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| - When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least, Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate, For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings. —Sonnet XXIX Redemption arrived on wings of steel and fire. The first of the Insurrectionist assault ships burst out of Slipspace just outside the range of Earth’s orbital platforms. They drifted into formation and scrambled fighter squadrons as alarms sounded throughout the system, calling every warship the United Nations Space Command could muster to rush to defend the homeworld, the seat of humanity’s military government. Battle formations of fighters and prowlers, frigates and destroyers, cruisers and carriers rushed from their dry docks and patrol routes to come together behind the battle platforms and heavy guns that flew high above the blue planet’s surface. They darted from every corner of the system, scurrying to face the oncoming rebel fleet. This same assembly of machines and might had enforced Earth’s will over centuries of power and domination of the colonies beyond the home system. Now it came together, united by a single, collective purpose. Earth could not be allowed to fall. It was here that the admirals and the generals and the politicians had conducted the war against the Covenant, sacrificing colony after colony to the alien hordes while conserving their strength, risking as few resources as possible so as not to jeopardize their hegemony over whatever colonies survived the murderous onslaught. And when the Covenant had finally arrived at Earth’s doorstep, the fleets and armies that had been kept far from the glassing fires that had consumed the outer colonies had been there to hold them at bay, to spare the Earth government from being sacrificed to the same ravenous gods of war that it had so quickly fed its lesser subjects to. Those admirals and generals and politicians had been protected from the Covenant by their fleets and armies then. But that had been a different war, against a different enemy. And now their crimes rushed forward to bring them to their knees. Rebel agents who had bided their time for years as loyal servants of the enemy now leapt into action. They gunned down bridge crews, sabotaged fighter decks, blasted holes in orbital platforms. Alarms sounded throughout the UNSC’s fleet as capital ships reeled from internal explosions and frigates turned their guns on orbital platforms, their systems twisted against their masters by infiltrations by artificial intelligence attack programs. And as confusion tore through the fleet like wildfire, more and more ships slipped in to join the rebel fleet as it made its slow, steady advance. Aboard the carrier Rushmore, Simon-G294 darted through a burning hallway as explosions—from the charges he had planted—tore the reactor chamber apart. Marine fire teams rushed to stop him, but he quickly cut down the armored security troops with quick, sharp bursts from his assault rifle. Skidding to a halt at one intersection, the Spartan-III activated his Semi-Powered Infiltration armor’s camouflage system, the reactive panels across the armor flickering and dulling into a grey hue that matched the Rushmore’s hull plating. A squad of Marines rushed by, not even glancing down as their boots pounded down beside Simon’s head. He waited for them to pass, then lobbed a grenade in the middle of their formation and dashed away as it blew them apart. Alarms blared throughout the Rushmore’s hallways as the reactor failed, sending convulsions rocking across the superstructure even as Marines and crewmen dashed for life pods. Simon slipped into the hangar and ran across the shuddering deck towards one of the carrier’s Pelican dropships. All around him, the Rushmore’s complement of ground vehicles were torn free of the restraints that locked them in place, tumbling across the deck to slam into walls or colliding with each other and breaking apart as Simon raced by. He had been meant to be part of this, the military machine that was falling to pieces all around him. They’d raised him, trained him, augmented him and given him weapons to fight against the Covenant; to be another sacrifice in their war for survival. They’d turned him a disposable killing machine and then called him a failure for not being good enough at doing the killing for them. He’d been tossed aside when it was convenient, cut off from his Spartan family and left to die on Mamore amidst the very rebels who now tore the UNSC’s fleet apart above Earth. But he’d survived, survived and found a new family, better than the Spartans who had looked down on him and the military that had written him off. And then that family had been taken away from him by the very same war machines that now crashed and shattered across the flight deck. He reached the Pelican, his assault rifle spitting rounds that cut down the flight crew so hurriedly preparing to take off. He hauled the pilot’s body out of the dropship’s troop bay as he clambered inside, darting into the cockpit and taking only a moment to check over the controls before lifting off and blasting out of the hangar as the Rushmore shook itself apart behind him. The UNSC fleet was in shambles. Rebel warships converged on isolated battle groups, blasting them to pieces as fighters hurtled after each other in dogfights that filled the battlefield with the winking lights of tracer rounds and the bursting flame of missile pods. Some orbital platforms came apart under fire from warships and fighters. Others turned their guns on the UNSC ships, their crews overrun by rebel boarding parties. In a single hour, the mighty navy that had ground Earth’s colonies under its metal heel had been torn apart. The cruelty and hypocrisy that had been the source of its power had finally come home. The voice of humanity was given form and purpose by the missiles and explosive rounds of the rebel ships that now hunted the broken remnants of Earth’s proud fleets throughout the system. Simon guided the Pelican through the chaos, angling it down towards the atmosphere. He transmitted a rebel FOF tag from his helmet’s onboard computer and fell into formation with a wave of rebel assault ships as they hurtled towards their landing zones on Earth. The advance guard had already prepared strongpoints for them to occupy on the surface. His work hadn’t ended with the Rushmore’s destruction; it had only just begun. There were other Spartans amidst the rebel forces, he knew. Fighters just like him who’d seen the UNSC for what it was and chosen to strike back, to fight for the true salvation of humanity. He couldn’t recall any of their names or summon any faces to mind as he kept the Pelican steady, but he knew they were out there. Spartans like him. He was sure of it. The landing formation burst through the atmosphere, shooting through the air as straight as any arrow. UNSC fighters rushed up to meet them only to run headlong into squadrons of interceptors, the landing ships’ guardian angels. Military Longswords burst into flames and hurtled back towards the surface, pursued by dozens of rebel bombers that rained fiery death down on the UNSC’s airfields and missile defense batteries. The ground below Simon glowed orange as the bombs and missiles fell, ripping scars in the ground just as the UNSC bombers had done to Mamore. The Pelican’s exterior cameras magnified the images from the blasted airfields, showing the tiny dots of survivors scurrying away from the destruction. They didn’t get far. The rebels owned the skies now, and there was nowhere to hide. Simon’s Pelican touched down along with the other landing craft just outside Sydney, the UNSC’s headquarters, the focus of all the power and violence it had brought to bear on the rest of humanity. He hurried out of the hijacked dropship, readying his assault rifle and joining in the charge of the other rebel soldiers. This was the day they had all waited for. This was the day they had fought and bled and died for. This was the day they brought justice for every single person the Earth government had ever butchered. Building by building, street by street, they fought their way through the city. Their rifles blazed away, cutting down the soldiers who crawled out from the woodwork to stop them. UNSC troops collapsed under torrents of gunfire, the vehicles that skidded through the streets to support them exploding as rebel bombers raced overhead through a clear blue sky. Those soldiers weren’t killed or routed threw down their weapons and surrendered. Many cheered as the rebels overran their positions, turning their rifles against the units behind them as they joined the victorious charge. Simon fired over the hood of a car, bringing down the soldiers who had tried to set up a firing position on a street corner. He ran through the streets, flanking an enemy position and distracting them as a team of rebel sappers blew their cover apart. A Warthog hurtled around the corner and Simon destroyed it with a well-placed grenade. A failure, they’d called him. Runt. Loser. Not worthy to be called a Spartan. With every step they advanced, with ever UNSC soldier that fell, Simon could see his friends from Mamore charging forwards amidst the rebel ranks. The children who had taken him in, the ones who had been his family after the old one had abandoned him, the ones who had fought and died for their planet’s freedom, they were all there, watching and cheering as the rebels vindicated their sacrifice one bullet at a time. A scruffy girl with messy hair and grubby clothes laughed and waved him on as he scrambled over a ruined Scorpion’s chassis and fired down on the soldiers using it for cover. The girl raised a victorious fist as rebels swarmed over the tank and continued the charge, howling battle cries after fleeing UNSC troops. Sydney was falling. Simon leapt from the tank and hurried on towards the nearest sounds of gunfire, rifle in hand and ready to meet his next enemies head-on. It was a long, bloody day, marked by one victory after another until all that remained of Sydney’s defenses were craters and smoking, corpse-filled buildings that pumped the beginnings of dark clouds into the blue sky. All over the planet, reports were flooding in, telling of success at every objective. Their enemy had been surprised, overwhelmed, and broken in a single day. Years of planning and fighting fueled by millions of sacrifices had all come to fruition in just twenty-four hours. The battle was over. Earth and its military rulers had fallen. Simon stood at the water’s edge in Sydney harbor. His rifle lay at his feet, along with his helmet. He had no more use for either of them. The battle was over. His battle was over. He could finally be done with war and fighting, because there was no more need for those things in the new era he’d just helped usher in. He was free. Free from the Spartans, free from the UNSC, free from ONI. He’d done his job and brought the corrupt government down. That was all he needed to do. It was all he’d ever needed to do. Across the bay, Bravo-6 was burning. The Office of Naval Intelligence’s conical headquarters had been gutted, cleared of any surviving personnel, and put to the torch. The building’s structure wouldn’t last much longer; the whole place would collapse very soon. Yet the ONI insignia emblazoned at the top of the building was untarnished by any trace of the battle that had raged around it. The pyramid with the ringed circle at its center still looked over the bay like a great, lidless eye, mocking the rebel victory with its very existence. Seeing the emblem that had haunted him for so long elevated like that, as if it could see and know everything, made Simon uneasy even amidst the thrill of the victory. Why was that wretched thing still up? The smoke that billowed up from Bravo-6 filled the air, mingling with the traces of other burning buildings to crowd out the light from the sky. A shadow was spreading over Sydney, even as the rebels raised flags and cheered their victory. “Well, Stray,” someone said behind him, using the pet name his friends had given him on Mamore. “We did it.” Simon forced himself to look away from the ONI sigil and found himself facing Redmond Venter. The rebel who had taken him in and helped bring him to this point ambled over, hands thrust into the pockets of his blood-stained combat pants. His angled, harsh face was split in a rare smile as he surveyed the carnage around them. The smoke was getting thicker now. Simon could barely see the sky anymore. His fingers twitched as Venter approached, the peace and satisfaction he’d felt just moments before abandoning him completely. Why did seeing his mentor’s face now, of all times, make him want to hurt someone? “Earth is ours. The UNSC has fallen,” Venter continued, placing a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “This is what we fought for, this victory. Humanity can know true peace now, and we couldn’t have accomplished any of this without you and the other Spartans.” The touch made Simon want to recoil, and in that moment he knew exactly what needed to be done. It was all so clear now, clear as the sky now rolling with dark, smoky clouds. “Yeah,” he replied, turning to face his mentor as the ONI sigil looked on. “We won.” And then he drew a pistol and shot Venter in the face. The hard-faced man jerked and fell, any noises he might have made in death lost amidst the pistol’s thunderous report. Simon stood over him and shot him again and again, shot him because it was a lie, all lies and fantasies that Venter and the Insurrection had fed him to make him loyal, to make him theirs. He knew it was a lie, because Earth would never fall like this, not in a million years of warfare and rebellion. He pumped round after round into the corpse of the man who had been his mentor, his father, his betrayer… The pistol clicked empty and fell from Simon’s trembling hand. It clattered on the sidewalk beside Venter’s body, and when Simon looked up everything had changed. Sydney was on fire. The victorious rebels, with their flags and cheers and bomber squadrons, were nowhere to be seen. Corpses filled the streets, the bodies of soldiers, civilians, even Spartans scattered around like broken toys, staring at Simon with eyes that were full of empty accusation. Fire tore through parks and buildings, painting the clouds that filled the sky blood-red. The city was falling to pieces all around him. People were screaming off in the distance. Shattered towers and office buildings crashed down in front of him, collapsing in gusts of searing flames. Simon threw up his hands to cover his face only to find that his armor was gone. His pale arms were bare, save for grimy street clothes that hung limply from his body like empty sacks. He stumbled backwards as the debris rained down. Without his armor and weapons he was nothing. Just small, defenseless, and afraid. Out of the flames, he heard a furious, bellowing voice. Jake-G293, his friend and squad leader, snarled at him, “You’re a coward and a traitor!” Simon opened his mouth to protest, to defend his actions, but any sound that came out was snatched away by the fire that roared all around. Sydney crumbled, its buildings and people reduced to ashes amidst the inferno that towered up until it swallowed the very sky itself. The whole world was on fire, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. And then, just as swiftly as it had risen, the fire was gone, snuffed out as if by a giant’s invisible thumb. Simon was left unscathed, standing in a bare field of grey ash that fell down like snow from a sky left dull and empty by the vanished flames. He was nothing now, not a Spartan, not a rebel, not a traitor. Just a grubby urchin wearing dead men’s clothes standing alone in a field of charred fantasy and illusion. Alone. Or maybe not quite so alone… Something moved further out in the field, rising out of the ashes like a fast growing tree. A SPARTAN-III emerged, clots of ash dropping off the SPI armor’s polished surface. It held no weapons, not even a combat knife. Turning its visor to peer across the wasteland at Simon, it raised an open hand and beckoned. Simon walked forward feeling numb with shock and resignation. As if in a trance, he picked his way through the ashes and made his way towards the Spartan. The armored figure faded slightly, then reappeared, then faded again. The closer Simon got the further away the Spartan seemed to be, but he kept walking nonetheless. One of his brothers or sisters was out there, one who wasn’t ready to attack or reject him. He had to find out who it was, had to reach out and accept that open hand… And finally, he stood before the SPARTAN. His eyes met the gaze of the SPI helmet’s face-concealing visor. In that visor’s reflection, he saw his own face: sharp and grubby, his narrow eyes peering expectantly out from under a mop of tangled, dirty hair. Neither of them said a word. The Spartan raised its hands and slowly unsealed the clasps on its helmet, taking it off and letting it fall to the ground with a soft crunch. A girl with almond hair and a small, pursed mouth regarded him with piercing, hazel eyes. It seemed to Simon as if she was looking for something beyond his grime and ragged clothes, looking inside him as if he held the answer to some mystery that she was trying to unravel. The thought of this girl seeing through him filled Simon with a rush soaring excitement and a crush of intense dread. What could she see, looking at him now when he was bare and exposed? Everything else slipped away: the rebellion, the UNSC, the wars, the Spartans, the killing. There was nothing left except Simon, this girl, and whatever truth she thought she could find inside of him. Without warning, the girl’s tight mouth widened in a whisper of a smile. She raised a gauntleted hand, but the armor was falling away now, peeling back like tree bark to reveal the human hand underneath. Simon raised a trembling hand of his own to meet it. For the briefest moment he felt the warmth of another’s touch, felt someone else’s fingers close on his own. And then it was gone. He felt nothing more as the girl’s hand passed through his own. It wasn’t warm or cold; it simply felt like nothing. His head shot up, but the girl who looked at him now was not the same as before. Long golden hair fell down over this one’s shoulders and though her eyes saw through him as well they were full of cold, mocking laughter. A thin mouth twisted into an amused smile as she glowed blue and her voice cut through the silent wasteland like a knife. “I think that’s enough sleeping on the job, dumbass.” The world closed up, the grey horizon rushing forward on all sides to crush him. He threw up his hands to protect himself and they thudded against freezing transparent glass. His whole body was cold now, and as he thrashed and struggled for breath he realized that there was fluid in his lungs. He coughed and spat, struggling furiously inside the icy cell that had swallowed him up. With a furious hiss, the glass was lifted away and Simon was free. He lurched forward and fell, wet and naked, onto a hard metal floor as cold and unforgiving as the tube he’d just escaped from. The girl’s voice was all around him, still full of laughter as if this were all just a mildly amusing joke. “Well, then. Welcome back to the living, dumbass. How’s it feel to be alive again?”
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