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8/26/2015 2:55:50 PM
8
Verloren almost hoped it was the former.
It took him a few more minutes to find the fire-stairs. The artefact was in the mission control centre, near the very bottom of the installation. Thankfully the fire stairs were designed to provide swift exit in an emergency to every level of the building, which meant he should be able to use them to get where he needed to go.
The alarm still sounded, an oscillating bleat that pressed against his eardrums painfully whenever he passed a speaker. Between the pitches of the wailing he could hear the whoops and cries of the Fallen and the sounds of gunfire. Perhaps this battle would provide exactly the distraction he needed to get what he needed. Also, the fighting seemed to have drawn most of the Fallen up and away from the lower levels.
Just as Verloren was starting to feel optimistic, the ground shook beneath his feet, hard enough to almost throw him off balance. The ancient concrete of the stairwell groaned and spat out dust. He had just enough time to watch the cracks appear before the ground beneath his feet fell apart and he was sent plunging down into darkness.
It wasn’t the pain that woke him but the dripping. A steady rhythm of falling water.
He couldn’t stifle a groan as he opened his eyes. He had always been taught to be silent, to analyse his surroundings for danger in that first moment of waking. What do you hear? His master would demand of him. What do you smell? Always be alert first for danger.
“Ghost?” he called in a whisper.
“Here,” said the little metallic voice. The metal cuboid with its dull blue lens floated over to him, projecting a dim light. In a way, his Ghost was his only friend. Legend had it that the Ghosts were the last gift of the Traveler. Made from its own metal flesh and imbued with the spark of Light, the Ghosts were the agents of rebirth, re-forging the dead in Light itself, giving them the power to hold back the Darkness. His Ghost had been the first voice he’d heard after he’d died and his only trusted companion ever since.
“Report,” he said, easing himself into a sitting position.
“Well, you didn’t die this time,” said the Ghost. “But you had a nasty fall. Almost a hundred feet judging by my scans.”
“A hundred feels about right,” said Verloren, the ache in his bones confirming the analysis. “What happened?”
“Insufficient data,” said the Ghost, doing an excellent impression of a shrug considering it had no shoulders. “Some kind of explosion, most likely caused by whatever fighting occurred. Whether it was a Fallen device or a Guardian one, I have no idea.”
“Guardians?”
“I scanned the cortex while you were out. Commander Zavala has sent two Fireteams to this location.”
“Two? Darkness above, what for?”
“The nature of the mission would appear to be covert,” said the Ghost, a certain tone entering its little metallic voice. “Not unlike our own.”
“Don’t give me your disapproval, Ghost,” Verloren warned. “You know why we have to do this.”
Having mastered sitting, Verloren decided it was time to stand. His bruised body resisted the idea but eventually relented and he got to his feet, looking around.
“I can find nothing further on their mission parameters,” said the Ghost. “Though they were sent to this precise location. There must be something of interest to the Vanguard here.”
“All the more reason for us to get out.”
“Well, I have good news on that front. We are at the right level for the mission control centre according to the schematics you purchased from that cryptarch. Assuming they’re correct, of course.”
“Whitlock is a little rat but he wouldn’t lie to me. He knows what I’d do to him if he did.”
“Assuming you survived to return home.”
“I always do.”
Verloren finished stretching and determined that, although still hurting, he was limber enough to continue the mission. The stairwell door was blocked with rubble and it took him ten minutes of careful shifting, to the soundtrack of a lecture on structural stability from the Ghost, before he could get through.
On the other side of the doorway was mission control but it was not as Verloren had expected.
There was bank after bank of computer terminals, screens and processors, at which close to a hundred people must have once sat. They were arranged in a semi-circle with a raised circular podium in the centre. Perhaps the man in charge had once stood there or else some holographic projection had been displayed, Verloren didn’t know. The area was clogged heavily with the dust of ages.
All this, Verloren had expected.
What he hadn’t been expecting was the blood.
It ran dark trails through the dust, streams and droplets cutting through the grey. It spattered the walls and the old screens. It gathered in pools on the floor. It dripped from the ceiling. Enough blood for five people. Verloren knew, not from some quick estimation, but because he counted five bodies amongst the terminals. Five Guardians.
There were bullet holes in the walls and sword marks cut through the concrete. Some of the bodies were in pieces, limbs scattered, heads blown apart. A Fireteam. One of Zavala’s Fireteams.
“Ghost, how long was I out?” Verloren asked.
“Almost two hours,” was the response, as the Ghost cast its lens-light around the carnage, always scanning, always processing.
“Two hours?! Did you hear all this happen?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“The threat had passed. The Fallen who did this are no longer present. What use is the information to you?”
Verloren shook his head angrily. His Ghost was being pedantic.
“There are life-signs,” the Ghost said, surprised.
“In all this?” Verloren gestured at the ruined corpses. “I don’t see how.”
“Here,” the Ghost whizzed off, gliding across the room. “This way.”
“Dammit,” Verloren unslung his Scout Rifle and followed, stepping around the bodies and keeping the gun ready. His Ghost said the Fallen were gone but even Ghosts make mistakes. As they crossed the room there was a slight whirring in the air and the sudden light of an approaching Ghost. Verloren was so on edge he almost shot it out of the air. Once he realised what it was, there was half a moment when he considered shooting it anyway but he quickly pushed the thought aside. He may be an assassin but there were some lines you didn’t cross. To kill a Ghost was a profane act, an act against the Traveler itself. He shuddered to think what would have happened if he’d pulled the trigger. If he wasn’t beyond redemption already, that would have made it certain.
The Ghost cast its lens-light over them for a moment, its geometrical metal shell gliding in symmetric patterns over the inner sphere of its core.
“Quickly!” it said, spinning in the air and gliding away again.
Verloren exchanged a look with his own Ghost before they both followed.
At the far edge of the room, partially obscured by debris, knelt a Guardian. His robust armour, scratched and dented but thick at the shoulders, marked him as Titan. His head was bowed, his helmet missing. His hands were resting on his thighs, resting palm up with crooked fingers, like dead spiders. His face had no eyes.
He was an Exo and that made Verloren wary. He hadn’t seen many Exo growing up in the Reef but he had since learned a little history. They were machines of war, created in a time forgotten. Built for battle and considered by some to be the ultimate weapons. But after the Collapse their systems were rebooted and they carried over no memories of that time. A living weapon with a dodgy memory didn’t seem like a safe bet to Verloren.
“Is it damaged?” he asked his own Ghost.
“He,” stated the other Ghost firmly. “And yes, but it’s mostly superficial.”
The Ghost dipped in the air, casting a look over its Guardian’s blank face. It was amazing to Veloren how a little machine with no facial features save for one mechanical eye, could express such clear concern.
“And psychological,” the Ghost added.
Verloren looked at the Exo again. The machine man’s head was covered in heavy plates, some white, some plain metal. He was constructed with a flat, angular face, a broad jaw and immovable mouth. The white plates were smooth, making a broad brow before sweeping back over the crown of its head. From this crown a dozen short green metal antennae sprouted, some kind of sensory array Verloren guessed. Some of these were snapped and emitted occasional sparks.
There was damage too on the breastplate near the shoulder. Verloren knew a stab wound when he saw one.
Somewhere in the facility, the howling cries of the Fallen sounded.
That could only mean there were no more Guardians left to fight them.
Verloren cursed to himself.
“What happened here?” he asked the other Ghost.
The Ghost seemed to weigh him up for a moment before answering.
“Long range scouts picked up movement from the House of Kings,” the Ghost said.
“Never heard of them,” said Verloren.
“They are only rarely seen,” the Ghost replied. “But when they surface they are always a problem. Amongst all the Houses of the Fallen, the House of Kings stands out as most brutal, most violent and most malevolent. They even fight the other Houses. When the Vanguard got word that they were this close to the Last City, they immediately sent teams to investigate.
There were two Fireteams. The Fell Hammers were the distraction – a frontal assault on the ruins. Lots of fire, lots of noise, draw the Fallen out. Our team, the Bright Fist, were to enter through the old exhaust tunnels and hit from the rear. The plan was to take out their Kell and cut the head off the serpent.”
“How could you be sure their Kell would be here?” Verloren’s Ghost asked.
“From what we know of the House of Kings, their Kells are very combat-orientated. Strength of arms is all they respect. A Kell who is not at the forefront of battle, is not a Kell for long.”
“So what happened?” Verloren asked.
English
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“They anticipated our attack and were waiting,” said the Ghost. “It was a slaughter.” The howls of the Fallen sounded again. Verloren wasn’t sure if they were closer or if he was imagining it. He adjusted his grip on his Scout rifle and glanced at the shadows through his visor. “We should get out of here,” his Ghost warned. “I am picking up Fallen comms. They are close.” “We finish the mission,” Verloren said, sounding more certain than he felt. “Ghost, find what we came for.” His Ghost responded without hesitation, gliding off across the room and scanning the various terminals. Verloren crouched beside the Exo, just not too close. “Titan?” he said. “Titan, you have to move. You can’t stay here.” There was no response. Verloren wasn’t sure the damn thing was even on. How were you supposed to tell? “Titan!” he tried again. “Titan, the Fallen are approaching! If we stay here we will die!” Still nothing. “What’s wrong with him?” Veloren asked the Ghost of the stricken Guardian. “Trauma,” the Ghost responded. “He witnessed his comrades ripped apart before his eyes. He was powerless to stop it. It has triggered certain…memories for him.” “What was it?” Verloren asked, feeling increasingly worried about his chances of getting out of this alive. If he could get the Exo on its feet, if he could just get it moving…the thing was massive, easily a head taller than him and the strength of the Exo was well-known. “What did all this? A new Fallen weapon?” “No,” said the Ghost. “It was their Kell. He ambushed us and tore us apart.” “He did all this alone?” said Verloren, feeling suddenly pale beneath his mask. “He needed no help,” said the Ghost solemnly. “And he took their Ghosts.” Verloren froze at that. Without a Ghost, a Guardian couldn’t be revived. Without Ghosts, new Guardians could not be forged. Whatever plans a Fallen Kell had for captured Ghosts, they would not be good. “I have it!” called Verloren’s own Ghost from across the room. “Good,” Verloren replied, the marched over to the terminal his Ghost indicated and pulled out a strange device there, some kind of primitive computer storage system. “Probably not compatible with anything we have now,” said the Ghost. “Not my problem,” grunted Verloren. “We need to get out of here.” “The dust storm has an electromagnetic element which is preventing us from warping directly to the ship,” the Ghost warned. “Of course it does,” Verloren muttered darkly. “You plan to use the Titan?” “Like a big dumb battering ram. Or a cannon. All we need to do is point and aim and stay behind it.” The Ghost didn’t reply. Verloren assumed it was disapproving again and ignored it. “You! Ghost!” Verloren called. “What is your Guardian’s name?” “Tyr-77,” the Ghost replied. Verloren checked the name against his mental list of Guardians, which contained individuals of both great and ill repute, but drew a blank. “I need you to get up, Guardian,” said Verloren. “The Darkness is coming. We need you.” Still nothing. “Tyr-77! Get up! “The Fallen approach,” cautioned Verloren’s Ghost. It whizzed back and forth a little in the air, as though anxious. “How can we make it move?!” Verloren hissed in frustration at the Titan’s Ghost. “Him, not ‘it’,” the Ghost corrected icily. “Personal pronouns are not important right now! We need to get this Titan moving! He’s no use to us like this!” The first of the enemy rounded the corner ahead of them. Shanks, two of them. The floating robotic bulldogs of the Fallen, built from scrap and designed only to hunt and kill. Verloren raised his Scout rifle and dropped them both before they could make a sound, two sharp cracks punctuating the end of their lives. “We have to move!” Verloren yelled. “They’re coming!” “Tyr,” the Titan’s Ghost called him. “Tyr, it is imperative that we move. The Fallen return. They will not make the mistake of leaving us alive a second time.” The Titan made no sign that he’d heard. A group of Dregs, led by more Shanks rounded the corner. Verloren chose that moment to toss his grenade in. It was a calculated move. It would take time for the Ghost to be able to regenerate the explosive and it would be loud. But it would clear the enemies and buy him time. The grenade went off with a cackle of lightning. A searing bolt of Arc energy punched a hole clean through the lead Shank before leaping to the next and frying it from the inside out. A Dreg standing too close became the final link in the chain. It screeched and convulsed as it the lightning burst its eyeballs. Verloren wasted no time while his grenade went to work, raising his Scout rifle again and squeezing the trigger. Six clean shots between six even breaths. Aim, breathe, fire. Aim, breathe, fire. “Ghost!” he barked as the last Dreg fell. His Ghost clicked and whirred for a moment. “Fallen comms indicate that there are many more on the way,” said the Ghost. “Ether readings suggest Elder Vandals and a Servitor.” “Damn,” snarled Veloren. “Tyr! Tyr!” the other Guardian’s Ghost was calling, hovering in front of the catatonic Titan’s face. “We don’t have time for this!” Verloren yelled. “I need him up and shooting things, right now!” “What was your exit strategy prior to this?” the Ghost asked him, somewhat irately. “Surely you did not rely on finding a walking shield to hide behind?” “My exit strategy was blown around the time that YOU people walked in and started shooting up the place!” “This argument will do us no good,” Verloren’s Ghost cautioned. “The Fallen are close.” “Move!” Verloren screamed at the Exo. “Move you useless piece of junk!” He kicked the Titan’s massive knee which did nothing save hurt his own toes. Before he could vent his anger further, the Fallen reinforcements arrived. The Servitor was first, flanked by its honour guard of Elder Vandals. Verloren hit the dirt just in time to avoid their fire. The Titan made no move as a section of rubble beside him was blown apart. Verloren looked around wildly, desperate for a way out, calculating and re-calculating. His eyes came to rest on the Mark at the Titan’s waist. There weren’t many Marks that Verloren would recognize; he had no need for such knowledge. The scraps of cloth were badges of honour amongst the proud brutes, used to brag about their achievements in battle. But this one he recognised. Everyone in the Last City knew it. The Mark of the Six Fronts. He scrabbled to the Exo and grabbed it by the shoulders. “Tyr-77, listen to me!” he demanded. “At the Battle of Six Fronts, when the Last City was surrounded by the enemy, four orders of Titans held them back! You bear the Mark, Tyr!” The Exo twitched. Its head raised slowly to look at him. “Tell me, Titan,” Verloren continued. “Out of the Six Fronts, how many did the enemy break?” The Elder Vandals pushed into the room now, spreading out to flank them from all sides. Their gunfire was incessant. Several data-banks exploded in showers of sparks. “Not one,” the Titan said, its voice a static whisper. “Not one,” it repeated louder, standing up, making no attempt to dodge the gunfire. “Not one!” it shouted as it turned to face the Fallen. “NOT ONE!” it roared, a battle cry, a savage challenge, a defiant bellow. The Exo charged, barehanded at the Servitor. He was fast. Very fast. Faster than a creature of his bulk had any right to be. The first Vandal in its path was knocked senseless by a vicious backhand. The Titan’s fist cackled with power as the blow hit and Arc power tore through the Vandal’s body, disintegrating it as the force of the strike sent it flying. The next was quicker to react, stepping forward with twin swords to defend the Servitor as the floating orb recoiled. Tyr grabbed it by the face, his huge metal fist closing around its skull. He slammed it into a metal desk, buckling the frame completely, before wrenching the Vandel back into the air again. Whether it was unconscious or dead, Verloren wasn’t sure and Tyr didn’t stop to check. As the swords fell from its limp hands, the Titan hurled it at its comrades. A shot from the side gave his armour a fleeting kiss and drew the furious Guardian’s attention. He turned to the shooter and booted the twisted metal frame of the desk. It bounced and tumbled through the air, slamming the offending Vandal from its feet and crushing it. Verloren saw the change in the body-language of the enemy. The advantage of surprise was over. He cursed himself for gawping like the Fallen when he should have been taking action but, he had to admit, even he hadn’t expected the damaged Exo to be quite so combat effective. The Hunter raised his rifle and began squeezing off shots. While Tyr savaged one Vandal, pounding its body until its bones were gravel, Verloren dropped three more with precision head-shots. The Servitor, perhaps realising the ranks of its guard was growing thin, took action. Tyr grabbed one of the downward facing horns of the Vandal’s head and used it to hold the creature in place while he thundered a fist into the other side of its face. The air cackled for a moment as the Fallen’s body was consumed by Arc energy. The seething Titan turned to find his next target but was instead blasted from his feet by the Servitor. Veloren gritted his teeth as the Exo was thrown clear across the room by the blast, crashing into some ancient shelving by the wall. He fired three shots at the Servitor but only the first struck home as the malevolent orb teleported above him. “Shi-” Veloren cried, gritting his teeth and focusing his will. The Blink carried him out of range of the blasts and into a roll. He activated his cloak to throw off the Servitor’s aim. He darted over the desks and leapt up onto a high shelf, kicking off it and Blinking again through the air. He drew both knives just as the cloak fell and the Servitor turn to face him. He wondered if it felt fear.
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Then he landed on its face and started stabbing. One knife dug in between two of its metal plates, somewhere on top of the sphere. The other went to work on the eye. The Servitor shrieked in its foul mechanical language, flying backwards through the air and shaking wildly, but there was no detaching this attacker. Verloren clung on tight, even when the last remaining Vandal began to fire on him. He spared the creature glance, trying to work out how best to deal with it before realising there was no need. Tyr was back on his feet and tackled the Fallen bodily into the wall before beating it to bloody death. Verloren returned his attention to the Servitor and pulled back his knife as it teleported. He felt like he was being turned inside out. He felt like his skin was boiling and his eyes were melting and his lungs were full of grit. The feeling lasted for a split-second or eternity and he wasn’t sure which was which. The Servitor reappeared at the other end of the room and Verloren fell from it to the floor. He ripped his mask away and emptied his guts onto the floor, completely defenceless but unable to stop wretching. The Servitor shrieked angrily and plates of metal whizzed about its axis. Verloren heard the sound of the energy blast charging and fumbled for the knife he’d dropped. “NO MORE!” roared the Titan, descending from a mighty leap with both fists pulled back over his head. Verloren had seen this before, this channeling of Arc energy. He grabbed his knife and rolled aside as the Titan struck, both great metal hands slamming into the Servitor with a sound like a thunderclap. Veloren raised a hand to shield his eyes from the lightshow. When he lowered it again the Servitor lay broken on the ground like a giant egg. Ether seeped from inside the purple shell and dripped from the Titan’s fists. A moment later it burned away to nothing, consumed by the Arc-light. “Get up, Guardian,” said the Exo, looking down at Verloren. “You’re no good to me like that.” END OF CHAPTER ONE
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That's good stuff, can't wait for more
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Thanks :). I've almost got chapter two finished. I might post it in parts rather than as replies though.
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The scene with the Titan getting up and attack was spectacular
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Thanks, I appreciate it :)
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Do parts and hashtag it like #forlorn
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Good thinking, done :)
