newcomer and the soldier’s eyes followed. “He went for water in a sieve, but soon it all fell through. And now poor Simple Simon bids you all adieu.” Another flicker, another step.

Red eyes gleamed out of the dark and the shadows shifted as the figure took a deep, theatrical bow. “Adieu, then. We’ll talk later.”

Tabitha relaxed with an angry breath, glaring at Jacquelyn. The younger sister only briefly met her eyes, bristling in indignation, but then letting her shoulders slump. She keened softly, nuzzling Tabitha in supplication. Kiyomi purred, licking Jacquelyn’s cheek. Gemma simply stiffened, turning her head down the corridor. A half-second later, her sisters heard it too.

Prey was coming.

[LadyTevar]

So, is the Male what's left of Dyson, or his Child by Sarah?

[Grimnosh]

So, is the Male what's left of Dyson, or his Child by Sarah?

Prehaps its both.

[Themightytom]

Well done Mr. Crescent, well done!

[Bladed_Crescent]

So, is the Male what's left of Dyson, or his Child by Sarah?

Prehaps its both.

Actually, it's neither. The skeleton that Abigail and Shannon found in the hydroponic central core? That was Dyson, his flesh stripped away to feed Sarah's change, his bones left to rot into dust.

The male that the Crying Girls have encountered here is someonething else. I think there's been enough hints to guess what it is, if not who.

Well done Mr. Crescent, well done!

a) thank you kindly

b) I know what that's from, but I can't bring the words to mind and it's driving me crazy.