Picking Up The Pieces

The characters Riker-012 and Dyne-G217 belong to users Lordofmonsterisland and Ahalosniper respectively; both have been used with permission.
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I’m too old to put up with this nonsense. Riker Oakley thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and pushed his way through the stream of off-duty miners. The man also known as SPARTAN-012 grimaced at the air’s acrid taste, wishing ONI’s infiltration techs had provided a filtration mask like the one worn by many of the colonists around him. He squinted through the smokey air and instinctively scanned the flat rooftops of the squat prefab buildings around him for signs of hostile observation.
Probably a waste of time. Hades III was a Created world now. The mining colony’s new masters didn’t need to bother with anything as antiquated as rooftop lookouts. The Promethean armigers lining the streets of Madras, Hades III’s largest settlement, were no doubt streaming live observation feeds back to their AI controllers. Riker had spotted dozens of those infuriating four-legged Crawler platforms scuttling up walls and through alleyways—mobile cameras, perfect for keeping an eye on the local populace. The Created didn’t even need to install security cameras when they had pets like that.
Riker felt naked without a gun, not that he’d ever have smuggled one down here. The first thing the Created did when they set up shop in a system was disarm the population. Riker was just one more volunteer, newly arrived on Hades III to help churn out raw material for the new galactic community. That was his cover story, anyway. His cover story until some Created system picked his face out from the crowd and dredged his information out of whatever ONI networks they’d appropriated. The thought of Cortana’s flunkies having access to all of his personal data made Riker sick. He spent every moment expecting the Prometheans to dart through the crowd and haul him off for questioning.
Years of training and experience helped push those fears from his mind. Riker hadn’t been grabbed yet. In a situation like this, all he could do was press on and hope anyone up there watching was on his side. Maybe he was just beneath the notice of the Created. He wasn’t on Hades III to cause trouble. He was here to find one man and get him offworld.
One man on a mining colony teeming with spacers and vagabonds. A man who probably didn’t want to be found. Riker didn’t even have the benefit of an onsite ONI contact to do the legwork for him. He breathed another gulp of acrid air and bitterly reminded himself that he’d volunteered for this operation. The whole thing was his idea. With the UNSC in complete disarray, the brass at HIGHCOM couldn’t care less if Dyne-G217 rotted on Hades III until the end of time.
A good deed to get me back into the field. Riker pushed past an inebriated miner. The bleary-eyed man snarled after him but wasn’t drunk enough to pick a fight with someone Riker’s side. John and Ajax and Jared just take whatever gets passed down the chain, but me? I need to find a charity case. I need to get out of this. Retire, like Maria. Why haven’t I done it already?
The collapse of galactic civilization as any species knew it was reason enough. Riker shook himself out of his bitter ruminations and tried to focus on the task at hand: find Dyne-G217, drag him out from whatever rock the deserter was hiding under, and haul his sorry ass offworld.
Something moved in Riker’s peripheral vision. A shudder pulsed through the other pedestrians. Riker turned as the crowd parted and stiffened at the sight of two Prometheans breaking off from their patrol and marching swiftly into the muddy street. The armigers were coming straight for him.
Riker let out a low breath. So this was it. He should have known things would end this way. His hands balled into fists inside his pockets. He wondered if he should bother putting up a fight or just come quietly. If he moved fast maybe he could snatch one of the hardlight rifles and—
The Prometheans strode past Riker. They didn’t so much as glance in his direction. He blinked in surprise, then watched in amazement as the armigers descended on the drunk he’d bumped into. One of the Prometheans seized the yelping miner by the collar while the second formed a one-machine cordon, waving the other pedestrians on.
“Public-intoxication disturbs social harmony.” The first Promethean spoke in a soothing, maternal voice even as it hauled its captive off the road. “Violators must be detained for treatment and re-education. Resistance harms yourself and others.”
The armiger sounded like a nursery caretaker rather than a combat unit making an arrest. The machine’s eerie detachment sent a shiver down Riker’s spine. He looked around at the other pedestrians. Normally on a colony like this police activity invited jeers and public interference. The other miners might even close ranks and try to wrest the unfortunate detainee out of custody. But here in Madras none of the passers-by raised any objection. Most tried their best not to even look at the Prometheans and their unfortunate captive.
Such a clean grab disturbed Riker more than any commonplace Colonial Administration police brutality. He detested law enforcement thugishness but at least he understood it. The Created had changed the rules and upended the galaxy overnight. Damn it, John…
The fact that the Created were cracking down on public inebriation while ignoring the Spartan infiltrator on their streets filled Riker with an odd sense of relief. He left the Promethean patrol and made his way down the muddy streets with as much nonchalance as he could manage. He needed to find Dyne—a needle in a haystack if ever there was one. Maybe he could post a message, something only a Spartan would understand. A long shot, but as good a place as any to start.
Fortunately, the Created hadn’t completely cracked down on public news. Riker joined a handful of miners beneath a glowing notice-board, the place locals often posted advertisements and help requests in a town like this. Two Prometheans stood watch nearby but left the onlookers to themselves. Riker squinted up at the board and wondered what message he could possibly transmit to get a hidden Spartan’s attention. Those damned Prometheans probably controlled everything posted here. Riker might as well just ask them. Making nice with the friendly neighborhood robotic overlords might just…
Something on the board caught Riker’s eye. He blinked, not entirely sure he was seeing this right. No. It couldn’t be. Not like that.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.
***
The search became quite easy after that. Twenty minutes later found Riker in a small bar just outside a squat apartment complex. He gritted his teeth against the pungent odors that assaulted his nose as he stepped through the sliding doors. He almost preferred the stench outside. The Created might be cracking down on intoxication, but they didn’t seem to mind any mind-altering stimulants their subjects might smoke or inhale. It made a twisted kind of logic: boozed out miners caused trouble; drug addled ones merely sat in a hazily compliant stupor.
Every day gave Riker more reasons to loath the Created. The fact that so many of them had been his allies before Cortana upended the universe made the sting far sharper. Just how much of this technological police state had the UNSC helped create?
The bartender met his questions with a wary glower. She craned her neck to peer at the door this tall stranger had come through, no doubt on the lookout for any Prometheans who might have slipped in with him. “He’s here,” she said, in answer to Riker’s question. “What do you want with the kid? He doesn’t cause trouble.”
“I’m not looking for trouble.” Riker’s mouth twisted behind his beard. “I’m just an old acquaintance. I saw his name on the board outside, figured someone with his connections might help me get in good with the shaft managers.”
He held the bartender’s gaze and did his best to look reassuring. Getting on with civilians—or most non-Spartans for that matter—had never been his strong suit.
The bartender held out another moment, then decided this wasn’t worth an argument. She jabbed a finger at a booth on the other side of the relaxant haze. “He came in half an hour ago, right after his shift ended. Just like he always does.” She gave Riker another once over and shook her head. “Don’t yank his chain, alright? The kid doesn’t need people messing with him.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t.” Riker thought of tipping the bartender for her trouble, then thought better of it. Created outposts played by different rules. For all he knew, a tip could constitute a bribe under whatever collectivist operation the Created had Madras running under.
After the intelligence tip on Dyne’s whereabouts, Riker had braced himself for the worst. Dyne-G217 had deserted the UNSC under bizarre circumstances, setting himself up on Talitsa as some kind of anti-Syndicate vigilante—not exactly, your typical rogue agent. The Syndicate had not taken kindly to some do-gooder disrupting their operations and brought down the hammer with all the savage cruelty their criminal empire was known for. Whatever they’d done had driven Dyne into hiding here on this backwater, abandoning—if intel had it right—a significant network of friends and allies back on Talitsa. A broken, defeated Spartan was a danger to himself and others. Gamma Company was its own special mess of crazy. The trip across the bar felt like a jaunt over a minefield.
But the figure seated at the booth wasn’t a junked up mess or a trauma-ridden shell. Riker could barely contain his surprise at the sight of a straight-backed young man wearing faded mining coveralls. This was the target, alright: Dyne’s short brown hair and handsome, elfin features matched ONI’s dossier. He’d grown a neat beard since the most recent pictures Riker had reviewed but he’d kept himself together well enough. Riker couldn’t see any of the tubed pipes or other drug paraphernalia so prominently displayed on most of the den’s other tables. Dyne was simply nursing a mug of what appeared to be coffee and reading a small book with a faded cover.
Only when Dyne lifted his eyes at Riker’s approach did the older Spartan see the shadows flickering behind the deserter’s gaze. That was the look of someone beaten, bereft, and utterly alone.
Dyne’s haunted expression hardened as he took in the newcomer. He recognized Riker’s augmented profile only too well. “This booth’s taken,” he said curtly.
“Looks like there’s room to share.” Riker settled down opposite Dyne. He didn’t take his eyes off the deserter. He’d arrived on Hades III thinking he was here to rescue someone. Now he wasn’t so sure. He kept an eye on the other end of the bar, ready to run in case Dyne called the Created down on his head.
“I don’t know you,” Dyne said quietly. He leaned back against his seat as if to put as much space between himself and Riker as possible.
“I just wanted to pay my respects,” Riker said drily. He set his chatter on the table and flicked up a still image he’d taken of the billboard outside. Dyne’s face was displayed prominently alongside an announcement lauding his outstanding performance operating Mining Shaft #71. “I hear the local administrator gave you an award. It’s not everyone who can bring productivity levels up—what was it? Nearly eighty percent?”
“Seventy-three percent,” Dyne said, almost reflexively. He wasn’t meeting Riker’s gaze anymore. “I’m just doing my part.”
“Doing your part for the Created,” Riker pushed coldly. “You’re not exactly keeping a low profile here. Do your new masters know who their employee of the month really is?”
Dyne thinned his lips. “Probably. No one’s said anything if they have. Do they know who you are?”
“What do you think?” Riker growled. Anger blossomed in his chest. He’d actually have preferred to find Dyne in a wretched, disheveled state. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that the young Spartan might be actively collaborating with the Created. 
“Then you should leave,” Dyne said shortly. “Before they decide to take action.”
The thought of the trouble he’d risked in coming here made Riker’s blood boil. He’d always disliked Spartan-IIIs, the ones from Gamma Company most of all. They really had no idea how lucky they’d been to hit dirt mere months before the old Covenant fell apart. Without that perspective they got all sorts of wild ideas about the way things were. No wonder so many of them turned traitor—or worse.
“I’m not leaving,” Riker forced out. “Not without you.”
“Then you’d better settle in.” Dyne’s mouth curled in a bitter smile. “Get yourself a job in one of the shafts. I’m not going back.”
Riker would have found it incredibly satisfying to just beat Dyne to a pulp and drag him out of this disgusting lotus den. But making a scene here would guarantee that he’d never escape the planet. He forced himself to remain calm.
“Listen to me and listen good,” he said, trying to put as much edge in his voice as possible without attracting attention from the other booths. “I’m the only person who cares that you’re even on this rock. I could be in a re-education facility before the day is out. I don’t know what the hell is going on with you, but you’d better snap out of it now. I already wish I’d just shut up and left you to rot here, seeing as you’re happy enough collaborating with these traitors.”
Dyne’s expression was stony but something stirred in those haunted eyes. Guilt?
“I’m not collaborating,” he muttered bitterly. “Just getting by, same as everyone else. That’s all I’m good for. “
Riker had hit a nerve. He pushed, careful to keep his temper in check. “You can’t possibly be happy with this new order of theirs.”
Dyne shrugged. “Not my place to say. Maybe they really can make the galaxy a better place. Maybe they’ll do better than everyone else. That’s not my business. I’m sick of fighting. If you and the rest of the…”
He cut himself off and quickly amended, “You want to have a go at them, that’s your call. I won’t turn you in, either, if by some miracle they haven’t tagged you already. Just leave me out of it.”
There was a raw earnestness behind Dyne’s words. The pain in his voice gave Riker pause. The older Spartan’s anger abated slightly as he wondered just had happened to break Dyne so thoroughly. The Created? The Syndicate? Or something else?
He tried one last time. “We need you in this fight, Dyne. I don’t know what you’ve seen out here, but things are worse than you think. I wouldn’t have come all this way if it weren’t desperate. You may not like it, but you still have a duty—a duty to the whole human race. Don’t throw it away here.”
Dyne looked around the bar, searching for something that wasn’t there. He finally gave up and met Riker’s gaze once more. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Beta Company? Alpha? I’ve never met you before. Why risk everything for me?”
“Try Spartan-II,” Riker said grimly. “And maybe I’m just a sucker for lost causes. Or maybe I understand a bit of what you’ve been through—more than the people at the top of the food chain who wrote you off. I need your help, Dyne.”
Dyne lowered his eyes. Riker’s gut sank as he feared that he’d lost whatever tenuous foothold he’d gained in the young deserter’s soul. But when Dyne looked up again a look of strange determination poked through the pain and fear still swimming in those brown eyes.
“You’ll need a lot more than just my help if you want to get off Hades III in one piece.” Dyne glanced around the bar. He pushed his mug aside and slipped the paperback into his jumpsuit pocket. “Follow me. We can more freely in my apartment, as long as the Created aren’t already on the alert.”
It wasn’t a return to the light, but it also wasn’t a complete failure. Riker could live with that for now. “And if they are?” he asked, joining Dyne as he slipped out of the booth.
Dyne offered a weary smile. “Then I guess you’ll have some company in that re-education camp.”