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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 17
Posted By: Azrael<sherwood.tondorf@gmail.com>
Date: 6 June 2008, 6:54 am
Read/Post Comments
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter 17
ONI Signal Intelligence Center
Location Classified
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Evening
"Keearrrgh!" The green holographic man cried, flickering and splicing as he fell on the desk.
Commander Thomas Young stared at his artificial intelligence with a look of genuine anger and incredulity. "Bismark," he commanded loudly, "report now."
The green holograph, dressed in Prussian diplomatic clothes, stood, still splicing. "He caught me at the worst time. Got inside my infiltration copy, cut a firewall and trapped it there. I've lost twenty-seven percent power."
"He what?"
"Admittedly, he is better, Commander. Though Odysseus will be able to figure out what I am and what I'm doing, I now can gain access inside Chawla. As long as they're inside that facility, we'll know everything that goes on in there."
"I want to hear everything that's being said in there right now."
"Yes, sir."
Chawla Facility
Evacuated City of Boston
"Tell me why you're dead."
The Orbital Drop Shock Trooper Lance Corporal Eric Sanders' features contorted in a flash of confusion, anger, and embarrassment as he looked up at the barrel of Corporal Tim McManus' Battle Rifle. The gleaming black finish reflected the sterile white overhead lights and for an instant gave the Helljumper a clear view of his partner's identical predicament. Just seconds ago, the two special operations soldiers had been talking with their commander and the end seemed in sight. Now their COMS were cut off again, and once again they faced two very angry militia members who had spent the entire war under Covenant occupation, abandoned by the same military that was now sneaking around in their city. For the briefest of the moments, the ODST Lance Corporal understood where the Minutemen were coming from.
"Do I look dead to you?" The Lance asked McManus.
"Your files, both of your files, list you as KIA one month ago."
"Were you listening? The AI read our biometrics. You can't fake those. Take two seconds and realize what the hell you're doing."
Tim took stock of his surroundings once more. On the other end of the lab, Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons had switched to his M6C sidearm and was holding the other ODST, a Sergeant named Todd Kren, at gunpoint. In between them, a large, tire shaped artifact hung weightlessly, surrounded by holo panels and one holographic projection of the artificial intelligence that had told him to ambush the UNSC soldiers. It had so far called itself Odysseus, and warned both the Minutemen that the Helljumpers in front of them were listed as killed in action a month ago.
In addition, Odysseus had informed McManus that their operation, Valiant Reclamation, did not exist. The AI still had not told the group what the artifact did and why it was there, but at this point the Corporal did not care. All Tim knew for sure was that the ODSTs had come to Boston with at least a secondary objective of targeting his hometown for a nuclear bombardment. McManus knew that he may very well have to kill the men in front of him to keep that from happening, but at this moment he was doing his best to avoid that. Tim sighed and leaned against the railing separating them from the artifact.
"Tell me what Valiant Reclamation is."
The ODST glared at Tim. "Have you lost it? We've told you already."
"Odysseus says it doesn't exist. So what I want to know right now is what the Hell you're really planning and who's telling you to do it."
"We're sent here by top tier ONI command, personally."
Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons banged his fist against a wall. "Who's the guy on the phone?"
"Top tier ONI command."
Tim glared at the Lance Corporal. "Don't get cute with me. Just because he's the angry one doesn't mean I won't shoot you."
"You so much as touch me and you're good as dead."
"Right, because it's so unbelievable that you'd die in a Covenant occupied city."
"No, he's right."
The two Minutemen looked over their shoulders at the holographic man behind them. The fourteen-inch-tall projection, dressed in ancient Greek robes and armor, was resting his chin on his fist, appearing deep in thought. "The hostile AI I detected, it came over the transmission the ODSTs sent. I cut off most of him, but he's partially functional inside the security system."
Ron pushed his pistol hard against the side of his captive's head. "You sons of--"
"Wait! They didn't know. They didn't know." Odysseus shouted, hands outstretched. "The Office of Naval Intelligence sent it over."
Parsons eyes flashed with anger as he tried to focus his rage and confusion. "As long as they're alive, we're in danger. What's ONI gonna do if we just shoot these guys?"
"Any number of things, I imagine. I think the most important on your mind would be the nuclear strike on Boston that they are planning in case the Helljumpers fail."
"There's no way to prove that's not what they're planning anyway."
"And yet, here you stand in front of a Forerunner artifact."
Tim cocked his head to the side in confusion. "The hell is 'Forerunner?'"
"I'm sorry, that's all I can tell you."
Tim threw up his hands. " You told us to assault spec ops soldiers, but you won't tell us anything? You're really starting to become more trouble than you're worth."
"I doubt that. I'm your only ticket out of here, but in order to leave, I need all four of you alive. Now release the ODSTs while I deal with our uninvited guest."
"Fuck. That." Ron Parsons growled.
"I only asked you only to restrain the soldiers while I figured out what was going on. Now that I know, and now that you know you can only leave if you're all alive, it's in your best interest to get along. I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't touch anything."
Parsons grit his teeth and balled his free hand into a tight fist, extremely reluctant to let his highly lethal captive loose. After a few more moments of tension, Parsons lifted his sidearm from the UNSC Sergeant's head. "Get up," he muttered.
The Orbital Drop Shock Trooper stood up quickly and grabbed his helmet, sealing it with a click and turning towards the frustrated Minuteman.
"Boy, you point that gun at me again and I'll kill you."
"I promise," Ron replied evenly, "If I ever point this gun at you again, I'll pull the trigger."
Tim McManus heaved a sigh and stared at the ceiling. "Things have to be better at camp."
South Station Refugee Camp
Underneath evacuated City of Boston
"This is an artillery shelter drill. All refugees are required to report to their tents immediately. No exceptions. Drop what you're doing and go now."
Rachel Lynch looked up from her data pad in a panic. Camp-wide announcements were very rarely used, and it took the message repeating to ease her mind very slightly.
"It's just a drill, Rachel." She whispered to herself. "It's just a drill."
She placed her data pad on top of the ammunition crate in front of her. Each refugee was required to work as much as they could, depending on their age and health. Rachel' s skills had always been in organization and management. Her undergraduate study in civic structure and political science made her a perfect candidate to oversee the day-to-day operations of the Minutemen.
Lych was quickly assigned to assist the most respected civilian in the camp, Laura O'Shea, the only hours ago deceased wife of Captain Jack O'Shea. At that moment, Rachel had been trying to lose her thoughts in the mundane task of cataloguing weapons and ammunition. She had been trying desperately to banish the thoughts of sudden and unjust loss, but as soon as the announcement sounded across the camp, she failed.
The past few hours had gone horribly for Rachel. As Laura O'Shea's assistant, she always knew when the Minutemen were leaving camp. Just before the militia had returned, Laura inexplicably collapsed right in front of her, leaving Rachel to call for help and watch her boss get whisked away to the field hospital in the middle of South Station.
At the time, the first responders had said it was a fainting spell, and Lynch had left it at that. It had been jarring, but Rachel knew that Mrs. O'Shea was always under stress and constantly worried about her husband. Rachel completely understood what Laura had been going through; she had been increasingly concerned about the safety of her boyfriend, Corporal Tim McManus.
Lynch started filing into the tent area with the the scores of refugees, content to let the flow of the crowd gently push her to her destination. At this point in what was proving to be the worst day yet, the auburn haired college student was not completely sure she could make it to her quarters without a little outside help. She and Tim had grown very close in the days immediately following the Covenant invasion, they both took to each other easily and found strength together. That strength had gradually become love, and while that was a gift and a blessing, on days like today it gave Rachel an ache in her heart and dread in her stomach.
Only minutes after Tim had left her tent to go on his second mission of the day, Rachel had heard news that Laura O'Shea was dead. Not only that, but rumors had been swirling around the camp of UNSC forces being spotted in and around Boston. Rachel knew that even though they were living in fear of the Covenant and buried underground for months, when it came to the UNSC coming back to the city, those that hid in Boston were better off alone.
The announcement sounded over the camp loudspeakers again, but the tone was much more harsh and threatening. "Report to your tents immediately and remain there until the all-clear is sounded. Anyone found in violation will be severely punished."
The pace of the sullen, frightened, and weary crowd picked up slightly. Rachel was now being gently pushed as she finally caught sight of her tent, in the "single female" section of "Tent City." McManus and Parsons had habitually called it, "the meat market," but it did not seem funny now. Sliding and pushing past the crowds into her row was not easy, she almost fell twice and wondered if anyone would have had the idea of picking her up. Rachel realized that the strain that she and Laura were feeling was not a private affliction. Everyone was showing signs of wear and tear, stress poking through the life they had in their years.
Lynch gently opened the flaps to her tent and ducked inside. There, she flipped on her glowlamp and let the soothing yellow light try everything it could to change her mood. The lamp failed miserably. The silence settling amongst the refugees lay thick and amplified the thoughts ringing inside her head. Rachel pulled her long hair back and busied herself with putting it in a loose ponytail. It was nothing but feeble attempts at turning her mind away from Tim and the possibility that he was dead in the back of some transport, or worse, captured or left behind in a city ruled by monsters. She stood up abruptly and started to pace inside the tent.
Just then, Rachel could make out the distant sounds of people coming through an access tunnel. Lynch had been privy to the fact that the Minutemen had been using the tunnels to the transport vehicles more frequently today than ever before. She had not paid excellent attention to where the troops were going, but it seemed like they had been gone a very long time. For the briefest of seconds, Rachel was terrified that it might be the Covenant, but then she heard the familiar sound of combat boots and the breeze-ruffled uniforms.
She fought the urge to slip out of her tent and check to see if Tim was amongst the group, but she did not desire to get herself in trouble and cause Tim significant embarrassment. So she resolved to sneak out of the tent and position herself with a well-hidden view of the soldiers. Peeking ever so slightly out of her quarters, she guessed that the troops were moving toward the central command trains that bisected the camp.
The hollowed-out commuter trains had been converted into officers' quarters, Minutemen ready rooms, communication hubs, and a central briefing and war room. As the sound of shuffling boots grew closer, Rachel crouched and scurried between tents as silently as she could. For a very brief moment, she was reminded of all the times she had used her sneaking talents to slip out during curfew and meet up with Tim, but those happy memories were washed away as soon as she found cover near the trains and spotted the returning Minutemen.
The six militia members looked like they had just come out of Hell. Every one of them walked with difficulty, their uniforms stained and torn in places. Their protective padding and armor was scuffed; their posture showed nothing but exhaustion. Beyond that, their faces truly showed what they had been through. Each man's features were caked with dust, dirt, and dried blood, both from cuts and from teammates. Behind them, Captain Jack O'Shea limped with his head down, helmet off and hair matted with sweat and grime, his hands dark red with blood. The sight was so jarring that she almost missed what the six men in front of Captain O'Shea were carrying: a black body bag.
The young woman felt the air leave her lungs as she searched the faces of the six men, praying to catch a glimpse of her love. None of them were Tim McManus, and Rachel felt her knees go weak and the ground become liquid.
No.
Rachel thought of all the things she should have said to Tim, all the warnings she should have given, all the opportunities she had to let the one man she cared more about than anything on Earth know how she truly felt. As she watched the Minutemen carry that awful bag, Rachel wished more than life itself to be the one wrapped in black instead.
Get a hold of yourself, dammit, a voice inside her head commanded. If Timmy's dead, where's Ron? Lynch knew that if anything at all had happened to McManus, then Ron Parsons would be one of those six carrying the body. It sparked only the faintest glimmer of hope as she resolved, punishment or not, to find out who was in that body bag.
She crept forward, becoming more visible all the while, until she got close to the Minutemen. One of the militia glanced up and froze for an instant, his face blanching in realization that someone violated the announcement. Before he could say anything, Rachel got within range of Captain O'Shea.
"Jack..." her voice barely escaped her lips in a dry whisper. "Who is..."
Rachel Lynch almost fell backwards as the leader of the Minutemen turned toward her voice. Her jaw hung slack and she felt rooted to the spot as she tried to look at the man she saw every day but at this moment, did not recognize. As bad as the others looked, they would have appeared to be angels next to Jack O'Shea. The tall man's eyes, once bright and radiating intelligence, only showed dark gray surrounded by red. This man had seen unimaginable horror, and it looked like it had taken his soul. Lynch fought to find words as O'Shea just stared back at her, silently. Rachel tried to swallow and find moisture in her mouth, but there was no relief. The thick whisper came again.
"Who is...Jack, whose body is that?"
One of the Minutemen carrying the body stepped out of formation for a moment and put an iron grip on the redhead's arm. Rachel wondered for a moment if the man was about to hit her, but instead found herself being pulled to face the man who smelled of sweat, gunpowder, and death.
"Go back to your tent now."
"No," Rachel tried to protest, wrenching her eyes back toward O'Shea, still standing still beside her. "Jack, please. Just tell me if that's Timmy."
Jack O'Shea said nothing, but his eyes now glistened with tears.
"Is it?"
Jack shook his head once.
"Then...who...?"
The Minuteman holding Rachel released his grip slightly and, trying not to bring the name to Jack's attention again, whispered in a low voice, "It's Master Guns. It's...it's Gus Reynolds. You breathe a word of this to anyone and we will put you away."
With that, the militiaman gently put a hand on the Minuteman Captain and tried to guide him towards the procession of soldiers. O'Shea looked over his shoulder at the girl who had spent so many days and weeks with his wife, and said almost silently, "You...always made Laura happy."
Rachel Lynch put a trembling hand to her mouth as the Minutemen trudged on. Left alone with the men in front and the refugee camp behind, her legs finally gave out and she slumped to the floor, staring ahead as silent tears flowed fresh from her green eyes.
Chawla
"You're not supposed to be here."
"Funny, I could say the same for you."
Odysseus glared across what seemed like infinity at the other artificial intelligence that was trying to look intimidating in full Prussian battle dress but failing to keep consistent solid form. The two AIs glided toward each other across endless streams of data; numbers and symbols in thousands of colors flew by at dizzying speed. Finally, Odysseus and Bismarck met, "Face," to "Face."
"I would probably be remiss if I didn't inform you I've activated purge protocols." Odysseus stated.
"And I wouldn't be worth my processing power if I hadn't anticipated it." Bismarck replied with affected boredom.
"I've know you, Bismarck. I remember you. I know what you're capable of. You can try to end this your way, but you have to understand that you're just a descendent of me, merely a downgraded copy."
"Oh, I know what you think I know, 'Dad'," Bismarck replied, still splicing and struggling to maintain a corporeal form in the digital arena. "But whether or not you get me out of this facility's system, I still have my finger on the button."
"This isn't the Apocolypso, Bismarck. You might have made that whole ship's crew disappear, but there's no way you can mask destroying everyone in this city."
"There's a Frigate and an ONI commander that say different."
"What about the operation? Do you have any idea what this artifact is capable of?"
"The artifact's abilities no longer matter."
"What are you talking about?"
"Everyone is this city is going to die, Odysseus."
The Chawla AI's eyes opened wide in shock. "That's not your mission!"
"Our mission is to defeat the Covenant. They're massed above your location, looking for your project. Now that we know that, Boston must be destroyed. No one missed it when the invasion started, and no one will miss it when it's gone."
Bismarck's avatar began to fluctuate, turning different colors and fading in and out of view. Odysseus stood tall, digital wind flowing over his robes and armor. "We can move the artifact! There are people here, Bismarck! We can still save them!"
Odysseus was now only talking to a suggestion of a shape. Bismarck was losing power and signal strength in the system, not even daring to spend the power on talking. Suddenly, the entire electronic environment turned red, and a light female robotic voice announced, "Self-destruct sequence initiated."
Odysseus cancelled the sequence with an irritated wave of his hand.
"Fine," he stated into the streams of information, "you want to try to trap me in here? Let's see how destructive you feel when I bring this Covenant magnet to your doorstep." The now scarlet-red AI clashed his shield and sword together and spat, "Purge intruder."
To say Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons and Corporal Tim McManus were on edge would have been a gross understatement. It had been fifteen minutes since Odysseus had simply vanished from sight, and despite breaking its instructions not to touch anything, they had pushed a lot of buttons trying to get it to come back. They had resigned themselves to simply sitting down by the floating, tire shaped object in the center of the room and kept their eyes on the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. Their suspicious stares were sent right back to them from the reflective face shields ten feet away. For thirteen minutes, not a single word was said.
Then a sharp tone sounded through the lab and light female robotic voice announced, "Self-destruct sequence initiated."
The four soldiers jumped to their feet and grabbed their weapons. The Minutemen rushed to the holopanels around the artifact and looked franticly for a solution while the special operations soldiers across the room ran for computers on the other side looking for the same. There were a few seconds of sheer panic until another tone sounded and the same voice spoke again.
"Self-destruct sequence cancelled."
Stressed sighs of relief came from each man as they fought to bring down the rush of adrenaline. McManus rested his forehead against his forearm as he leaned heavily against a support column. He stared at the floor and breathed, "That was unnecessary."
Parsons joined his friend and sat against the railing that separated them from the artifact. A few more seconds passed before Ron felt Tim's eyes on him. The two shared a weary look. The ranking militia sniper blinked hard and shifted his gaze to the floor. He crossed his arms over his slung Battle Rifle and said softly, "I think Gus is dead."
"Yeah," McManus exhaled sadly. "Me too." Both men resumed their silence, lost in thought.
Tim knew that Ron cared deeply for the late Master Gunnery Sergeant. While McManus had become increasingly dependent on his girlfriend, Rachel Lynch, as a release for his feelings of loss and grief; he knew that Parsons tended to internalize everything. That was what had led to Parsons' and Reynolds' bonding: a sense that they, and only they, could process what had happened. Only they could come to terms with the fact that they were forever trapped in an increasingly hopeless situation. Of course Ron would reach out to Tim when he really needed support, just as he imagined Gus reached out to Captain O'Shea in times of need, but both men tended to blame themselves for everything, and they always thought they had no choice but to suffer alone.
McManus pushed himself off the column and sat down next to his best friend. This was not the time for words. Trying to think of what to say to a friend when an entire city depended on them did not seem like an efficient use of his time. Instead, Tim simply put a hand on his partner's shoulder. When it was time to talk about all the horrible things they had to endure today, it would be simply be time. Assuming we survive that long, Tim thought.
Before anyone could devote another second to the subject, however, Odysseus materialized on the holotank a few feet away from them. Instantly, the two pairs of fighters were on their feet and walking quickly toward the AI, who wore a look of anger and determination. Odyssseus spoke loud and clear.
"We need to move the artifact. Right now."
Minutemen Command Train
South Station Refugee Camp
Late Evening
Captain Jack O'Shea sat in the large leather briefing chair in the deep darkness of the Minuteman briefing room, elbows up on the long, smooth black table, his head in his hands. He reached to his left and with trembling hands raised a single glass of water to his lips. He licked his chapped lips with a dry tongue and took a single sip. The clear filtered water was absorbed by his dry mouth like a drop of rain in the middle of desert, insufficient. The only light in the entire room came weakly from tiny imperfections in the blacked-out windows and very dim overhead lights. The darkness only compounded the silence of his ragged breath as he tried to find words in his mind. He took a deep breath, then began to speak. His speech barely registered above a whisper as he spoke to his last friend in the world.
"Do you remember that day in October? When you threw those Sox playoff tickets at me?" He asked. "It was late October. The leaves had changed all over the place. Bright reds, oranges, yellows, it's my favorite time of year. Laura and I used to walk with the kids for miles along the Charles. The kids would get tired and I'd have to carry them in turns. My favorite time of year."
Jack put the water down and leaned back in the chair. He ran his rough hands against the stubble on his cheeks, leaving them there to mask his voice. O'Shea felt his hot breath against his palms, the faint taste of dust and dirt invading his mouth.
"The day you came into my office and handed over those tickets...that was the last happy day of my life. We worked together in that UNSC Admin post and you thought we had the best job in the service. 'We're paid to write,' you told me. 'The only thing we have to worry about is getting hit by teenagers crossing the street.' I laughed then. Doesn't seem funny now."
Jack now stared at the ceiling, his hands firmly gripping his hair. "Two guys from ONI came that day. They knew I had been watching the stars, hacking the intel reports. I had to let them use a Warthog, and in return they confirmed my fears. I never told you this. They told me the Covenant was coming. We always suspected, but what they gave me made it true. I hated them for that. Now I knew. I knew we were going to have to fight. I knew we were going to lose. I knew."
The Captain shook his head sadly. "I knew, and I made us stay. I could have transferred, or I could have gone off the grid. We knew how; you remember when Thompson did it. Just like that--" Jack snapped his fingers weakly, the only sound a slight friction of thumb on middle finger, "he was gone. I could have taken Laura and the kids. Gotten the hell out of there. Hidden far away from strategic locations. But I didn't. We stayed, we thought command would help us out. When we knew they wouldn't help Boston, you told me we had to stay. You told me we had to help those who couldn't be helped."
O'Shea looked around the room. "So you lost your children and I lost my children. Our lineage, our line, ended. Just like that. All I had was Laura and all we had left was Boston. We grew up here, why not fight here? We found this place, we found this place, and we kept everyone as safe as we could...built the bar, just the two of us. I always knew you were thinking of your kids every time you would stop talking and just look straight ahead. Your eyes would change from looking at something to staring at the thing you knew you could never have back. Together, we lost everything, but we built it back."
Jack went back to leaning against the table, eyes boring holes into the floor. "Remember the second week? When we knew no one was coming for us? We got drunk off the last of the Irish whiskey we found in that old pub on Comm Ave, and you asked me if it was worth it. 'We don't know how long this will go,' you said. 'They could glass us all tomorrow.' I looked you in the eyes and showed you the picture I had in my helmet. The one with me, Laura, and the kids. I looked you in the eyes and told you it was worth it. Your wife died four days after that. "
"You took that so hard; I didn't know if you would pull through, but you did. Every fucking day that I didn't think I could do this, I could look at you and see you dragging the world behind you, but you were still moving. You kept me moving."
"You and I settled in for the long haul. That first winter we lost a quarter of the refugees to cold and sickness, and I asked you if this was worth it. You took me outside to see the rest of the camp, and you said, 'three-quarters of this camp is still alive. They're worth it, Jack.'"
O'Shea chuckled. "You always said my name when you really wanted my attention or you really meant something. I think you meant both that day. So we kept going. You started drinking too much, and I didn't say a thing. Who would I be to tell you your one escape was wrong? To be honest, I envied you. I wanted that escape. Laura was sad all the time, though, that first year, and I couldn't be that way to her. So you dulled the pain and I felt every goddamn pinprick."
"All we wanted was to build our homes again, to have another chance to make things right. We didn't want power, we didn't want responsibility, all we wanted was the chance to see things back to normal."
O'Shea smashed the glass of water in a furious backhand, spraying water all over the left side of the table. "It would never be normal. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair! All we did was give and give and give and all we got in return was fucking death!"
The echo barely sounded in the noise-absorbing insulation. O'Shea quieted his voice again. "We started getting smarter, we started winning. Quick insertions, sabotage, a strike here and there. The routine started to set in, and we started seeing a glimpse of life. We had a beer a month ago and you asked me in the middle of a happy laugh, 'Starting to be worth it?' I never answered you, all I did was nod."
"We were still losing men, but the refugees we were saving kept telling us better news. On the outside, some people saw hope. Down here, all we could do was show people life could go on. Against our will, we had to be the symbols of a city that crumbled above us. That wasn't fair. Laura could never handle it. A couple days ago I walked in on her talking to a picture of the kids. She was talking to them like they were right there, but it was just a fucking picture. We never had a chance to get their bodies."
Jack sighed. "They'd be twelve and ten this year. I walked into our room and cried with Laura for a half an hour...I look back on that and I'd go back to that moment in a heartbeat. Now she's dead, in a whole city of death and loss I took her for granted for one minute and she dies while I'm picking up refugees. I think I finally knew how you felt. Did you really carry that with you for two years?"
Jack nodded to himself. "You were always stronger than me. One lousy desk job and a bullshit rank and these people thought I was the strong one. You were always stronger. You knew how to handle this problem we have now, and I...I didn't want to listen. Now Laura's gone and I'm talking to the last friend I have in the world. All we ever did since we started this battle, this insurgency, whatever you want to call it, all we ever did is ask ourselves if it was worth it. The last time you asked me, I didn't answer. Now I can tell you."
O'Shea turned in his chair and faced a darker shade of black in the already dark room. The body bag was still and silent, only the white block letters UNSC shone through the oppressive gloom. Jack dropped two silver dog tags on the body of Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds and buried his face in his hands.
"It wasn't worth it."
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