| abstract | - The Elite’s jaws tightened as a thick cloud of dust descended over his remaining warriors. Last reverberations echoed against the cavern’s walls deep under the surface of Reach from the explosion that had just killed many of the Unggoy under his command. The Sangheili Ultra growled out to one of its underlings. “Sroam! What do you see?” Veral T’ramee demanded. Officer Sroam was looking through the equipment of his harness headgear, into the rubble which had filled the tunnel ahead. “They have sealed themselves off. There is no way to pursue, excellency, but I detect two lifesigns still in the rubble.” T’ramee recalled seeing two of the demons buried under the first explosions. “Dig them out! I want them alive.” Unggoy moved forward with their large forearms, and began to clear away the debris. “Spartan-030. Spartan 039. Acknowledge.” Vinh could hear Frederic’s voice through her helmet speakers, but she had to concentrate on her fight to stay conscious. She couldn’t see anything, and couldn’t have moved if she wanted to. Vinh was trapped under the collapsed section of a tunnel that she, four other Spartans, and Dr. Halsey had been moving through. What dim thoughts she could muster turned to panic as claustrophobia set in. Her breathing quickened, unable to move or cry for help. Isaac had been setting the detpacks while she kept him covered, when one of the damn Grunts had taken a shot and hit one of the packs. It must have shorted out, because the next moment an explosion had buried her under a cascade of sand and rock. She heard scratching noises, resounding through the earth all around, becoming louder and louder until she felt something scrape against her forearm. It paused, then redoubled its efforts. The digger reached her head and for a moment there was blinding light before the helmet visor could adjust. Strong arms dragged Vinh the rest of the way out of her tomb, with yipping and mumbling noises all around. Her vision returned, and Vinh’s heart sank as she began to see the outlines of Covenant soldiers. The Grunts suddenly dropped their burden in front of an Elite in silver armor. Lying against the granite floor, she saw another Spartan similarly prone a foot away, his armor coated with dust. “Isaac.” She whispered. “Isaac.” No response. The Elite must have heard her, as he looked down and grasped the front of her armor, pulling her up face-to-face. It scrutinized her, as if trying to see past the Mjolnir Mark V’s visor plate. A growl issued from under its headdress, and it let go, leaving Vinh to fall to her knees. T’ramee barked at his second, Officer Sraom. “We will take the male with us to High Charity. Have the Prophets execute it as they see fit in celebration.” “And of the other?” T’ramee turned back to Vinh. “That glory is mine.” The Ultra’s blade unclipped from his side and snapped on in a flash. Vinh thought of a final prayer as it raised the blades. Just as Veral was about to strike, he felt something seize his limb. A strong gauntlet had grabbed its ankle; the other supersoldier had stirred. Isaac croaked a defiant challenge. “The hell . . . you do.” Without hesitation, Veral growled and kicked Isaac onto his back, then drove the twin prongs through his stomach. Vinh’s breath caught in her lungs. Isaac groaned and for a moment froze in place, then fell back as the blades withdrew. Vinh stared in shock at the motionless Mjolnir suit, while the Elite turned and looked at her, then snarled an order at two Minors and walked to the gravity lift being projected through the cavern’s ceiling. A pair of claws seized her and began to pull her towards the Covenant ship. The sensation made her spring into action, fighting against them not to kill, but to reach Isaac’s body, to make him move, to get up. Tears stinging her eyes, it was only when a swift blow was dealt to the back of her head that she rested again. Long hours had passed for the Spartan, alone in a cell deep inside of the alien ship. Its prison block was plain for the usually aesthetic designs of Covenant craft, with cubic cells lined along an open main floor. One side of her prison had no physical barrier, instead a screen of plasma had snapped on when the Elites had thrown her in. They hadn’t even bothered to remove the powered armor, seeming to think it was the demon’s skin. In the other cells, beings of various races and conditions sat silently. Only a trio of wild-eyed Jackals stood, pacing back and forth behind the plasma wall. In the cubicle across from Vinh, a marine was crying out in pain as another attempted to stop the bleeding where his leg had been severed, just below the knee. Though his friend was keeping on a brave face, tying a constriction band around it and mumbling false words of encouragement, it was clear he wouldn’t survive much longer. The only guard was a hulking Jiralhanae Brute, its bare silver pelt rising and falling with each slow breath, watching the dying soldier bleed out. No doubt the ape was endeavoring to control its hunger, its grip on a long spear changing and fidgeting. It stood against the wall next to her cell, standing dutifully at attention. Inevitably, the time came when the wounded marine’s screams turned to whimpers, and he finally fell silent. At the opportunity of fresh meat, the Jackals began to grow frenzied, squawking and beating at the shield door that locked them in. Vinh watched the Brute turn, its upper lip curled revealing sharp teeth, and walked over to their cage. When they refused to stop screeching, the great ape roared at them, baring its yellow fangs menacingly. It shut them up. Silver Pelt returned to its post. Vinh turned back towards the remaining marine, who was holding his helmet to that of his dead companion. He removed the other man’s dog tags, stood up, and removed his helmet. When he looked towards Vinh, there was a tear running down the side of his face. He broke the contact, then stood and curled into a ball in the back corner of his cell, face hidden on his knees. “I have heard you were nearly executed, when you were captured.” grunted the Brute guard. The broken English surprised her, coming from an alien. “Your companion exchanged his life for yours. Fortunate for you, though not availing to his own self-preservation.” She remained silent. “But, I surmise it won’t be a lasting sacrifice.” He continued. “We are returning to High Charity, the holy city. There, you will be executed as the Prophets see fit, as a martyr to our Journey.” Vinh replied with barely constrained hate. “I don’t care how they kill me, or for what reason. But they had better not let me escape. If I do, I will kill every last living thing on this ship.” The Jiralhanae laughed, a deep rumble emanating from in its throat. “I like your spite, demon. Though I doubt you will have a chance to take revenge for your packmate.” It turned, revealing golden, slitted eyes. “I am Parthius, pack master of my Brutes aboard this ship.” She looked up at his shaved face and strong features. “Why do you care to talk to me?” Just then, a strange wail echoed through the prison block, and at the far end the lights around a door flashed. The Jiralhanae quickly returned to its position, eyes straight ahead. The silver-clad Elite Ultra entered. His armor had changed, from the large headdress of Covenant Army Ultras; it had been replaced by the simple shell worn by the special operations Elites, with the edges coming to a point at the back. It approached and nodded to Parthius, then turned its black eyes upon Vinh. “You are no longer able to bring dishonor to our warriors by killing them before they have a chance to prove themselves.” It stooped down so they were eye-to-eye. “Were I of lesser blood, I would succumb to my desire and end your life now, demon. But I will see you delivered to the Prophets for judgement. But, we have been called to battle. It may be some time before we return to the holy city. Fortune smiles on you now, but it will not last forever. Grow comfortable, as your doom will not stay itself for long.” T’ramee stood and looked to the Brute. “Stay vigilant, even a riotous waste of life like yourself should be capable of that. I do not welcome your presence here, but the Prophets decree it. And so, it shall be.” With that, the Elite took his leave. He walked slowly, as if daring the Brute to attack him, and prove his treachery. As the doors slid shut, Parthius turned his head halfway round to speak to her. “Now you know why I communicate with you. We are kindred spirits; I am as much imprisoned by my rank and responsibility, as you are by these walls.” Vinh settled in for the long wait. What the two aliens had said was true; she was fortunate to have survived two near-death situations. But she didn’t feel so lucky. Two months passed for the inhabitants of the cell block. Vinh didn’t believe she would be kept alive much longer, but did what physical exercises she could to keep her body strong should she have the chance to escape. As her hair grew beyond regulation, she left her helmet on the floor of the cell, and let her suit become almost inactive to save reactor fuel, though there was enough to last for a few years. Parthius commented once that she had very nice features, which at once disturbed and pleased her. The two talked frequently, discussing and explaining aspects of their culture, history, art, and literature. Vinh found the pack hierarchy and bloody rituals of the Jiralhanae to be fascinating, inspiring thoughts of a time millennia ago when humans must have been at a similar point. Meanwhile, Parthius would often ask her to recite the poetry and literature that she had learned from Déjà, especially interested in war poetry and the Old Romantic stories, it’s imagery and influence in the supernatural. Sometimes he would hum rhythms as she recounted them, deep rumbles in the cadences of his own culture. Vinh almost envied the Jiralhanae. Parthius often spoke of his home on Dosiac, feasts he would hold in his Great Hall in honor of his clansmen when they returned successful from a hunt, or when a cub earned his adulthood. His loving mates, Vannan, Predak, and Lantur. His pack was made up of his brothers, sons and daughters, bonded to each other by not only blood, but by relation of mentors and teachers, superiors and subordinates. The Spartans were supposed to be Vinh’s family, but most of them had grown into the cold, precise soldiers they had to be. Isaac had been her closest friend, but now he was gone. Was Grace still out there somewhere? And would she ever have a chance at finding the others if she somehow managed to survive this? It wasn’t always Parthius who stood guard. When he retired for cycles, a squad of Grunts would take his place, sitting around and staring at the prisoners. Vinh tried to make contact with one once, but its only response was a pulse from its plasma pistol against the shield before her, and it laughed as she flinched. They removed the body of the dead marine, making her wonder if it would be the ship’s Jackals or Parthius’ Brutes who ate the body. The other marine identified himself as Private Shields, one of the surviving marines from Charlie Company. The dead man was Clark. Vinh asked him about the rest of Spartan Delta Team, the three others, that had been with her, Isaac, and Will-043 when they were separated. He said that the last time he had seen them, they were alive and running for their lives. Besides that time, Shields never spoke again, though Vinh was sure he listened to her conversations with the Brute. The Elite, T’ramee, appeared from time to time, only to stare at Vinh a few minutes, spit at the Jiralhanae, and leave without a look back. It continued like this for hours in uncountable days, with no definition of day and night. The prisoners slept when they felt like it, and waited for something to happen. And eventually, something did. Tremors had rocked the ship for several hours. Usually when Vinh felt them, they were very light and stopped after a matter of minutes. But today it was much different. An almost constant array of clashes echoed through the ship, much louder and stronger than before. The only door in or out of the cell bay slid open with its usual wail, and the silver furred Jiralhanae stepped through. Vinh pressed a hand up against the shield wall, their customary greeting, but this time Parthius ignored her and walked to the control panel in the center of the room. From under it he removed his spear, a long pole of strange metal about seven feet from end-to-end. Holding it up parallel to his body, he spun around and faced the doorway. Gripping the spear in two hands before him, he closed his eyes and began to move his lips silently, reciting to himself some form of prayer. More crashes rocked the ship. Vinh knew that something had to be going wrong, very wrong, but she was powerless to help her situation. Across the way, Shields was also getting nervous, looking around the bay. Soon the door opened again, panels slipping into their pockets with the same wail. But nothing seemed to be there. “Come out, Sangheili.” Parthius chided. “Fight as though your honor means something to you.” Sure enough, the Ultra’s outline suddenly became visible, and a bit of distorted air flashed and T’ramee seemed to fade into existence. In each hand was grasped a dormant sword hilt. Removing his helmet and setting it on the floor, he let his arms swing by his sides, regarding Parthius. “Your Brutes are dead, Parthius. Either by my hand or those of my Elites. Give in without struggle and you shall die quickly, and your place on the Path may yet be preserved.” Parthius’ face remained stony. “You’ve nothing to fight for, T’ramee. The Prophets have cast you down in favor or my people, and you attack us. It is your place on the Path that is in jeopardy, not mine.” “Liar!” Veral roared. “The Great Schism has begun! And when it is over, only one of our kin will stand next to the Prophets, worthy of ascension!” The blades he held ignited, and Veral charged forward screaming a battlecry. The silver-coated Jiralhanae also ignited his weapon in a flash of light. On the crowning end, a plasma blade that looked like one of an energy sword’s twin prongs extended forth, and downwards parallel to the shaft was another ghostly blue edge, serving as a grip guard. They clashed in the center of the room, small singularities springing from wherever their weapons met. Veral was on the offensive, raining powerful blows down on the Jiralhanae’s defensive stance. Parthius was much stronger, though, and Veral hadn’t any chance of overpowering him. This quickly became apparent to him, and he backed off for a half a moment to begin precise stabs, which as they were parried he raised the other blade to cover himself. Parthius on the other hand fought with calculated defenses. In Veral’s initial attack, he swung his spear in long arcs around himself, slapping away the Elite’s angry blades. When Veral’s tactics changed, Parthius used the lower end of his grip guard to ward the strikes to either side, but he was forced to give ground despite his obvious skill. Vinh could only watch the warriors’ display from behind the slick wall of plasma keeping her in. She saw that Shields and the Jackals were also transfixed by the duel, if only because it broke the cell block’s tedium. The Spartan had the feeling, though, that their lives hung in the balance of the duel as well. If Veral triumphed, he would undoubtedly kill the two humans as well. But what if Parthius won? Jiralhanae ran out of room, and lost his balance for an instant as the back of his legs touched the edge of the raised platform in the room. Veral struck, but Parthius sidestepped at the last moment. Veral rolled forward and tried to get a blow in at his back, but his opponent swiped the blade away and spun the spear, stabbing at Veral’s neck. The Elite’s left sword caught it and directed the force away from his body and into the floor where the prison control panel was projected from. As the two aliens fought on, oblivious, the shielding of the prisoners’ cells faded away. A trio of Jackals eyed the air where their barrier had been. Realizations slowly dawning, the largest turned its head and snarled at the marine, then all three charged at him. While Shields screamed and started beating at the first one to reach him with his bare fists, Parthius was losing strength. Thrice, Veral had managed to inflict a small cut in his silver hide. Blood ran freely from them, and as the fight protracted they were taking their toll. Unable to hold away Veral’s powerful swings, his spear was thrown from his hands as the Elite kicked him to the deck, and he lay still, breathing heavily. Veral stood over his foe with a victorious smile, one sword still active. “The Prophets have erred, chieftain. My kin are the more worthy.” It then raised its remaining blade over its head to execute him, when the olive-green blur of Vinh slammed into his side. He never had a chance to recover. Sprawled on the floor, he saw the Spartan coming at him, and reached for his dropped sword, but too late, she was upon him. In a single, swift movement, Vinh raised the jagged-edged silver helmet Veral had left on the floor, and brought down its back point with enough force to sever the Elite’s long neck. Veral’s head gurgled once like it was trying to catch its breath, then lay still as the rest of his body as purple blood flowed into a pool around it. For a moment, Vinh sat with her long, black hair veiling her face, sweat beading on her forehead and adrenaline expecting more of a fight. Slowly, she calmed herself and stood up over Isaac’s murderer, and stared at her victim. She discarded the bloodied helmet, and left it next to its decapitated owner. From where he had fallen, Parthius pushed himself up holding a particularly deep gash on his side. The human warrior walked to him, and stood over the chieftain. After a long moment of silently staring at the other’s eyes, Vinh knelt and picked up his spear. Parthius expected her to kill him, but was surprised as she moved the pulsing blade to his wounds, and used it to cauterize the lacerations. Looking around, he saw that the human marine had been slain, and the mad Kig-Yar were tearing at his flesh. To his credit, the biggest of the three lay strangled. His gaze circled back around to the demon woman who sat next to him. Vinh’s eyes told him all he needed to know. The gleam of a warrior unleashed burned within her, and she was ready to avenge her mate. And the two of them had a common enemy. “This ship is mine by the decree of he Prophets.” Parthius said in a soft growl. “But the Elites are too many for me to slay on my own. I ask you, Vinh of the Demons, to aide me in avenging my packbrothers, as I you in the balancing of your brother’s death.” The human displayed no emotion, but nodded in agreement and held out his spear. Parthius wrapped a massive paw around it and used it to help himself up. Vinh retrieved one of Veral’s swords, prying it from the dead Elite’s long fingers. Parthius motioned for the door out. “I have one thing to do, first.” She walked into Shields’s cell. One of the Jackals tearing at his corpse turned and hissed at her, only to have its neck snapped in the grip of a Mjolnir gauntlet. The other continued its meal until she grabbed its head and smashed it against a wall. Ignoring the gore around his body, Vinh removed the marine’s dog tags from his neck, and retrieved those of Clark from one of his pouches. There was also what looked like a policeman's badge. Storing them in a pouch on her thigh, she turned back around and followed Parthius out as alarms began to blare. Klaxons wailed inside the cramped corridors and Sangheili voices babbled over a PA system as the Human and Jiralhanae advanced in a direction that seemed random to Vinh. But Parthius seemed sure of himself, and she went along. Expecting it to open when they approached, they almost ran headfirst into it when a door remained sealed. “They will come for us now.” Parthius said, steadying his grip on the spear. “Can’t they just jettison this whole part of the ship?” she asked. “No. We are too far into the center and near vital systems.” Once again, Vinh was a caged animal, waiting for something to happen. Parthius stood back to back with her, each facing a door and preparing for whatever would come to get them. Vinh rested her eyes, paying more attention to her hearing to alert her. Her breathing and the Brute’s puffed two distinct rhythms, both anxious to begin the fighting. It wasn’t long before she felt soft thumps through the deck, and leveled her sword at the door she faced. Four Elites in crimson armor and wielding swords charged in. Both of the simians stood still until the last possible moment, and then Vinh ducked as Parthius spun. The ignited spear’s blades arced widely, its pole held by the far end. The two Elites leading didn’t have enough time to react, and the spearhead slashed through necks and mandibles. Vinh rolled forward as the bodies collapsed, straight at number three. It had its weapon raised over its right shoulder, and as it was brought down she deflected it to the opposite side, then reversed her blade’s swing and brought it through the Elite’s legs. It managed to attempt a last backswing at her, but she had already dived again and come up next to the final enemy. This one had already locked blades with Parthius, making the kill all too easy for her. The entire fight had only lasted about six seconds. Regaining their composure, Parthius led Vinh down the now-open corridor and towards their next battle. For three days, this went on. In guerilla strikes, the simian warriors raided armories and food stores, and knocked out sensor relays, security stations, and even medical bays. As the game of cat-and-mouse went on, the Elites became more and more desperate, first assigning a few patrols, then dozens at all times, and called out their special forces. Parthius was almost killed by a cut-down Ghost once, the wings of which had been shaved so it could fit into the confined hallways. Vinh’s quick thinking with a plasma grenade had gotten him away with only minor burns. As the ships sensors blacked out, they could move around more freely without worry of the Elites pinpointing them and coming en masse. Getting ammunition and supplies from local armories, they expended cartridges, shells, and power packs in ambushes on Sangheili patrols. Medical equipment was also swiped for just in case, and though it was hardly palatable for the human, Vinh ate what food they could get their hands on without qualm. It was better than what they had in the prison block. Once, they had cut the lights to a room, and Vinh dropped through the ceiling, ignited two ghostly blue blades, and slaughtered six of the Special Operations Elites that were just preparing to go out and find them. When the lights came back on, Vinh and Parthius had found a Prophet, murdered by the black ops Sangheili. “They’ve gone too far this time.” Parthius had said, as if swearing yet another oath to kill the Sangheili. Vinh avoided mentioning that at one time, it had been her mission to kill their highest leadership. All the fighting finally culminated in a last stand by the Shipmaster on the observation deck, and a duel between Vinh and Parthius, and the Zealot Shipmaster and two of his Ultras. The golden-armored reptilian coughed with Parthius’s spear embedded in his chest cavity, burning his organs. As he sank to the deck, Parthius whispered, “You should have listened to the Prophets. But if you still hold the Journey dear, we will meet as friends when the time for Ascension comes.” Vinh couldn’t help but admire his chivalry. She would have put a bullet in its head and be done with it . . . which brought her to her current problem. The last Elites had just been killed. So did that make the Brute a hostile? Was he going to turn on her, now? Even if he was, she decided, she wouldn’t dishonor him by shooting him in the back. Slowly, Parthius stood up to his considerable height. His once combed pelt was cut in many places, and patches were singed or matted down by blood splatters of several colors. Sweat covered his skin underneath, giving him a noticeable smell. Vinh wasn’t much better off. A day ago, her boosted shielding unit had failed, and any plasma fired at her would hiss and bubble away the titanium plates of armor. The olive green paint was interrupted by melted patches that shone like chrome. The Brute seemed to be considering their alliance as well, and glanced at her over his shoulder. However, he simply walked to one of the viewports around the room. An endless expanse of empty space filled the world beyond, dotted with small specks of light. She joined him in his reverie, and for the first time in the last three days, an oppressive silence descended over the ship. As consoles beeped and multicolored lights blinked quietly, Parthius spoke. “The gods decree your destruction, demon. But I have fought by your side, against superior forces and triumphed thanks to you. If you were Jiralhanae, it would be necessary for me to have you join my pack, as you have lost your own.” On her side, hidden from the Brute, Vinh slowly curled her fingers around the hilt of a knife. “There is a single ship in the hangar. It is slipspace capable, and will be able to return you to wherever you came from.” Huh. So chivalry wasn’t dead, she thought, her hand leaving the knife in its sheath. Even here, a billion miles from Earth, and coming from an alien warlord, warriors could still respect each other. For that, Vinh couldn’t help but think of him as having more of the spirit of humanity than any of the Spartan-IIs, herself included. Though her golden visor was always emotionless, she reached up across it and drew two fingers across in a Spartan smile, and turned for the door. “Wait.” Vinh turned her head sideways, one ear open. “I do not want to face you as an enemy, no matter which of us survives. I plead you to seek safety in solitude, on a world left alone by both sides. If you go back, you will only be fighting for a lost cause.” “Don’t you realize that lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for?” Vinh answered him. With that, she left and strode down the bloodstained hallways through the kilometer-long ship, until she reached the hangars. Sure enough, a large Covenant shuttle was suspended by racks, and ready to take her to whatever home she could find in what was left of the UNSC. Though Parthius could have been counted as a friend, Vinh still followed the Cole Protocol and made several random slipspace jumps before targeting the Sol System. After all, he was still one of the Covenant.
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