Strategic Value Absolute

{| class="wikitable"
! Strategic Value Absolute
|-
|
{|style="width:100%; color:#FFFFFF;"
|valign="top" style="padding:5px;"|
{|style="width:100%; color:#FFF;"
|valign="top" style="padding:5px;"|
 
----
The constricting darkness bore down on Kennedy from all sides, sucking the air from her lungs despite the fact that she could breathe easily. Every inch she crawled forward brought with it another rush of fear and terrible, crystal-clear memories of times she would rather forget. 
While time spent entombed in armour had cured many UNSC soldiers of any remnant of claustrophobia, that wasn’t the fear currently crushing Spartan Kennedy’s ribcage as she belly-crawled through the UNSC Axiom’s ventilation shafts.
The fear triggered much more primal responses in her brain than mere entrapment in a confined space. It triggered a basic fight-or-flight response, and given her lack of weapon or armour at that point in time, her nerve-endings were lighting up like a magnesium flare, telling her to turn tail and run.
Any other position than on point, and Camilla would be frozen with absolute all-encompassing terror. Any other situation than her current life-or-death predicament, and she wouldn’t have been able to continue onward.
There was no other choice, though. They had already crawled through roughly five hundred meters worth of ducts and shafts in the past two hours, and they had passed over more than one firefight. The hallways of the UNSC Axiom were awash with crimson blood, bullet casings, alien ichor, and plasma scorings. If the Spartan teams didn’t secure their armour and aid in the defense of the station, then the Axiom would be lost, and an entire battlegroup’s worth of ships along with it. Not to mention one of the largest and most valuable repair & refit yards the UNSC had at their disposal.
The Spartan shimmied further along the ducts, her breathing steady and level despite the shaking of her hands and the pounding of her heart. Any harder, and it would’ve started bruising her ribs, and be audible through the vents as a dull pounding echo.
Kennedy wetted her dry lips, clearing her throat and taking a calming breath before she spoke. She couldn’t even afford to show her discomfort, lest she make the rest of her five-soldier team nervous.
Nerves weren’t something that they could stand to suffer from, especially in such cramped quarters, with no armour or means to defend themselves. Their whole plan hinged on a gamble—one that Kennedy wasn’t sure about making.
Gambling for rations or contraband at the Company poker nights was one thing, because she knew the mathematical theory behind poker, and how to hide cards up the sleeves of her fatigues.
But gambling with her life, and the lives of her team, hinging on them making it to the Engineering bay in time to suit up without being shot, that was a gamble even she had to pause at. 
Even worse were the second team currently making their way down below the ducts the normal, indirect way. They had to contend with firefights, checkpoints, Covenant-held areas of the ship, and they had nothing more than standard Marine BDUs to do it with.
She almost wanted to drop out of the vent and join them; anything to get out of the vents and do something productive. But she didn’t. The plan hinged on two teams—one suiting up, one able to defend, and then once Team A was suited and booted, they would be able to defend Team B. Then both teams could escort the remainder of the Spartan platoon to their armour.
“Sitrep,” she demanded. 
Behind her, four other Spartans slowed to a crawl, then paused when she did. Spartan Chimes rolled onto his back, to much clanking of vent metal. He sighed, bringing up a datapad he had managed to slide down the back of his slacks. He brought it up, switching it on, and illuminating the vent in a subtle blue glow. 
“420 meters away from the Engineering bay,” he said. 
Kennedy groaned, then disguised it with a contemplative hum. 
“B-Team?”
Spartan Lones, second in the line, keyed her earpiece, speaking into it for a time. She keyed it again once the message went through, switching it off. “They were engaged by a lance of special forces Grunts. No casualties. No injuries.”
“That’s good, at least,” Chimes said.
“Yeah,” Kennedy replied. “That’s good.” But it wasn’t good that they were engaged at all. Engagements slowed progress, and increased the likelihood of complications. 
“How far away from Engineering are they?”
Carrie spoke into the earpiece again. Her voice muted and muffled so that it only carried through the comms, and not through the rest of the vent. She was good at speaking softly, and when she was without her armour, that softness was exponentially multiplied. 
“Corridors are barricaded,” she said. “They’re further away than we are.”
Kennedy made a disapproving noise in the back of her throat. “I don’t like that.”
“It is what it is,” Chimes said. “Nothing we can do up here, let’s keep moving.”
Kennedy nodded. “Agreed.” She took a look ahead, where the vent reached an X-shaped junction. On two sides were extractor fans, keeping the oxygen circulating around the station. The other side opened up into a large area that may have served as underheating for a room on the above deck. 
They would have to take that room faster than usual to avoid overheating. 
“Let’s move,” she said, crawling forward with renewed strength. The constricting tunnels seemed to close in a bit less, now that an open area was so close. 
She missed having waypoints. She missed the comforting bulk of her HARMOST suit. She missed, above all else, the safety her armour provided her. Slacks and fatigues would do nothing against superheated plasma rounds, and passing over as many firefights as she had always left her worried that a wayward Lance of Covenant would take notice of the clanking vents and start sending rounds up into their unprotected bellies.
They’d be dead before the first volley even ended.
The heat washed over Kennedy before she’d even made it past the extractor fans. She pushed her prior thoughts aside, sliding forward into the wider area, where the heat was most intense. She couldn’t breathe easier, as the heat was stifling and humid. The entrance to the vents on the other side of the area yawned wide, and yet seemed impossibly narrow all at the same time.
A jolt of panic wrapped itself around Camilla’s heart and squeezed at the sight of it, and all of a sudden she was a girl once again, laying on an operating table, faceless doctors and medical droids leering down at her. Their syringes full of unknown liquids, their scalpels slicing away at her flesh. 
A hand grabbed her shoulder, and Carrie squeezed past her on one side. She took the time to smile at Kennedy, before motioning over to the vents.
“I’ll take point,” she said, low enough for Kennedy to hear her, and no one else. “Here.” She reached up to take off the communications earpiece, handing it over. “You take comms, my ear needs a rest from all the squawking.”
Kennedy nodded, sliding the comms piece into her ear as Carrie was swallowed up by the dark, hot vent.
Kennedy took a breath. If she just followed Lones, she’d be okay. 
She crouch-walked over to the opening, checking behind her once to make sure the other three were following. The faces of Chimes, Delaney, and Ivankov peered at her, giving her a nod and a thumbs-up each. 
She returned the gesture, before turning around and letting the vent claim her upper body.
The minutes ticked by agonizingly slowly. Occasionally, the comms piece would squeak with a new status report. With all the carnage and gunfire over the transmission, Kennedy got the impression that B-Team were being sidetracked and diverted more and more. Especially because they hadn’t heard a gunfight or passed over the location of a firefight in nearly five minutes.
They came to a stop when the vents began to get big enough to crouch-walk through. That either meant they were in the maintenance shafts, or they were entering a large-enough area in which bigger vents and fans were needed to keep oxygen circulating.
Carrie looked over her shoulder, and put a finger rup to her lips, before moving to one side, and motioning out of one of the vent covers. 
Kennedy hobbled over to the cover, peering out from between the slacks at the expansive engineering bay. There were two elevators at the center of the room, surrounded by raised floors going outward in a reverse-pyramid fashion. The elevators would descend down into a maintenance causeway, allowing vehicles to be transported from the Axiom’s hangar bays to the engineering bay for maintenance and repair. 
The Axiom had two of these bays, both of them conjoined at the upper levels so the entire bay vaguely resembled a horseshoe, where many vehicles could be worked on simultaneously.
On each deck were new engineering projects being worked on—the main cannon of a Scorpion, the Gauss cannon from a Warthog, alongside dozens of other projects for damaged vehicles that the vessels docked with the Axiom brought with them.
On the top level, sequestered at the back behind shredded protective sheets, were their suits. They were split, twenty-five on each side of the bay, held in place by automatic assembly systems that could dis-robe and reassemble the armour and bodysuit onto a subject in mere moments. 
Kept safe behind bulletproof glass that would only open to one of seven authorised personnel—one of which being the Spartan they belonged to, they were at once imposing and welcoming.
The relief Kennedy felt was short-lived, however, as an immediate problem presented itself. The ripping of the protective sheets surrounding the deck was the first clue, the second being the team of gold-plated Zealots waiting on the bottom floor, next to the elevator controls.
Kennedy squinted, pressing her fingers in between the gaps in the vent cover, prying them open to get a better look down at the aliens. They were almost too far away, even for Kennedy’s augmented vision, but she managed to spy one of them pacing with a purpose. They almost looked jittery. Their movements were laced with tension, anticipation was making them twitch at every hum of machinery.
They were waiting for something.
Or they were waiting for someone.
Kennedy’s blood ran colder when the pacing Elite turned around, revealing a scar that ravaged the side of its face. An angry pink gouge marred the creature’s otherwise-black flesh, going from one set of mandibles up to a milky-white eye. 
Kennedy drew herself lower to the ground, balling up her free fist and swallowing her fear in one large lump too big to force down.
“I know that Elite,” she said. 
“The hell do you mean you know it?” Chimes asked.
“Carrie knows it,” Kennedy said. “So does Delaney. And every Gen II.”
She dragged a hand down her face, then switched frequencies.
“‘Toon-wide comms. We have a problem. We found our Armour. It’s currently being guarded by a Zealot team. It’s One-Eye.”
“One-Eye is here?!” a panicked voice came back over the comms. Kennedy knew it belonged to a Gen-II Spartan named Fischer. “Now we know why the Covenant aren’t worried about scuttling the station,” she said. 
“Because they don’t want the armour,” Kennedy said with a nod. “They want us.”
“Abort,” Chimes said. “We have to abort. Give me the comms.” He held out his hands for the earpiece.
“Negative,” Kennedy said.” We can’t afford to lose our armour, and B-Squad will have to backtrack back to the exfil,” shaking her head, Kennedy shifted in place, still watching the golden Zealot down below. “They got lucky so far, they won’t get lucky again.”
“Engaging a Zealot team with no armour is suicide!” Chimes hissed.
“What if we had a distraction?” Ivankov asked from behind them. “Something to keep them busy while we suit up.”
Kennedy shut her eyes, sighing. She keyed the comms. “Where’s the nearest Marine unit?”
“Not close enough to get there in time.” came the immediate answer. “They’re busy locking down checkpoints, umbilicals, and hangar bays. Spread too thin.”
“The Elites aren’t moving,” Kennedy said. “They’re waiting for us. We send in a marine team—”
“And they’ll be gunned down instantly.” Fischer said. “No marine unit will buy enough time for you to suit up, boss.”
“Cam?” Delaney stepped up beside the trio. “I hate to say it, but she’s right.”
Ivankov came next, on the other side. They were crammed together, too close for Kennedy’s liking.
She turned to Lones and gave a solemn smile. “Trust me?”
“Always,” she answered immediately, placing a hand on Kennedy’s shoulder. “And forever.”
“Then stay here. Get to the armour as fast as you can.”
Kennedy drew back, lashing out with her feet and slamming the heel of her boot into the vent cover. It sprung off of its moorings with a clanging, clattering sound, attracting the attention of all the Zealots down below.
The Spartan hung down from the vent, a good dozen feet or two from the upper level of the bay. She allowed herself to drop down, bracing her legs for the impact. She hit the plating hard enough to bend it, tucking herself into a roll.
Carrie went for the vent almost immediately. “Cam!”
Chimes grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back from the edge. “Don’t!” he cried. “You go down there and you’re dead, too!”
Blind irrational panic gripped at Carrie. Something about seeing her squad-lead facing down a squad of a dozen Zealots with no weapon or armour made her want to jump down and save her. 
“What the hell is she doing?!” she hissed. 
“She’s distracting them,” Chimes said, nudging her to one side. “C’mon, let’s grab the armour as quick as we can.”
A few of the aliens down below raised their plasma rifles, mandibles bristling in warning. One-Eye stopped them with a grunting growl, and a raise of his hands. 
Kennedy vaulted the guard-railing of the upper level, plunging down onto the middle deck. She braced for the volleys of plasma fire to start biting into her skin at any point, but it never came. The Zealots just watched her go with an impassive expression on their alien faces, none more so than One-Eye. The lead Zealot tilted his head to one side, motioning with it down to the floor, as though beckoning the Spartan to come forth.
Kennedy braced herself, then vaulted the last railing, landing on the lower level with a grunt of exertion. She raised her head towards the Zealot, who stepped forward towards the Spartan, his hand raised up to tell the others to leave the human be.
The Spartan rose to her full height—dwarfed though it was out of armour by the eight foot alien before her. She kept her nerves in check by digging her nails into the palm of her hand, her breathing heavy. 
“I know you can understand me, you son of a bitch,” she said, turning to one side and bracing her legs into a combat stance. “You wanted all of us, but all you’re getting is me.”
The alien snorted, reaching for its belt. The plasma rifle folded away, latched onto the thigh plate of the harness with a magnetic snap. With its other hand, it reached for a long tubular device with two pronged spheres on either end.
A vibrant, wickedly spiked pronged plasma blade erupted from the holster. While other Elite energy swords held their plasma in orderly, polygonal fields of plasma, this one did not. This one was brutally ragged, the plasma field warping and contorting, allowing spikes of energy to lash out from the blade and bite at the air around it.
A broiling fume began to cloud the edges of the sword, and the smell of ozone filled the bay, but the Elite did not move. It waved a hand down to the ground, and Kennedy followed its motions.
There, beneath the corpse of a UNSC engineer was a folded maintenance jack. One part torque wrench, one part hammer, and all of it heavy enough to serve as a crude, impromptu weapon.
Kennedy huffed, reaching down for it.
The rest of the Zealots began garbling in their strange, alien tongue, their weapons clattering as they raised them up towards the Spartan.
Kennedy almost dove for cover before One-Eye barked at them all, his tongue forceful enough that the words themselves needed no translation at all.
She belonged to him now. The kill would be his, and it would be by his terms only.
Spartan Kennedy hefted the maintenance jack in one hand, testing its weight. Satisfied with it, she gripped it about the handle with both hands, turning to one side in a batter’s stance.
She nodded at the alien, her knuckles turning white, and her boots digging into the deck for as much grip as they could get on the smooth metal.
“Alright, hingey. Let’s dance.”
The Elite raced at her before she had time to blink. Kennedy barely managed to duck under the swing, then sidestep a vicious backhanded slice when the alien recovered. The Zealot warrior kept the pressure on, not letting up for even a second. 
Camilla constantly backed up, dodged, ducked around the scything swings. She didn’t have the luxury of blocking. The energy sword would cleave right through her wrench, and she didn’t have the luxury of being hit, either—the first hit the Elite got on her would be the only one needed.
Flurries of swings and slices began missing her by a hair's breadth, making her jump backward, then to the side, then duck. A constant dance where the slightest misstep could—would prove fatal.
He swiped for her, and she ducked underneath it, only to meet his other hand in a vicious blow to the side of her face that sent her to the ground on one knee. Dazed, she only had enough time to register the Elite bringing both arms up for a downward killing blow a split second before it happened.
She threw herself to one side, and the sword came down where her head had been, cutting the air apart and plunging down into the deck, sending two geysers of molten metal up around the prongs as they sunk through the titanium like it wasn’t even there.
Camilla rolled to her feet again, putting distance between herself and the Elite. The alien stared at her and growled, the angry noise displaying the Elite’s displeasure at having a killing blow so narrowly evaded.
Kennedy took a second to catch her breath, but a second was all she got. The Sangheili swept the blade up, through the deck, gouging a massive trench in the plating, and flinging it up at her. Molten metal globs sailed through the air, forcing Kennedy to leap to one side lest she be burned by the liquid metal.
He was upon her as she recovered. Kennedy flattened herself to the deck as the Elite jumped at her, bringing the sword down in a vicious stab. The Spartan rolled to one side, lashing out with a foot at the Elite’s unguarded helmet.
It connected, but the shields flared blue and didn’t break. She swung the jack downwards, and the Elite held up his hand to block the blow. The alien’s hand wrapped around the weapon, and it tugged it to one side. Kennedy was lifted to her feet, tossed to one side as easily as if he’d been tossing a toy.
She hit the deck hard, rolling a few times as she landed, the wind knocked from her lungs.
The Spartan felt herself slowing down; sweat pooling on her skin from where the white-hot energy blade passed too close, making her grip slippery on the weapon in her hand. 
Her comms. Warbled once. “We’ve made it to our armour,” Delaney’s voice said.
Kennedy sighed in relief. They could’ve only been contacting her from the helmet comms inside their suits. 
“Stand by, it’ll take us a few to suit up.”
Her relief was cut short. “Oh, by all means,” she coughed onto the ground. “Take your time.” She staggered to her feet, watching the prowling, pacing Sangheili. “I got him right where I want him.”
He lunged for her, she stepped to one side and brought the maintenance jack down and up in a massive swing. He raised the sword to block it, and the jack was cleaved in half by the superheated contained plasma in an instant. 
The half that came close was too close for it to miss entirely, and the momentum Kennedy gave it was enough for it to smash into One-Eye’s good eye, shattering the energy shield around his body in a flurry of white-blue sparks.
The Elite roared and reeled back from the blow, the half of the jack that was cut from the weapon cartwheeled through the air, clattering to the ground. 
The self-satisfied smirk working its way onto Kennedy’s face disappeared when One-Eye turned around, his eye socket most assuredly bruised, and the brow above it cut open with a wound that would grant him another permanent scar to mark their latest meeting.
With the jack bisected, she now had two weapons, if she could get to the other one. The Zealot was between her and it, and now it was angry beyond all reckoning.
He circled to one side, and Camilla started circling the other way. Her eyes darted to the second half of the jack on the floor, and the Elite’s mandibles curled upwards into what must have passed for a grin.
Kennedy was the one to charge, this time. The bisected tip of the glorified hammer in her hand glowing red hot. A muttered prayer to whatever god would listen left Kennedy’s lips as she swung the weapon wildly through the air. 
Blobs of red-hot titanium left the tip in a wide arc, splattering onto the Sangheili’s unshielded combat harness. They began burning through the undersuit, and through the flesh, searing themselves stuck in an instant.
The Elite gave a beastial roar, clutching at the fresh wounds as Camilla bypassed him, grabbing the second half of her weapon and doing the same thing. As the tip of the weapon had slid off to the ground more in a pool, more globs came loose and splattered the elite, which sent a second wave of pained snarls from its throat.
“Can I start fighting back, yet?!” Kennedy all but screamed into her comms over the sound of the Elite’s pained snarling and howling.
“We’re in! We’re grabbing weapons, now.” Carrie laughed over the comms. “Now would be a good time to start kicking ass.”
“Oh thank god.” Kennedy rushed forward, put the two halves of her weapon together, and swung it low once more. Both parts connected with the Elite’s chin, lifting him clean up off the ground, and causing a sickening crack to emanate around the entire bay.
The Elite slumped to the floor, weapon skittering away and slamming into the ground. Something inside the pommel shattered, and the blade collapsed in a miniature explosion of uncontained plasma and sparks.
The wounded Sangheili didn’t move, and Kennedy took in a deep breath, before the sound of clicking weapons and angry grunts brought her back to the present. Plasma coughed from the tips of rifles, and Kennedy sprinted for the relative safety of a line of crates.
She wasn’t quick enough, and a round grazed her side before she had made it more than five feet. She stumbled, cried out in pain as the searing bolt grazed her flesh, melting it away in an instant. It wasn’t a direct hit, or she would be dead.
She made it to the crates, but the Sangheili were already moving around the sides to flank her, or rush her down across the open bay. She had no weapon, and they did. All she could do was wait while she was circled.
“Now would be a good time to help!” she yelled into her comms.
“We hear you,” came the reply.
The staccato of gunfire filled the bay. Kennedy looked up to see her team taking up positions on the upper floors, shooting down at the exposed Zealots. Suddenly, plasma began to answer them, but her Spartans had the high ground.
One of the Zealots grabbed their fallen commander, dragging him onto one of the Elevators. They lunged for whatever cover they could get, crouching behind Warthogs, or packing crates.
The Spartans kept the pressure on, and all Kennedy could do was watch.
One of the aliens made a break for the elevator controls. Kennedy brought a finger up to her earpiece.
“Rabbit!” she cried. “Going for the controls! Take him down or they’ll get away!”
All four Spartans turned their guns onto the golden sprinter. His shields flared, popped, and bullets started biting into his suit, greeting gouges of purple. The Sangheili stumbled, dropped to one knee, and slammed his fist into the control panel.
It sparked, deforming around the Elite’s hand, and the Elevator began to grind to action.
“Shit!” Kennedy cursed. She turned to face the upper levels, holding up her hands. “Throw me a rifle!”
“Let ‘em go!” Ivankov shouted back.
Huffing, Kennedy knew that Ivankov was making the right call. Camilla watched the Elevator descend, One-Eye twitched, stirred, and sat bolt upright. They locked eyes with one another as the elevator trundled downwards into the darkness beneath. 
As the Zealot team began to move out of sight, Kennedy walked over to the edge of the shaft, peering down into it. Plasma fire raced up at her, and she quickly thought better of such dramatics.
She turned to face her team on the upper levels, pointing at Chimes. “Let command know there’s a Zealot team underneath us in the maintenance causeway!”
The safety doors for the Elevator shaft began to roll over the yawning maw down into the causeway, sealing shut with a clang.
All at once, the stress and exertion of combat came rushing in, and Kennedy keeled over at the waist, bracing her hands on her knees and groaning.
“Cam?” Carrie’s voice was laced with concern. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Kennedy said. “Just tired. Let the rest of the ‘toon know that the bay is secure, and we’ll be out to escort them to their armour momentarily.”
“No need!” Chimes called down. “Covenant forces are withdrawing. The battlegroup is in full retreat.”
Kennedy furrowed her brow, blinking rapidly as if to wake up from the dream she was no doubt having. She’d been knocked unconscious, or killed during her bout with the elite, and this was a fever dream.
“We won?” she asked the air.
“That we did, boss.” Carrie said.
Kennedy smiled, laughed a manic laugh, then heaved and vomited all over the deck plating below.
----
{|style="width:100%; color:#FFFFFF;"
|valign="top" style="padding:5px;"|<span style="font-family:Verdana; color:#ffffff;"
Category:SilverLastname
Category:Short stories
Category:The Weekly