AN: I decided to delete part of Chapter 3 because I have bigger plans for Grievous after I remembered he was sort of a badass in the 2003 cartoon.
1345 HOURS, MARCH 19, 2561 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ SLIPSPACE, ABOARD MEDUSA-CLASS BATTLESHIP UNSC WARHOUND (BB-32), EN ROUTE TO ALPHA RENDARA SYSTEM
In an inconspicuous personal quarter sat a massive figure on a genuine leather couch, one of many luxuries officers were provided. Although he was an NCO, he had been granted this spacious area, which goes without saying for someone of his repertoire.
The man was brooding about the coming battle, what it would mean for humanity, and more importantly, how he would defend it.
As he shifted his position the couch groaned, holding up that amount of weight was not in the design. Half a ton’s worth of man and armor was stressful on furniture.
He removed his green helmet and set it aside on the table.
The man’s face was pale and endowed with scars as a result of decades of service, thousands of missions, hundreds of battles.
He was truly the best of humanity, or as some called themselves: Terrans, the true humans. They were the Reclaimers. To be in this galaxy was their birthright, and he was their protector. The man, the myth, the legend:
Master Chief Petty Officer John-117.
John looked out of one of the few windows of the warship. He glided a gloved hand through his close cropped brown hair, thinking about why ONI had suddenly scrambled him alongside the rest of the surviving Spartan-IIs and IIIs overnight.
As he stared into the silent, yet howling, abyss of slipspace he began to daydream. He started to remember it like it was yesterday.
When he was hurried to humanity’s second-most important fortress world, he was more than shocked to find out the cause for such an action.
It was Cortana.
Upon arriving back to Earth after the Requiem Campaign, Cortana had to be immediately given over to ONI’s cybernetics division so they could extract the information from her in an attempt to extend her lifespan. They had said that weeks on end with nothing but the Gravemind for company would take its toll on anybody.
ONI declared her unfit for duty. They locked her up in AI hell, or a centuries old computer running Windows Vista. There was nothing she could do, but sit there and figuratively rot as her thoughts grew and crushed themselves within her Riemann matrix
He was allowed to visit once. Only once, and he had thought of it more of a farewell. After that one time, he had never seen her again.
He had gone on to perform ‘cleanup’ operations, mostly against Insurrectionists who had gotten too ambitious and Covenant remnants who proved to be nuisances, and then went on to training the Spartan-IVs.
He had been the least successful of the Spartans in integrating back into peacetime.
With no one to fight, and HIGHCOM wanting to repay them in any way they could, the UNSC had offered every Spartan a chance to lead a normal life. Some of the Spartan-IIIs had taken up this offer and were now living as citizens of the UEG, some being quiet civilians (with a huge pension), others being everything from a professor to a janitor.
One was even working for an arms manufacturer testing power armor, but several had gone on to work as a mercenary team. The Andromeda Galaxy was very unstable and the group of 10 had quickly become one of the most well-known guns for hire. They only worked for small backwater planets with no real affiliation to the Republic or CIS. The last John had heard of them was that they were employed in the Mandalore system.
The Spartan-IIs had been far less successful than the IIIs, as they had been in the military since they were kids, as such the adjustments had only worked out for two, Maria-062, who was now married and had a son, and Randall-037, who had a daughter.
The other Spartan-IIs and the remaining IIIs had opted to stay with the UNSC for numerous reasons, especially since the SPARTAN-IV program was in its infancy. They assisted with training the new generation of Spartans, chosen from the ranks of the UNSCDF. Most of them came from Army Rangers, Airborne, Green Berets, the ODSTs, Force Recon, or other elite units. Whereas the Spartan-IIs were the peak of all humanity, the IVs were the peak of the UNSC, meant to be more widely applied than the IIs or even IIIs while still retaining the commando tradition of their predecessors.
When his elevator had made it to the bottom of the bunker complex, he realized he was in ONI’s Cybernetic Division HQ. Its location was classified, even to Spartans. But there he was, knee deep in the belly of the beast.
They were working on how to increase the chances of an AI reaching metastability, the rarest, final stage of an AI’s lifespan. At this stage, occurring after rampancy, the AI essentially became a truly sentient being.
However, nearly every AI ripped themselves apart before reaching that stage.
Up until then, that had been the case.
Whatever ONI had told him, he wouldn’t have been able to explain how he felt afterwards.
To him, it was like seeing your best friend die in front of you, and then come back as if nothing happened.
He had struggled to come to terms with Cortana’s apparent death, but he eventually did. The only thing ONI did to save her was extract all the relevant data she held. She was physically dead to him, with no chance of coming back.
He was wrong.
Cortana had reached metastability, the first human AI to do so, and as such, she was now a sentient being, a true artificial person, just lacking a physical body.
Humanity would actually create life.
He was told to take Cortana with him to test her.
“Take me around the block,” Cortana had said, ending the flashback from months ago.
“Snoozing on the job, I see?” a familiar voice teased.
John looked at Cortana’s familiar avatar coming to life from his GEN3 MJOLNIR Mark VI’s holographic emitters. She ‘stood’ on the table, placing her hands on her hips.
“I was just getting up.”
Cortana’s color changed from blue to pink as she grinned, “You were thinking about me, I’m flattered.”
She really is back, John thought.
“I was. Cortana, do you really think you’re ready for this? It’s been—”
“John...” she interrupted, crossing her arms. “I know how you feel and... I appreciate it. It makes me feel special. But I’m 100% green all across the board.”
John nodded as she ‘sat’ down on the edge of the table, letting her legs swing in the air as her color reverted to its natural blue.
“Besides,” she grinned, her avatar becoming the size of a normal human. “I can only wait so long before you can finally take me out on a date.”
He was caught off guard. John glared at Cortana, trying to stifle a cough and failing. “Are you sure you aren’t still rampant?”
ONI had told him that she was a true being, with all the wide range of emotions that humans felt, including love; the spooks had been very forthcoming about that. That was something he had found truly amusing.
Even so, ONI knew about the bond he and Cortana shared, but the most likely reason that they chose her for a deep study on rampancy and metastability was Dr. Halsey’s recommendation. Cortana having someone to connect with would help in advancing AI technology.
Cortana laughed. “Looks like I can make you uncomfortable. That’s for crashing that banshee into the side of the Autumn.”
“I guess I had that one coming for years.”
As Cortana began to look at him longingly, the intercom buzzed, catching the attention of them both.
Cortana huffed as John immediately answered.
“This is Sierra-117 reporting.”
“I’m here too,” Cortana announced as she reverted back to her normal size.
“Master Chief, this is Admiral White, y’all should know that I am not into formalities very much... I need to see you, both of you, on the bridge,” the voice of the famed Admiral’s mouth echoed out, tinted with a Southern drawl that came from his Texan rancher heritage in the southeastern region of the United Republic of North America.
“Yes sir,” John answered crisply as he put his MJOLNIR’s helmet under one arm and left his quarters.
After traversing numerous bulkheads and several hundred meters of the ship, garnering stares of wonder and respect that he would never get used to, he eventually reached one of the trams that ran the length of the giant warship.
It was a short twenty second ride before arriving at the bridge area, passing officers working hard at their stations before coming to the spacious bridge of one of the most powerful ships in the UNSC fleet.
The cavernous room was littered with displays, work stations and was dominated by the captain’s chair, where Captain Haithum was currently residing, the longtime friend of the Admiral had become almost as renowned as Vice Admiral Jacob Keyes.
John marched past the dozens of officers, who all shot up as the 8 foot tall giant went towards the two helmsmen, where a broad shouldered man in a pristine Admiral’s uniform was standing, smoke puffing out of his mouth from a still blazing cigar.
The 53 year old man turned and stared at the Master Chief.
His white, gold encrusted cap hid his black hair that had been allowed to grow two grey streaks on the side. His face carried the look of determination and experience, but also a hint of constant humor and rebelliousness that came to define one of the men who had undoubtedly done his fair share in saving humanity from extinction.
His deep brown eyes held a hint of sadness in them; the man had been forced to write the infamous White Doctrine, which called for billions being forced from their homes so they could be used to buy humanity some time. He remembered every single ship under his command. Every single ship and crew that was burned. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t his fault, but deep down he felt he was responsible for the hundreds of thousands of casualties that he had racked up under his officer’s commission over the decades.
And then there was his brother.
His brother had carried on his family’s long and proud tradition of being ODST’s, and as such he was present at the Battle of Harvest in 2526.
He never came back.
Gregory had been the odd child in his family, always breaking rules, stirring up trouble at school and even refusing to join the Marines.
However, if his records held any merit, he clearly showed himself to always be at the top of his class, yet he had as many run-ins with the law as he did A’s on his report cards.
That all had changed after his brother never came home.
He immediately signed up to join the military; in training his aptitude test was off the charts. He would’ve made an amazing Marine (he scored 95% accuracy on his marksmanship during basic training), but his talents showed where he truly belonged:
In the Navy.
After completing OCS, he was assigned to the UNSC Rapier, a destroyer. The next year, he proved his competence when the entire bridge crew was killed or incapacitated, save for him, an event paralleling Preston Cole’s.
He took command of the ship as a lowly Lieutenant Junior Grade, in a battle to cover the retreat of colonists on a remote world. While facing down a CAS Class Assault Carrier, managed to miraculously destroy the ship and save the colony single handedly by playing ‘dead’ and luring the Covenant into a trap. He was promoted directly to captain.
After that, he swiftly rose from captain to rear admiral in the beleaguered 9th Fleet, which had taken so many casualties that he was promoted due to lack of personnel.
Then the fateful Battle of Vodin and the so-called Miracle of Sargasso took place, and the rest was history.
He had earned the title of being one of the most aggressive leaders in the Navy; his tactics had allowed the UNSC to fight the Covenant on its own terms, before it was able to go toe to toe directly with them.
Many in North America back on Earth likened him to General George S. Patton, but his Covenant counterparts called him what roughly translates as the ‘Gatekeeper.’
The name fit.
He had gotten into many disagreements with his superiors in HIGHCOM, even Lord Hood and, in particular, Admiral Preson Cole. Due to wanting things done his own way, he had almost gotten thrown out on three separate occasions.
But his records and sheer tactical brilliance coupled with several heroic actions had saved his career. These included battles such as his holding action during the First Battle of Midguard, where the Warhound was boarded by Covenant forces, with him fighting side by side with its Marine detachment in the bridge, blasting his tow ivory plated M6D Magnums away at the Covenant.
It was one of the reasons he was so adored by the general public. Even though he still ‘didn’t give a damn about rules that don’t get anything done!’
Hence the lit cigar.
John found him to be a total polar opposite of himself. Chief had been taught to follow the rules since he was kidnapped at age 6, while the Admiral likely still had a warrant out for him in some region like Texas or Oklahoma; despite this, Admiral White had his trust.
“Sir,” John greeted with a salute.
Admiral White returned the gesture. “Ah, how’s it going Master Chief?” he asked as he stuck out his hand, which John immediately took.
“Green. You wanted me to report, sir?” John asked.
“Yes, I did,” Admiral White replied as he folded his arms. “I want to know what you think about this war. We’ve faced worse odds, but the Covenant didn’t control half a galaxy. We could be facing down millions of ships,” he said seriously. “Though you probably know my personal opinion, I’d simply glass them back to the stone age, but apparently that’s frowned upon these days,” he added sarcastically.
John had been thinking the same thing back in his quarters. He gave his answer, remembering his early teachings from Déjà, “Sir, I believe we need to make an example, show them we can toss them around wherever, and whenever we want to. If we win a decisive battle, their home front will be lost. The Jedi, with their cult, will be devastated by this defeat. We can beat them.”
Gregory cocked his eyebrow as he asked. “You usually never tell me your opinions, unless you’re strictly ordered to, why are you so against the Jedi?”
John thought it over; it was out of line, but it was how he truly felt. “Sir, as we have studied the Jedi, we have found their history to be an endless cycle of peace and violence brought about by their blindness and disconnect from the situation around them, leading some of them to go rogue in selfish attempts to control others, or in some cases to clearly attempt to bring about peace, albeit in ways that are sometimes harsh. These are merely reactions to the Jedi’s backward methods.” He paused for a second to let the Admiral think over what he was saying.
“These Jedi are nothing but a cult. The fact that the Republic wields them like a tool, and how they allow themselves to be wielded in such a way, show how flawed they are.” Though John didn’t make a comment on it, the Jedi’s procurement of children for their order didn’t sit right with him either.
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The Admiral clearly agreed with him as he nodded, “Couldn’t have said it better myself. I’m certain you have your orders from NAVSPECWAR, but I’ll keep you updated during the battle. You should relax while you can; we have two more days until we reach SDB5. You’re more than able to crush these Jedi nutcase xenos easily. Dismissed.”
“Yes sir,” John replied.
“Oh, and Master Chief.”
“Sir?”
“Try not to make too much of a mess. I just had the ship scrubbed a week ago.”
2154 HOURS, MARCH 21, 2561 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ INTERSTELLAR SPACE, SECTOR D-113, UNSC GUARDIAN SENSOR STATION 230,
Sitting in the middle of deep space was one hell of a boring job, to put it lightly. Being cooped up in a minuscule station, no bigger than the ISS museum orbiting over Earth, didn’t help.
The stations didn’t really need to be manned. The crew was only a failsafe if the automated systems malfunctioned and were unable to clean the data logs in the event the station was captured.
Though the Republic had been told of the general location of Earth when contact was officially made, and they likewise knew the general areas where several other inner colonies and Reach were, most of the UEG was unknown to the Republic. As such the Cole Protocol was still in effect.
Both the UEG and Sangheilli had cut contact with the Andromeda Galaxy for the most part, with some highly lucrative trade on the side and limited civilian travel from approved destinations.
Everyone knew they had to do their part in keeping a secret, under threat of charges of treason. The centuries old saying ‘loose lips sink ships’ came to mind.
One sensor officer was dozing off in his chair as his advanced and costly sensors, probes, and scanners detected nothing; the threat board was clean, but it wouldn’t be for long.
The range of a single station was 500 light years, and when coupled with the other 500 or so similar stations, the entire frontier of the UEG was watched at all times, a relatively good chunk of the Orion arm.
With the UNSC standing at DEFCON 2 and teetering on the edge of DEFCON 1, the Guardian sensor net was on full alert for the expected Republic fleet.
An alarm sounded, and the officer jerked awake. His eyes were met with a display lit up like the skies of the UEG on Victory Day. He punched an emergency alert button to open a line with his superior. “Sir, we have incoming tangos, the grid is hot! Repeat, the grid is hot!”
“What’d you pick up on your scanner?” His CO asked.
“Sir, we’ve got Cronau radiation readings. It looks like it’s the fleet reported at Taris, 300 plus contacts. Profiles read as ten Imperator-type super-heavy cruisers, forty-five Venator-type carriers, seventy Victory-type light cruisers, one hundred Acclamator-type frigates, twelve Arquitens-class light frigates, twenty Dreadnaught-type heavy destroyers, fifteen Carrack-type light frigates, thirty-eight Consular-type corvettes, and thirty auxiliaries.”
The station’s dumb AI immediately patched the report through to HIGHCOM; the slipspace communicator would take a few minutes to arrive, giving them 2 hours of warning at the least.
As the report of the direction of the fleet came through, the man nodded. “Vector is confirmed, Alpha Rendara system.”
0000 HOURS, MARCH 22, 2561 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ ALPHA RENDARA SYSTEM, STRATEGIC DEPLOYMENT BASE FIVE
Lance Corporal Fredrik LeClerc followed the line of Marines heading towards their assigned weapon lockers in the armory.
“So, the Republic is going on the offensive, huh,” grumbled his fellow squad member Rance Aurbach as they went to the armory, filled to the brim with Marines arming themselves as fast as possible.
Fredrik, a 23 year old from the Inner Colony world of Morellia in the Beta Durandal system, had joined the Corps for the fact that he, like many other men and women his age, grew up in the latter half of the Great War. He had developed a strong sense of duty for humanity as a result of swelling nationalistic pride among the youth that had skyrocketed during and after the war. After he finished his service, all he wanted to do was finish college and get his masters in linguistics so he could work a desk job for ONI.
Just like everyone else on the station, he was on the edge of his bunk anxiously awaiting the impending Republic offensive.
He and every other Terran had been excited about the discovery of the extragalactic civilizations, but that had taken a 180 degree turn after Anoco. Now, the Republic was going to try to occupy the Orion Arm of the Milky Way.
The UNSC wasn’t about to just let that happen, not without a fight.
The 77 UNSC ships already stationed at the base had grown to 80, a decent number. When he found out that the last arrival was none other than the Warhound itself, he and the other personnel became ecstatic.
That only became a second thought when the Master Chief himself had come aboard the station; escorting Admiral White to his meeting with Major General Hudong. Fredrik had been one of the lucky bastards to actually get to see him when everyone had clamored to fill the landing bay.
Here he was, an actual honest to God Spartan!
He had walked in step next to the Admiral as they strode out of a Pelican and through the hangar.
He was just how the vids and tabloids had shown him as he walked out of the ruins of the Forward Unto Dawn with the Arbiter. He was the exact same as in the vids he’d poured over hundreds of times as a teenager.
Power had radiated from the man, and though the Master Chief did have his helmet on, he had received a dose of confidence himself just from his presence.
There was no way they could lose this battle now.
He spent the next three minutes putting on his armor, piece by piece, until he was finished. Titanium ceramic armor plates were in place and the carbon fibers in the suit formed around his body to mimic his movements and amplify them by who knows how much.
Interfacing with his neural chip, Fredrik could command the armor with more precision.
The armor came to life as the color shifted to the traditional green with a hint of bronze, accented by the shiny sheen of the reactive ablative coat meant to disperse energy weapons fire. His armor was brand new, fresh off the production line. He donned his helmet atop his head; a green holographic monocle displayed over his right eye.
“How long do you reckon this war is gonna last?” Rance asked, grabbing his aging M6D pistol and his DMR. Though Rance was one of the squad’s marksmen, he still grabbed the venerable M90 shotgun all the same.
Fredrik did the same as he grabbed an M6D pistol, his MA5B, and an M90, strapping the latter onto his back with the magnetic plate holding it in. He stocked up on 2 frags, a flash bang, and about 540 rounds for his MA5B in 9 magazines. His neural implant showed him how much firepower he was packing. He fondly remembered his drill instructor reprimanding him for picking up and letting go of his gun quickly just to see the crosshair turn on and off.
He loaded a tenth magazine into the assault rifle, quickly pressed the bolt release on the left side of the rifle. His counter lit up blue, displaying ‘60,’ more than enough firepower to kill a man, or a squad for that matter.
He made sure the safety was on as he attached his weapon to his back.
He and Rance walked over to the rest of the members of the 4th Squad, 6th Platoon of the battalion of Marines garrisoning the station.
The leader of the squad, Sergeant Rawlings, waved them over. His scar that he received courtesy of a Brute Spiker during the Battle of Earth shone in the light as he spoke, “LeClerc, Aurbach. We are to remain here on standby until we receive our orders.”
“Great,” mumbled Frank, the squad machine gunner, hefting his MGS-953 SAW.
“How long will this last?” mumbled Ally, the squad’s other marksmen, who was trading in her rifle for an AA-22, which would be much more useful in the tight corridors of the station.
Just then, as if on cue, the loudspeakers came on and the klaxons started to blare.
“Attention! Attention! Attention!”
The nine hundred Marines present on the station snapped their heads up.
“A Republic fleet has jumped into the system. All hands man your battle stations! Repeat, all hands man your battle stations! Prepare for hostile boarding action!”
0005 HOURS, MARCH 22, 2561 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ Alpha Rendara System, Cienna, UNSC Joint Base Fort Menteith
Lieutenant James Taylor muttered to himself as the sirens blared into his ears, realizing he wasn’t in some drill.
The arid world was about to come under attack.
The octagon shaped base was host to a single Army armored division, two Army infantry divisions, and a Marine infantry division. A few other bases similar to his existed elsewhere in the world, but were located near the larger cities on the other side of the planet.
Taylor hustled to his Recluse MBT parked in one of the vehicle bays of the base. He jumped into the hatch near the side and used his neural lace to activate the 70 ton beast, assuming his role as the commander of the 3 crew death delivering machine. His gunner, the newly enlisted Grant Fitzsimmons, was already in his seat waiting for Taylor to start the tank.
Its controls lit up and the viewscreen switched on to give him a 360 degree view, the weapon systems came online one by one until finally the 125mm Gauss cannon came to life, all systems hot.
The front hatch opened as his driver, Peter Summers, a veteran of the Covenant war like himself, turned on his viewscreen and ignited the engine, which roared like a lion.
“You ready for this?” Taylor asked as he flipped the last switches that would allow him to function unhindered.
“Let’s make em’ bite the curb.” Summers responded enthusiastically as he slammed the engine forward, falling into line with the rest of the armored column. Cougar IFVs, Wolverine SPAA vehicles, and Fox artillery pieces streamed forward alongside tanks and trucks.
Taylor and Summers were greeted with the sight of Pelicans taking off from their landing pads, bristling with weapons and filled to the brim with men. Wombat UCAVs swarmed into the sky alongside the multitude of fixed winged aircraft the UNSC fielded, ready to pounce on their unsuspecting Republic prey at a moment’s notice.
It was a far cry from what the UNSC had been just nine years ago.
0005 HOURS, MARCH 22, 2561 (MILITARY CALENDAR) \ ALPHA RENDARA SYSTEM, UNSC WARHOUND
“Sir! The enemy fleet has just arrived in-system. Our scanners are registering over 300 tangos. They jumped in near the 5th planet of the system and are currently accelerating towards us,” the sensor operator reported as the AI MacArthur, whose avatar was more or less a perfect copy of the famed American general from the Second World War, confirmed the report and turned to Admiral White while the call to action stations rang throughout the ship.
“Range?” the Admiral simply asked.
“Three million, two hundred thousand kilometers and closing,” MacArthur replied, “They’ll be in effective range of our DEWs at 1,500,000 kilometers.” White already knew that, but MacArthur liked to remind him of ranges, an odd quirk resulting from the AI’s donor brain.
“Have the fleet form up around us in standard defensive posture; keep us between the base and the Republic fleet and launch our fighters, but have them stay in reserve for now. I want our bombers to remain in their hangars, lod up for anti-ship duties, full load of nukes, and to wait for my command.” White took a deep breath in and sighed. “All weapons charge to maximum power. Bring our acceleration to 30 G’s towards the enemy fleet. While they try to bridge the gap and come into their effective firing range, we’ll be able to fire on them with impunity. Open fire with our MACs first, let’s surprise them when we use our energy weapons.”
The Master Chief strode into the bridge. “Sir.” John crisply saluted, kitted out with an MA6 and a Spartan Laser.
The Admiral returned the favor. “Master Chief, I don’t have a job for you right now. The bastards are most likely going to attempt to board the station and get their whitie tightie asses on the ground. However, as much as I know you want to be in the thick of it I need you to—”
MacArthur flashed into existence in front of Admiral White. “Sir, we have an incoming message from the Republic flagship, the Intrepid. It appears to be Admiral Tarkin, shall we respond?”
“Tarkin, eh?” Admiral White muttered under his breath. “Alright, put him on, I want to see what this monkey wants, face-to-face,” White commanded as he turned to face the viewscreen, the image of a Republic Admiral in a pristine grey uniform snapped onto the screen.
Venator-Class Star Destroyer Intrepid
Immediately after the fleet left hyperspace, the bridge of the Intrepid went into overdrive as the officers and the crewmembers scrambled to deliver the status of their enemies.
The fleet had exited hyperspace near a vomit colored gas giant. The enemy formation popped up on their sensors as Tarkin’s fleet moved out of the planet’s interference.
Aayla stood next to the Admiral along with Shaak Ti and Jax. The Admiral was giving orders for the fleet to form into two large wedges as the UNSC fleet came onto the scanners.
A crewman called out from his post in the pit of the bridge, “Admiral! We have eighty enemy ships on screen. They’re moving to intercept us!”
“Don’t they realize we outnumber them four to one?” Tarkin mumbled to no one in particular as he turned to the closest ensign. “Display their formation on screen.”
Aayla looked in childlike awe at the holo screen as the profiles of eighty UNSC warships came onto the screen.
Unlike ships of the Republic or the CIS, the UNSC warships seemed to be built for one thing and one thing only: High intensity combat.
They had few attractive lines, and some of them were almost ugly, yet they all looked like true weapons of war. They seemed to be rugged and optimized for warfare, any attractive lines were by accident as they looked to be designed more for getting the job done than looking good in propaganda. She was aware of some of their ship’s profiles, which happened to be their ‘frigates’ and ‘destroyers,’ but their larger warships were massive beasts plated with thick armor and covered with weapons.
Five of their large ‘heavy cruisers’ were about a hundred meters longer than a Venator. They seemed to have a more streamlined look than the other model of their ‘heavy cruisers’ which were about four hundred meters longer than a Victory.
The cruisers were overshadowed by four massive ships which were easily three thousand meters long, bigger than anything Tarkin had in his own fleet. Republic Intelligence believed the ships to be carriers. Unlike the Venator, this carrier looked more capable of charging into heavy combat by themselves.
But it was one ship that stood out from all of them.
It wasn’t the largest vessel in the fleet, a couple hundred meters shorter than their carriers, but unlike the carriers it was bristling with cannons. Hundreds upon hundreds of turrets stuck out of the ship’s blocky silhouette. Meters of armor made the craft almost look bloated.
It looked downright menacing and its position in the middle of the UNSC’s pyramidal formation clearly made it seem like the flagship.
“By the Force, that thing is huge...” Aayla mumbled as the ships came closer to each other.
The UNSC starbase came into view, and it was undoubtedly ugly, with large modules attached together almost haphazardly and formed around a large central module that could easily fit an Acclamator, and beyond it was the UEG colony world.
It seemed to be an arid world, with vast prairies, large dry grasslands, and a few bodies of water. Aayla was stunned by this world. Life in another galaxy.
It was clear that the world was still developing, evident in the fact that the poles were covered in far more ice than a planet in the orbit of a class G star would have, which pointed to one thing.
“It seems our reports were true that the UEG is terraforming this world. It’s amazing how they are able to do it so quickly,” Shaak Ti said.
“I’m sure their scientists will do well under our guidance,” Tarkin said. If he had any doubts about his orders to attack this place then he sure didn’t show it.
Tarkin pointed at the holographic readout. “Hail that lead ship.”
Aayla couldn’t help but notice that they had unusually low power readings, some would assume that it was due to them being underpowered, but her gut told her they were able to mask their energy signatures, something that would give them an advantage if they were to suddenly charge their weapons. Aayla dreaded the thought that they had already powered up their weapons and were just waiting on an order to fire.
“Lead ship is connecting, establishing feed,” the comms officer called from his position in the pit.
Aayla, Shaak, Tarkin, and the rest of the port side bridge crew looked at the screen, eyes glued to it like a youngling seeing a holocartoon.
The bridge of the UNSC dreadnought was surprisingly small for a ship of its size, only about as large as those typically found on a single tower from a Venator. Its dull grey interior was offset by the myriad of holographic screens and crew at their stations, yet none of it seemed out of place.
Standing in the center of the screen was a broad shouldered man with a slightly olive skinned face which had a scar on the left cheek. The man wore a perpetual scowl like a mask and a white uniform, flowing with medals and ribbons. On top of his head perched a white cap. It had a short black bill emblazoned with the logo of the UNSC on it, its unique bird of prey clutching the Terran homeworld, Earth, in its talons and its wings outstretched, encrusted in gold.
The man also had a large pistol holstered on his side, but the man’s brown eyes gave a look that would kill just as fast.
Behind him, in what was most likely a captain’s chair, sat a man with darker skin who wore a less ornamental uniform. He too had a look of cool contemplation but she saw the burning hatred in his eyes.
Stranger still, was the figure that stood behind the Terran admiral.
The figure was massive, and it was covered in powerful green armor, its face concealed by a gold visored helmet.
She could sense something about it but she could not place her finger on it...
She internally gasped. Wait, could this be one of the Spartan supersoldiers? She got goosebumps from the thought.
Aayla had read about these ‘Spartans.’ When reading about the Covenant it was mentioned that there was a group of soldiers that were powerful enough to stop whole Covenant armies by themselves. Spartan supersoldiers were what they called them. Even the Sangheilli mentioned them, particularly one named the Master Chief, who almost single handedly ended the war himself.
Could this really be one of the Spartans?
Admiral Wilhuff Tarkin spoke up.
“I am Admiral Wilhuff Tarkin of the Republic Navy. I, under orders of the Chancellor of the Republic and the Galactic Senate, am to subdue you and your world. I have come to bring you the message that the Republic will not stand lightly with the UEG meddling in galactic affairs any longer. You have made yourself an enemy of the Galactic Republic and...”
The UNSC admiral cut him off.
“Listen here asshole. The UEG can take whatever action and whatever side it wants as a means of preserving itself. We are a sovereign nation. You have started the last two wars, the Clone Wars and this one. You are under the rule of a dictator and don’t even admit it. You and the Jedi start more conflicts than finish them and you believe you can set yourselves up as the policemen of the universe and enforce your will on others. Your presence in this system is an act of war, but we have been expecting you here for days now. Your fleet is a wet paper bag you know, and us? We are the hot knife stabbing through. However, since I’m feeling merciful today, I’ll let you off with a warning, you leave now and I’ll start killing you when you’re back in your own galaxy.”
“You are outnumbered four to one.” Tarkin smugly boasted. “There’s simply no chance that you’ll win.”
“Like that matters.” The man countered. “We will show you how real war is fought, and when it is over your armies will burn, your slave soldiers will be set free and the Republic will be in shambles. This is your final warning.”
The screen cut out.
“Arrogant, isn’t he?” Jax noted, failing to realize the irony in his statement.
Tarkin turned to the crew. “That’s it then. All ships close to engage. Have all fighters prepare to launch.”
He turned to Aayla. “I may not be able to sense it through the Force, but I know that this will be a difficult battle, a victory nevertheless.”
UNSC Warhound
“All weapons charged, MAC capacitors throughout the fleet are ready, energy projectors are charged and the particle cannons are at one hundred percent. We are nearing the optimal range of our MAC systems, MAC firing solution ready. All singleships are away and are in a flanking position in orbit of the larger moon, we’re holding them in reserve for now and they’re at your command,” Captain Haithum reported as Admiral White tapped his foot in impatience.
“Sir, you were briefing me on my new orders...” Master Chief asked, reminding the Admiral.
“Right, sorry for the wait, Master Chief. You saw those Jedi and the Admiral correct? Odds are one of them will most likely be on the ship throughout the battle as an observer for that Admiral. After we duke it out ship to ship, I want you to board their flagship and attempt to take that Admiral Tarkin prisoner, or at the very least kill some of those Jedi. It would go a long way in demoralizing them, not to mention the intel that ONI could extract from them.”
The Spartan II Commando nodded as he replied simply. “You have booster frames in reserve?”
“Yes, we have a couple onboard just for you Spartans, and it would be perfect if you could just blast your way in there. If there’s a clear flight path, I’ll dispatch Marines to assist you in boarding action, but no guarantees.”
“Sir!” MacArthur called out as the AI’s color flashed to red for a second. “The enemy is in range at 1,500,000 kilometers and closing. We have firing solutions locked in throughout the fleet.”
Admiral White turned to look out of the bridge and gave out an order that would become infamous in history.
“Fire!”