25 January 2011

Battlestar Galactica Series Bible for download

io9.com just posted a link to Battlestar Galactica Series Bible, written by Ronald D. Moore on 12/17/03, just after the miniseries and before season one. Here is the link: http://www.harvardwood.org/resource/resmgr/hwp-pdfs/battlestar_galactica_series.pdf

 Upon reading the BSG bible, you get a sense of Mr. Moore trying to distance himself from two realities, Star Trek and the classic 1970's BSG. According to the text, Moore wanted to get far, far away from the common theme of "weird space people", in favor for "present-day American society." Then he attacked the alien races in Star Trek that possessed the ability to break the laws of physics, eat whole planets, and screw with time-travel. He want to making sure that the writers of the new BSG DID NOT mimic the Borg to make the Cylons. He, also, did not want a new alien race to be encounter every week (cough Voyager, cough) that looked human with nose-makeup.

There is a line about the mix of technological levels onboard the old battlestar, which was an defense against the Cylons hacking skills, and Moore says that it "forced" human beings to more involved in their technology, and not relay on the machines to do the work. Which reminds this Sci-fi geek of the society of the Dune books with the Butlerian Jihad, Mentats, and the Spacing Guild.

Moore wanted Galactica to be more akin to a Nimitz class than a Galaxy class, with all the grim dirty  reality of living on a space-going combat aircraft carrier that could also be a semi-battleship...but he states that the fighters are the "real punch." With the tie between Galactica and the Nimitz is strengthen by Moore wanting the launching and recovery of Vipers not to be common place or easy, that there were many steps and manpower burning calories to drag a Viper starside.

Given all this hard reality, he makes allowance for the presence of FTL technology, and he fully accepts that it is a "handwave" to the real laws of our universe, but he deals with the FTL systems being limited and a point-to-point jump, not a cruise through subspace with pretty stars drafting by. In Star Trek, warp speed appears easy, and common place, where, if you or I was onboard the Enterprise than we could plot a course with no issue. In the BSG universe, jumping into an explored, and charted system is risky. But once Galactica jumped beyond the Red Line, they were in uncharted waters. This makes FTL jumps whole different matter. Take a unknown system that is 5 LYs away that they are going to jump to...this causes telescopes to be used to determine the behavior of the planets and other bodies in the system, and then, by the miracle of math, they calculate the change in the star system over five years. Then they cross their fingers and jump. This means that a fully trained staff had to be working on jump coordinates all the time for emergency FTL for the entire fleet (just re-watch "33" and think about this!).

I guess, Math classes are more serious in the 12 colonies!

In the history section, he mentions, that it might be a recurrent theme for the abandon of technology to "reboot" the civilization. Which, of course, happens. I have always wondered when Mr. Moore got the idea for the ending...

One thing I enjoyed about Galactica that is mentioned in the Plot-driven Stories section, is that the galaxy is a empty place mostly, that habitable, atmospheric-standard worlds are very, very rare, and most worlds are balls of rock, ice, and gas. More over, he stresses about  not "retread of various sci-fi cliches of the genre", he lists examples of seeing dead family member that are really aliens or a virus, time travel, evil twins, multi-universes and so on. Some people online have mentioned the lack of battles in BSG. Moore address these rare hostile and violent encounters between the fleet and Cylons. This, I believe, came from the classic BSG, where the Cylons hit the rag-tag fleet nearly every frakking episode, and it seemed not a big dead when the pilots went out and came back. He, instead, wanted the viewer to smell the realism of the desperate combat and situation, where every Viper pilot dead was a huge loss, and their machine broke down with few spare parts, and there was no replicator. War in space was a cold unforgiving hell.

Then this brings us to the real change that BSG made over the vast majority of sci-fi series, showing real people with real problems. Unlike Star Trek were people had overcome greed, money, and drank synthehol, Moore wanted Galactica to show the reality of real people, and then he mined post-September 11th-America for ideas..."Our show is, first and foremost, a drama. It is about people." 
This is a great read about the best science-fiction ever made...enjoy.

23 January 2011

HALO Frontlines: Part Four-P.O.W















Lance-Corporal Nova Boulle will never forget the odor of human flesh being cooked by those Brutes. Fellow marines that she fought will through the mud and blood of their attempted hold-out against those alien bastards, were now skinned and roasted.

She vomited.

Betelgeuse was just setting over Ptolemy’s Herschel mountain range, and the Brutes were starting the day off with fresh meat. Just an hour ago, Nova and that marine had used their body heat to keep warm.

The Brutes were hunting for the last elements of UNSC resistance on Ptolemy colony in the Eton Forest. That is where the Brutes got her and the remains of Baker Company. Their damned grenade launchers flipped over her M831 troop transport Warthog. The survivors were dragged back to this re-tasked summer camp to wait for a slow painfully death.

Her only hope for salvation from her fate of being a high protein snack for her enemy was death from sickness, or rescue. She shook her to that foolishness, Ptolemy was a minor UNSC colony, the Brutes had only come to fight and feed. Despite her father being a colonel in the shadowy world of SPECWAR or ONI, she wasn’t sure which; the UNSC would not send marines or SPARTANs to liberate them from this farm.

She could only wish now for a fever that would take her life. If she had been conscience after the crash, she would have shoved her M6 magnum into her mouth and pulled the trigger.

Whatever afterlife there would have been better than this.

The smells of the heavy fuel screamed back memories of long ago operations through Boulle’s mind, it had been sometime since he have been on a flight deck with rows of Pelican loaded for war. Back then, the enemy was humans, and he wished that those days back.

Their transports were not the ugly green armored workhorses of the UNSC, but the sleek deadly lines of a specially modified Longsword fighter. Loading into the cargo section of the fighter was the experienced corpsman and the strike team of eight SPARTAN-IIIs. All of them were decked out in specially painted camouflaged SPI armor, which mimicked the pattern of the world they were about to have boots on. Boulle surprised how inhuman these mythic warriors looked in their helmet and fully body armor. Hell, he couldn’t even tell if they male or female!

Captain Vansen snapped her flight crew of three to prepared the fighter/bomber for launch, while Boulle dwelled on the fact that he spent every scrap of credit to get their eight genetically modified asses in those jump-seats.

But, Boulle was ONI, the files of those feeding camps were imprinted on his mind. He swore, as the engine roared to life, to any god there may be, that if he ever had the power, there would a global nuclear winter on the Jiralhanae homeworld.

“Meat!” The big one roared at the cages, while sucking the tissue off the leg bone, “I need more meat!” He locked his hungry eyes at Nova, and licked the blood from its lips. “You’re meat!” The time had come, and Lance-Corporal Boulle hopes for a quick death were dashed.

“Ten minutes to atmo.” Captain Vansen called over the intercom. The SPARTANs checked their kit and nodded to one another. Butterflies hit the Colonel’s stomach. His burning acid worry was that his little girl was already BBQ for those beasts.

“Colonel,” Vansen broke his thoughts on a private channel. “ONI as no ideas of what we are doing here, right?”

“Just fly the bird, Captain.” He tapped on his computer pad, reviewing the EXFIL plan. “Captain, are you sure that the Pelican pilot is going to be at the RV point?” He was worried and Vansen picked up it like incoming fire.

“Solid copy, sir, he owes me, and your credit line helped.”

“Good.”He closed the connection and opened one to the SPARTAN team leader. “You ready?” He could see his muted reflection in the Übermensch’s helmet visor.

“Always, sir.” Then he turned to meet the eyes of the worried father, “we hate the apes, too, sir.”

“Seven minutes, check the parachutes.” The operations officer of the Longsword fighter reminded. NAVSPECWAR had been using this Longsword as a testing mule for landing covert operations behind Covenant lines to disturb their genocidal campaigns via airborne/HALO jumps. Boulle needed for the rescue team to get into the dark Eton forest of the Herschel mountain range as fast as possible to take the camp by complete surprise

“One minute!” With heavy feet, the Colonel of the much feared ONI, gingerly walked to the drop doors, and hooked onto the line with the SPARTANS. The medic locked eyes with the officer.

“Excuse me, sir?” He tapped on his tactical webbing, hoping that Boulle didn’t throw up on his boots.

“What do you want?”

“You look pale, you need something?”

“Shut it!” He turned back and checked the parachute one more time.

“Yessir.” The SPARTANs overheard the talk, and lend over.

“Colonel, you do have jump wings…right?”

“Yes…but it’s been a long time since I jumped…” he trailed off as the Longsword bounced around in the atmosphere of Ptolemy.

“How long, sir?”

“My daughter Nova was in diapers.”

“You meant the one we’re rescuing, sir?” He only nodded a confirmation and all of the SPARTANs all shared a universal thought, that the Colonel would be a liability on this OP…that or he would snap his neck on a tree.

When the light turned green, the hatch bomb-bay like doors opened, and the SPARTANs jumped seemingly without reservation into the blackness. The Colonel, stood for a moment, crossed himself and jumped.

Only the wind and his steer white-terror panic informed his shattered senses that he was hurling to the ground due to the night-jump conditions. As the ground grew closer, Boulle could now see the separation between the darker sky and the dark forest.

The moons broke from their cloud cover, to reveal the vast virgin Eton forest below him, and the mountain range in the distance. It was beautiful, until he crashed through the thick coverage, and was hanging from the ground helplessly.

Boulle had to make a decision, so, he hit the button to release the parachute from the harness and prepare for the ground. His jump-school training kicked in as forest floor rushed up to met him, and he painfully avoided breaking his legs, but his body took the shook and was bitching at him about it.

The sturdy construction of the BR55 battle-rifle came in handy, as the Colonel used it as a cane to prop himself from the soft forest soil, then an armored hand helped him up. Using only a nod of the head, he thanked the SPARTAN, and they moved to the over-watch position, but Boulle’s knees strongly protested.
With binoculars, Boulle swept the camp looking for any proof of his daughter. The campsite itself was a small complex of old-style wooden cabins topped of there was even an old wood sign that welcomed people, read: “Shadow Hills Christian Youth Camp: Welcomes all in the flock of the Lord.”

Boulle wondered if god would allow those filthy apes into heaven after he was done riddling them with bullets. Then his eyes fell on the fencing with pale thin human bodies that looked more like zombies than former marines. A thick cloud of buzzing flies hung over them, but it was the rising smoke of the giant cooking fire pits, complete with piles of bones that got his attention.

He felt sick. Was his daughter a discarded collection of grim remains? Coupled with darkness and the sickening state of the POWs, Boulle couldn’t even ID his own kid.

The blur of movement and screaming called Boulle and the SPARTAN-III sniper to attention. The Brute leader of the small force was dangling a smaller soldier and deeply laughing, as other the apes stoked the fire pit.

Somehow, Boulle knew it was his daughter.

He didn’t even have to order the super-soldier next to him. Before a word could leave his mouth, the booming report of a 14.5x114mm AP-FSDS cracked out and echoed through the dense forest.

Nova did not hear the shot, one moment the Brute was claiming his share of her meat. The next, his head exploded in a shower of hot blood and grey matter that coated Nova’s BDU jacket. When she wiped her eyes of the gore, the former Christian camp was alive with tracer rounds, and berserking Jiralhanae. The SPARTAN sniper stopped the Colonel from rushing in with his battle rifle blazing, as the two assault teams broke from the dark dense woodland cover. Despite their fearsome abilities and savage strength, the three Brutes that rushed at the super-soldiers were easily dealt with by both assault teams. Their MA5K carbines loaded with anti-personnel 7.62mm hollow-point shredder rounds emptied into the charging hairy alien flesh.

It was amazing, to the ONI officer, charging Brutes had a terrifying psychological effect on normal UNSC soldiers, but the third generation SPARTANs handled the threat without a single moment of hesitation or trouble.

Then came the parade of supporting Covenant…the Grunts and Jackals. The Colonel almost felt sorry for them…if their beast-like masters, the Jiralhanae, were now dead, then what hope did they have against the SPARTAN assault teams?

But they came anyways, blasting green plasma bolts into the inky blackness of the forest night, and a few hissing plasma grenades sailed through the air.

It was a hopeless effort.

The second assault team outflanked the phalanx of Grunts and Jackals, and sprayed the area with jacketed hollow-point rounds from their cut-down MA5Ks. Alien blood sprayed into a fine blue/purple mist in the air above the scene of slaughter. The Colonel watched with enjoyment at Covies pain and suffering. In that moment, he wished that every human soldier was a SPARTAN…

Just before the assault teams reached the cabins to perform some close-quarters clearing, one white/purple beam smacked one directly in the helmet, and the human warrior fell into the undergrowth, dead.

A Jackal sniper took his pound of genetically altered flesh for the deaths of his teammates, and stalked another SPARTAN as they took cover. The next shot was from the kneeing human sniper, and his shot was also a prefect neck-shot, severing its alien head clean off.

“Colonel,” his headset sparked to life. The SPARTANs had asked for radio silence, but if they were breaking that, it seemed to Boulle that felt the situation was taken care of. “We’re moving to the cabins and stockade, you and the corpsman are cleared to recover your daughter.” That was all he needed, he took the safety from this BR55 and rushed towards his daughter.

Nova had listened to her training, and kept her head down as bullets and plasma flew across the darkness. From the volume of fire and quick work of these Brutes, Nova knew that those super-soldier freaks were the rescue team, and that meant only one thing.

Her eyes met her father running up, and she reached out. No words came, as the tears flowed, and the medic checked the dirty marine as her father held onto her. Everything, for the moment, was perfect. He had done it, the job was nearly over, and she was okay.

“Corpsman?” He finally asked with a breaking voice.

“She’s good, Colonel, some imbalance and dehydration, but nothing severe.” He nodded, and the navy medic went to check the other skeleton-like soldiers. It was not the sight, but the smell that hit the experienced battlefield caretaker. All around the camp was bones, waste, and misery. If there was a hell than the corpsman felt he was at the gates. Then he turned back to see, the Colonel with his daughter, and that made everything worth it.

“Colonel, sorry to interrupt, but the surrounding structures are clear, one assault team is covering the LZ, and I’m leading with the other to check out the Phantom.” In his haste to see Nova, he completely forgot about the metallic purple jump-shuttle that the Covies had parked at end of the camp.

“Roger that,” he said while digging out some protein bars for his daughter. “Once it’s clear, blow it.”

“Happily, sir.”

For the next minute, the operation went as planned, the corpsmen and the Colonel checked out the nearly dozen marine survivors, and got them ready to move. While one team of S-III’s secure the only open ground for the incoming Pelican…the other ventured to clear the Phantom. A storm of gunfire alerted everyone in the camp that something was wrong.

Thermal was useless against the armored skin of the alien vehicle, but the SPARTANs moved in with shotguns and carbines at the ready. Nina, armed with a M45 tactical shotgun, took point into the side ramp of the giant pink/purple beetle-like craft. The interior of the Type-25 drop-ship stunk of alien, but there was nothing else, just a dark open space.

“Clear.” Nina spoke back to her assault leader.

“Take the cockpit, bang-and-flash, terminate any alien bastard.”

She smiled darkly, primed a flash-bang, and moved to the hatch. In a heartbeat, an armored Jiralhanae smashed through the hatch, and launching a massive hairy fist directly into her tear-shaped visor, cracking it and sending her sailing to metal floor. Her ears rang with the booming of a Type-52 “mauler” auto-shotgun pistol at close range, which peppered the other three SPARTANs with shot. Then her flash-bang exploding, ruining any chance of her teammates return fire on the giant lording over her.

Stars and pain filled her head, and through the cracked visor, Nina saw the screaming Brute swinging up its foot to smash her like an energy-drink can. With one pull of the trigger she sent a single eight gauge shell blasting the supporting knee of the alien. The impacting force of the OO buckshot nearly amputated the bulging leg, and the agonizing howl reverberated off of the metal walls of the jump-shuttle. She leaped up, kicked the mauler away, and cracked her stock against its thick skull.

The rest of the team was recovered, and once the cockpit was finally cleared, they planted an explosive charge on the primary fuel line. “Colonel,” he spoke as Nina watched over her prisoner. “Phantom is clear, one prisoner, and charge planted.” The Brute was bleeding out from its gaping wound, and not a one SPARTAN lifted a finger to help.

“We’re traveling light, no prisoners.” The super-soldier leader turned his visor to Nina.

“He’s yours…enjoy yourself.” She smiled again…this mission was turning out to be fun…she thought as her tongue probed a few missing teeth. The female SPARTAN-III kicked the wounded Brute in its hairy shattered knee, which she could see that one stringy muscle held the leg to the rest of the body. It roared in screaming shooting pain. She loved to hear it scream helplessly, so she did again and again.

“Nina…don’t play with your prey.”

“Agreed. Time to finish him.” She drugged the Brute by his arms to the blazing fire pit. Human bones could still be seen, charring in the flames. She got angry at the slight, and with a firm throw, the Brute was dumped into the flames.

Everyone stopped to watch the hairy alien roll around in agony in the fire, and intake the smells of roasting hair and flesh.

“Payback’s a bitch, mother fucker.” Nina spoke.

The Pelican landed and the loading of the emaciated soldiers took time, it was an odd sight to see SPARTAN-IIIs helping nearly walking skeletons into the waiting arms of the medics on board the hovering vehicle.

In that moment, while his daughter was wrapped around him and the roar of the VTOL thrusters of the Pelican ramped up, Boulle knew he made the right choice.

“Ready, sir! Everyone’s onboard.” Lance-Corporal Nova Boulle turned back to the death-camp as the pilot’s words came over his headset.

“Burn it all down, leave nothing there.” She said weakly to her father.

“You heard her!” The pilot selected incendiary missiles and when the Pelican circled the camp, the missile pods unleashed a ring of cleansing flame into the place of death and slaughter. Nova watched the old camp burn that would always haunt her…As she wiped tears away, she threw hers thin frame into her father’s armor. She realized then that she would fully never know the price he paid to rescue her.

22 January 2011

Battlestar Galactica: BLOOD and CHROME Update!

Here at FWS, we are keeping up with the upcoming Sci-Fi Channel's new landmark series, Battlestar Galactica: BLOOD and CHROME.
io9.com as posted a leaked outline of the two-hour upcoming TV movie (much in the spirit of RAZOR.) I will not be posting any spoilers on FWS, but here is the link for the story:
 Also, io9.com tells us that the casting calls are going out for the three main lead characters...and the TV movie will be released sometime next year...hopefully the world will not end in 2012, so that we can see the new series.

From what I read off of the  io9.com post, I think that we can rest easy from the whole Caprica frak-up. Caprica would have been a good mini-series to show the originals of the Cylon race, but not a series...it was not what anyone wanted, much like the Pontiac Aztec. While BLOOD and CHROME promises to return us to space, with a space-carrier, with space pilot blowing the frak out of toaster. But here is the geat thing about, BLOOD and CHROME it promises to be the a hard-hitting, realistic military sci-fi drama weekly series!  (BSG was a mix of different elements warpped in a overall military science-fiction burrito) I think I have goosebumps!

My hopes for BLOOD and CHROME are high, simply because the depressive ash-filled air that hung around Galactica (due to the events in the show) was so honest and realistic for anything that we have seen in a science fiction show, and now BLOOD and CHROME is setting course on bring a gritty military sci-fi war drama to the small screen. 


If we are lucky, BLOOD and CHROME will combine BSG, with elements of the 1970's classic Galactica, and the only great military sci-fi prior to BSG, SPACE: Above and Beyond. My other hope, is that since this series will be more pure than BSG, due to the lack of Final Five, Baltar, skinjob Cylons, and the Quest for Earth...and of course, the 12 Colonies are still un-nuked. This will make BLOOD and CHROME more focused on the 1st Cylon War....which is what we really want to see.  

What I would like to see on BLOOD and CHROME:
  • The Final Five interacting with the metallic Cylons
  • More Combined Arms combat, with more of a "big military" feel than BSG
  • No Skin-Job Cylons! 
  • The events of the Brenik 
  •  marine characters, not red shirts
  • more colonial vehicles than battlestars, shuttles, Raptors, and Vipers
  • To follow the bitter tone of the RAZOR flashbacks
  • Tensions between the colonies dispite the Articles of Colonization
  • The originals of the Basestars
  • Seeing the other Colonial worlds, besides Caprica
  • Socrate Thrace and the Battle of Medra
  • Saul Tigh is somehow got to be in BLOOD and CHROME!

18 January 2011

HALO Frontlines: Part Three-BioFoam

0216 Hours February 7th, 2547 (Military Calendar)

82 Eridani System, Ruthersburg Colony, City of Rover

Laid out before Thomas Hague, RN, was a vast scene of suffering, and despite being a nurse, he was tired of it all. The stacks of wounded with plasma burns that covered their broken bodies, the screams of the soldiers for their mothers, and the exhaustion that never seemed to end despite sleep, stims, and coffee.

Hague wander through the makeshift encampment just outside Rover, towards his tent, but first he had to check in with the medic tent.

“Rough shift, Hague?” Laughed the clerk that was checking back in his kit and sidearm.

“Fuck off, Arthur, all you every day is sit there, letting your ass spread, reading webcomics!” Hague normally would have not lashed out at the unit clerk for his MASH unit…after all, Arthur was an expert at getting anything you needed or wanted.

“In the rear with the gear.” He gleefully responded while shutting the trauma kit. “Alright, your gear is logged back in and have a nice nap.” But just as Hague turned, Chief Petty officer Gonzales touched Hague on the shoulder.

“Tom,” She said with her large brown eyes.

“Damn it! What now?!”

“I need you to go back into Rover.”

“No way, Gonzales!” He slashed the air like an energy blade. “I’ve serviced my time in hell, and it’s my shift to sleep!” Gonzale shot Arthur a look, and he piled fresh supplies into a trauma kit along with a M7 caseless SMG.

“Sorry, our field hospital on at Cesar Chavez Street is getting hammered with wounded, you need to be on a Falcon band-aide transport.”

He cursed at anyone within an earshot. He hated the Navy for drafting him, he hated the war, and mostly he hated himself for going majoring in Nursing at University. “Are you telling me that every medic in this shithole is going?” He signed at Gonzales.

“The Covies are pushing, and we are bugging out of Rover, before the Navy begins another bombing run.” Then she handed him his gear, gun, and stim-pack. “Look, James, the ground ambulances got waxed, the crews were gutted, we’ve got to get those marines out of the hotzone.” Hague nodded and buckled his helmet back on.

“See you soon.” With that, Thomas Hague, RN, got on a Falcon with the Red Cross painted on it, and flew back into the rubble city of Rover.

To the untrained eye, the streets of the abandoned city that had been reduced to rubble by the attackers and defenders were void of life. The advanced night vision of her custom assembled .416 explored the ruins of inhuman son-of-a-bitch. She knew her gun needed to feed.

“They outta use you in those recruiting, vids, Danilov.” That was her spotter, Darren, and she rolled her eyes and continuing to hunt. “You are so hot!”

“Darren, for the last time,” She never removed herself from the scope, “I am not sleeping with you.”

“Yeah, I know, you’re soft on that chick in the armory; she always hooks you up with the good shit.”

“Her name is Tania.” She smiled and swept the old fashion shops with the scope…there were still dresses on racks…most were burned by plasma bolt near misses. She hated the Covenant, of course, that was a natural reaction to someone that burned worlds and murdered billions, but she hated them for another reason.

They were unfair.

From the intelligence briefing, the Covies had gotten lucky, stumbling onto Forerunner technology before Earth…and they got a leg up with their superior this and that. It was unfair, all of it. She could put a .416 round spot-on into an alien head, splattering it, and all that higher-tech shit didn’t matter. Behind the scope, she was superior. But on the street or in space, they were superior. It just wasn’t fair…and every world that fell back from was just one step closer to Reach and Earth.

She didn’t know Earth, but Danilov loved Reach.

In the darkness of the streets, there was movement.“Got’em.” She said to her spotter, he focused in his scope.

“Four tree-turkeys, three grunts, and a wounded Elite.” She overlaid anatomical view of the aliens’ bodies. From the wounds, the Elite was in a bad way. He was lagging behind.


“Elite first.” He nodded.

“Sent it.”

The .416 round cut through the thin cold night air, and smacked into the wounded Elite’s head.

“One down.”

“The Grunt with the Fuel-Rod cannon.”

He paused and tapped on the ballistic computer then a green board. “Sent it.” Another metal projectile found its target. By now, the small alien patrol that was attempting to reach their base, was now being picked off. They rushed to cover, Danilov, saw the Grunts look back at the Elite for orders. They saw only a body. They panicked.

The Jackets tried to return fire, but they could not see her. Darren called them, and Sergeant Elle Danilov sent lead down to the street, sending aliens to their gods.

These were the times that she loved, and best of all, because they were alien bastards, there was none of that guilty that had haunted soldiers. Every time one of them fell, she smiled.

“Last one, Elle.”

“Solid copy.” There hugged behind a holo-ad-turner, was the last grunt, nervously swinging his plasma pistol around. She fired deliberate missed round, causing the Grunt to scream out in its gibberish.

“Don’t make it suffer.”

“Yeah, time to cover the med-evac crew.” Just as her bare finger touched the trigger, a flash of light torn into her chest. Darren fired his BR55 towards the DEW line, screaming out for Elle. There, on the dirty roof of the broken skyscraper, she fell, and the smell of her cauterized wound hit her nose. She was going to die in this dirty broken city.

That’s not how she wanted to go…

She closed her eyes, as Darren pulled the pin on the Bio-Foam canister.

“One minute.” The pilot called out over the intercom, Hague adjusted his kit and took his SMG out. Below him, were the remains of Rover, one of the best cities on the Rutherburg colony. He had worked here, in the massive urban hospital, listening to the good gossip about who was sleeping with whom. Now, the hospital was a pillar of cider. Hague closed his eyes, and waited for the Falcon to drop.

“There it is.” The flight crew pointed out the small field hospital, and plasma round impacted as they were answered with bullets.

He cocked the first caseless round and waited for the skids to hit shattered pavement.

Hague then learned that a short evac, in & out could be feel like an eternity. While the Coies pushed on the lines, a mix of police, marines, and army fired, while Hague and the rest of the medics tried to load the bodies into the Falcon. It was not enough room. Hague then made a decisions.

“What do you mean, overloaded?!” He yelled over the spinning blades.

“Sorry, this is it, we’re bugging out next.” The sergeant pointed to a few troop carrying Warthogs. He made a face.

“Naw, that isn’t going to work! They bump and rip the wounds open!” The sergeant shrugged.

“We’ve got that band-aide Cougar over there.”The six-wheeled armored vehicle with a twin 25mm auto-cannons and a red cross painted on it.

“Give me a driver.”

It was quiet now there in the darkness, all she could do was wait for her spotter Darren to get back with the Bio-Foam. It wasn’t far, just down from the tall building they were in; on the street was the wrecked Cougar ambulance. So what the hell was taking him so long?

Hague armed himself when the tires were blown out, his ears rang like church bells. Then the metal hull of the UNSC armored medical evac echoed with booming reports of 25 mike-mike.

“Medic! We’ve got enemy inbound. Thick, too.”

“What should I do?”

“Prepare to run.” He swallowed hard, and loaded more pistols and handed them out to the wounded that could fire a gun. As the fuel rod energy splashed on the hull, the heat inside the metal hull climbed. Then the turret stopped and screams came over his intercom, Hague locked eyes with one of the wounded infantrymen.

“Hey, Medic, dose me up, I don’t wanna feel those apes eat me.” Hague obeyed, and then shot himself up. He nearly felt nothing as the spiker round tore into his flesh…he was numb and he simply slipped away to the sounds of the wounded firing and dying.

The mere slight of the bloodstained walls and ripped apart bodies, set him to a dark place. Darren was a spotter, he mainly saw this enemy through lens and sensors, not wandering around the darkened dangerous streets. When he searched the bodies in the back of the Cougar, he collected dog tags; one was a medic, with all of his Bio-Foam gone. He cursed and punched up the location of the field hospital on his goggles HUD.

Two miles…damn it!

Elle needed him to come back soon, the foam in her body was the only thing holding back the massive internal bleeding…and it was wearing off.

She didn’t want to die in this dirty broken building.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this….she was the one behind the scope, the hunter, not the hunted.

The Jacket had gotten the drop on her, his beam sliced through her chest, cauterizing one lung and scorching much of the skin around it. The burnt crispy skin was hard to move around to breathe, and her breaths got more and more labored as the Bio-Foam wore off.

The pain was too great to lift her .416 custom built sniper rifle put to defend herself. Darren had loaned her his caseless SMG to defend herself in case someone or something got too close.

But she only had one magazine. It didn’t matter; she could not have reloaded anyways.

“Elle!” The headset came to life…finally. It was Darren.

“Here…”She said above the pain.

“I’m at the old field hospital at Creaser Chaves street…got the foam…coming back.”

“Why?!” She mustered up, angry that he went too far. “The Band-aide vehicle is downstairs!

“It’s burned, Covies got to it. Damn filthy apes!”

“Hurry…it fucking hurts!”

“I’m moving!” When the connection was cut, she back alone. Snipers worked in teams, and it was odd to be alone. Pins and needles played through her chest, as a noise ripped through the empty blackened building. She reached for her submachine gun.

Darren was very aware of how alone he was, how difficult it was to make any time walking among the ruins. It seemed that every shadow was Elite, and his pulse raced. He had finally made it. The bodies of aliens littered the street and he enjoyed seeing their dead, which was until he got behind the wall, and saw a dozen soldiers burned with plasma. The few shell-shaped metal buildings had pantries filled with medical equipment. He groped for three canisters of Bio-Foam, and a few more magazines of 9.5mm. Then he turned and ran for the building, trying not to trip.

The footsteps, much heavier than a human, was what Elle heard first. Then she flipped the safety off of the small caseless gun, and then she sound of sniffing.

She lend her head back. Brutes…fuck! The wound prevented her from moving, and the pain caused her aim, which had won her awards, was erratic. The Brute team was combing through his building after their successful attack on the medical evac team. Some of the meat still clung to their sharpened teeth.

The first Brute walked up the stairs and never saw her or her weapon until it fired. The muzzle flash in close quarters blinded them both, but she was lying down, and the Brute fired it’s mauler above her head, clearly missing her. The 5mm rounds sliced into the lower quarters and legs of the hairy ape.

It died in a howl, and fell down the staircase.

Spike and flame grenades followed up by spray-n-pray gunfire. All were wide. Brutes were not great warriors, but they were fearsome and stupid enough to rush into the heart of battle. Fear was there weapon. Elle’s main weapon was down to half a clip.

It would be over soon.

The next one rushed up, spraying the open floor with red-hot spike-like projectiles. She returned fire, hitting it a few times, but when the hairy alien adjusted, and landed two spikes into her shoulder and the good lung. Her gun dropped, and with the last of her strength, she reached into a pouch as the lumbering profile of a Jiralhanae.

She coughed up blood as the wounded Brute sniffed her. “Nearly dead meat…but it’ll do!”

She popped her grenade and spit blood into its eyes. “Come and get it while it’s hot, mother fucker!”

Darren saw the explosion on the upper floor of the skyscraper...and stared helplessly at the canister of Bio-Foam in his hands.

13 January 2011

Terra Nova: military sci-fi with Dinosaurs?

FOX is now showing off images to the general public and a trailer to the press on its new $4 million dollar-per-episode time-traveling dinosaur show: Terra Nova.

FOX as a shit track record with sci-fi shows, I am honestly surprised Fringe is not cancelled! Terra Nova better be a big hit for FOX to shell out the cash for this show...after all, they pasted on Virtuality!

The basic plot is that Earth is dying, and in 2149, they develop the technology to open a time portal to the ancient past...specifically dinosaur time. The Shannon family is one of the new batch settlers to enter the colony site, to see if mankind can restart civilization of the other side of the portal.
Stephen Lang plays the first human to pass through the portal, and he now leads the colony. No, word on if the portal is one-way....
This plot remains me of Bardbury's A Sound of Thunder...and the Bones of the Earth coupled with Avatar and Earth-2. A Sound of Thunder was rumored to get a big-screen treatment...is Terra Nova that treatment?

Here are some of the current images:

 Yep, that Jason O'Mara from the ABC show Life on Mars as the main character and family man...but the gas mask? I didn't get that one yet. 
Elements of Terra Nova are already being compared to Avatar, the soldiers appear similar to the RDA Secuity forces...and so does their leader...

 Okay, a revolver, in the jungle, and it's the the same actor...Steven Spielburg is not making this easy on us!
 These are O'Mara's children getting to firing some sort of bullet-firing carbine-like weapon. Gunfire is always a good start!
Sweet, huh? Could mean a good start to Terra Nova...maybe he's waiting on some blue people?

12 January 2011

HALO Frontlines: Part Two-Guilt

2517 Hours May 7th, 2551 (Military Calendar)

18 Scorpii A System, Turnbull Colony, outskirts of Eridanos

How could he have had done? Was one of those freaks worth his squad? Captain Kevin Hutcheson asked these questions while the SPARTAN-II had his back to him.

“Captain,” the armored super-soldier spoke, “it’s almost dark, time to get to the objective.”

“Yes-” he paused when it turned its helmeted head, “-sir.”

Without another word, the two-man team, moved through the burned forest that surrounded the city of Eridanos. It was normal for ODST or marine units to assist SPARTAN-II activities, but Marine RECON were usually independent.

FLEETCOM had ordered Hutcheson’s unit to meet with a lone drop pod beyond the realm of the city in the forest. He left his RECON unit still on over-watch of the Covenant picking through the charred remains of Eridanos. He did not know it was a SPARTAN until the SOEIV popped open.

He and his new buddy were too far away to help when the screaming of his RECON marines filled their comm-channel. His mind raced back to those sounds, and the heavy weight settling in his stomach that if he could have saved them just if he had been there.

Now, it was just he and this thing.

He finally decided to break eternal silence between them; “what’s the OP, sir?”

“Maintain radio silence, sergeant.”

It was for the best, that the SPARTAN ordered no talking, he had heard that the SPARTANs made for terrible conservationist. Below them was the site of his original mission. His RECON team had been deployed from Reach to setup an eyes-on intelligence gathering mission on the odd behavior of the Covenant after their occupation of Turnbull colony in the 18 Scorpii A star system. A re-tasked weather satellite had witnessed an alien construction project in the farm lands nearly the city. Unlike, many of the fallen human worlds, Turnbull had not been glassed, instead heavier Covie warship had been moved in. FLEETCOM and ONI wanted answers.

The both of them knew that the enemy would be scouring the city since they found one human Special Forces team. The SPARTAN had reacted with disgust when he confirmed the RECON team’s death. He shifted his sound suppressed M7 submachine gun to the other hand while walking through the woods. Hutcheson knew that the Übermensch was observing the enemy below.

While he over-watched for the SPARTAN-II, he noticed his odd choice of weaponry. They both carried the M6S 12.7mm sidearm, but his primary was an old Army DMR fitted with a scope from a 99C-S2AM sniper rifle. The marines had quick using the weapon ages ago, and only the army made use of it.

When the SPARTAN paused, Hutcheson raised his SMG. It was a blur of movement, a Jackal sniper was walking through the trees, when the 1,000 pound super-soldier leaped like a jaguar. He pinned the beam rifle to the bird-like alien’s chest, then smashed a back-fist into its head. The neck made a clear cracking noise, but no other sound was uttered by the dying alien.

With anything useful stripped, including some plasma grenades, Hutcheson and the SPARTAN hid the body.

Now, the way was clear into Eridanos. It was a blackened maze of the remains of a once busy urban complex that served the nearby farms and ranches. Turnbull had once been the kind of place where people talk of retiring or getting fresh air or doing labor that wasn’t tied to a key board.

Now, Phantoms patrolled the clear starry night sky, cutting through the darkness with bright search beams. They were looking for them, but the SPARTAN knew his stuff, and they were leapfrogging through the ruins without a issue.

With a single hand signal, Hutcheson stopped, shod cover, and readied his caseless weapon. There, in his VISR, he watch a walking patrol of one Elite supported by grunts and jackals. It was a lucky break, for the Elites to be the leadership of the Covenant forces on this planet. The Elites fight with honor and a code of behavior, they would kill you, but in the fashion of one warrior to another. While those goddamned apes would eat you while you screamed, and commit horrible war crimes like it was second nature.

When the patrol passed by, the SPARTAN led Hutcheson into a shattered parking structure that was attached to a mall, both had received heavy bombardment. Dead civilians, a few police and soldiers littered the ground floor next to shattered electric cars. There were more of us then them dead on the cold concrete.

Hutcheson shook his head, same shit different planet…

They moved down the stairwell, and his VISR picked up nothing important down in the deep darkness. But there was a feeling of safety that the RECON marine had not experienced while he was exposed on the street. Now, there were tons of concrete and a clear exit and entrance point for those bastards.

When they reached the ground floor of the stairwell, the SPARTAN moved to the far wall and stood until a small crack of light created an outline of a door. When the door opened, the marine saw the unmistakable seal of the office of naval intelligence.

Great! Hutcheson rolled his eyes. When ONI is involved, the outcome is always dirty.

The ONI field base was small, like a walk-in closet, but it was stuffed with monitors, computers whirling away, and a small exam table. The SPARTAN moved to a terminal and tapped away, while Hutcheson checked out the strangle rocks on the exam table.

The small pieces of some sort of rock-like material were inscribed with illumined alien symbols. They were not any Covenant language that he had ever seen. These were new…but old. He could tell somehow.

“Is this was what my marines died for?” He asked out loud, but the super-soldier ignored him. ONI sites were to be protected, and from the fighting upstairs, they had been the defenders of something that some likely didn’t know was down here. He had done missions like that before. FLEETCOM would order marines to defend a building at all cost.

“I hope 15 minutes is enough to get back to ‘hog.” That was only the second time the SPARTAN had spoken to the marine.

“Is that it?! We walk in, nuke the city, and damn any survivors?!” The SPARTAN walked past him like a ghost. Hutcheson made dangerous decision; he gripped the bicep of the massive warrior.

Hutcheson had seen, with his own eyes, these soldiers go toe-to-toe with an Elite, and win. The SPARTAN could have beaten the RECON marine into a bloody pulp if he wanted. But, he simple looked down at the marine, and cocked his head, as if to say “do you know what you are doing?”

“You’re going to answer me, dammit!”

“My orders are to secure this site with the micro-nuclear package, and destroy the Covenant digging operation along with it.”

“So, what, my marines died for these little glowing stones?!”

“Yes.” He answered simply, and Hutcheson suddenly felt cold and powerless. He had been trained to kill with no thought, to jump from sub-orbit into a hot LZ, and he believed that the brass at UNSC cared about its soldiers.

Today, he learned on this little world, they did not.

“Fine…let’s go.” The SPARTAN nodded, and they ascended up the stairs in silence. A million thoughts plagued Hutcheson, but one was clear above the noise in his head…guilt.

The UNSC wouldn’t deploy SPARTANs to protect civilian transport normally, or push ships to guard a world just a little longer to protect fleeing vessels, but a hunk of glowing rocks…the UNSC would send in one of their elite super-soldiers, and nuke an entire town-site!

His stomach rolled as they opened the outer door.

The first salvo of pink razor-sharp needles impacted on the door, barely missing the marine’s head, only due to the SPARTAN’s lightning quick reactions. In that belief moment of time, the SPARTAN tossed several fragment grenades.

Once the explosions rocked the heavy door, the SPARTAN whipped out his DMR, and emptied an entire magazine.

“The patrol..took out three grunts, maybe two Jackals. The Elite is under deep cover. On three, we flash-bang, and break right over the wall.” The SPARTAN laid down the plan in a heartbeat.

“Got it?”

“Roger that.” Hutcheson unscrewed his sound suppressor, and popped a flash-bang off of his webbing. The detonation covered their escape, in that moment of confusion; they laid down suppressive fire, and ran for the wall. The hope was that the street would be clear, and they could lose any followers in the ruins and woods.

The fuel rod cannon ended that desperate prayer. Hutcheson was tossed into an electric car with the smell of seared armor. The SPARTAN was near, and his shielding flickered, no movement was seen, even when the Elite activated an Energy Blade.

Fighting through the pain, the marine dumped the remains of his magazine into the looming seven-foot tall alien warrior. It screamed as 5mm round hit his armor. Tiny sprays of blueberry colored blood played across his armor. Hutcheson couldn’t lift the half a ton of combat cyborg, he didn’t have a plan, just the drive to survive.

In the flash of adrenaline, Hutcheson weighted his options.

Go or stay…

When the weapon clicked dry, his choice was made.

The Elite was wounded, and they recover quickly. The marine thought that his time had come, as an Energy Sword cracked to life. He dropped the M7 and raised his pistol in a desperate gamble to beat the Elite to the punch of his swing.

Just before the blade impacted, and the trigger was pulled, the Elite was thrown to the concrete ground by a foot sweep. When the alien crashed down, the SPARTAN-II was on top of it, smashing his DMR into the alien’s face repeatedly.

The remains of the grunts made a push, desperate to save their master, but one attached plasma grenade sent them screaming back. Before they could recover, the two humans were running out of the parking structure and into the ruins to ditch their pursuers.

It was a futile effort for the RECON Marine to keep with the SPARTAN, he felt like he was back in basic. By the time, he caught up to the super-soldier; the Warthog was lying down 12.7mm rounds onto a team of jackal snipers that were covering the building and the Warthog.

The SPARTAN had walked into a trap, when he tried to recover the vehicle from an old hydrogen station. The ground was lit up by tree-turkeys shooting the green radioactive rounds, the SPARTAN’s shielding splashed and blazed brightly. Hutcheson knew it was just a matter of time.

Darting into a burned-out building, the Marine activated his scope on the magnum pistol, as he popped several flash-bangs into the heart of the fuel station. In the storm of blinding light and buzzing ears, Hutcheson went to work, popping tree-turkeys with 12.7mm of his own. Their brittle head cracked like walnuts when impacted by the fat round, and Hutcheson had created some breathing room for the SPARTAN-II to target the last of the snipers.

“You shoot; I’ll drive to the LZ.” Hutcheson didn’t get a word of thanks from the armored warrior, but he’d expect one, either. SPARTANs were so typical. He shook his head, and mounted the still-hot tri-barreled rotary cannon. Hanging on for dear life was the only impulse that the Marine possessed when the super-soldier mashed the accelerator, and the broken city of Eridanos became a blur.

The Landing Zone was on the very edge of town, and the Warthog spun a 180 into a good bit of cover, as the SPARTAN wiped out his special DMR. Hutcheson panned the massive cannon around and he could make out children’s playground equipped. It look like the aliens had been using it as target practice.

“This SPARTAN-079 to Charlie 217, evac dust-off required at LZ Gamma.”

“Solid copy, S-079, we’re inbound hot.”

“BLACK-RAIN is in effect, Charlie-217, need void ASAP.”

“Roger that, S-079, we’ll be ready.”

The merry-go-around spun as the wash from the VTOL engines of the Pelican hovered just inches off of the scoured ground. As they boarded the workhorse of the UNSC, Hutcheson was touched by guilt when it lifted off of the ground. He was leaving the dead behind to be nuked into basic atoms, and Marines never left their dead. Hutcheson was thrown into the jump-seat of the Pelican as it sped star-side, but he peeled his face to witness the mushroom cloud consume the city and the bodies of his team.

“Semper Fidelis.”

10 January 2011

Major Richard "Dick" Winters

 We here at FWS honor the memory and service of Major Winters of the 101st Airborne, 506 PIR, Easy Company, who has died today.
Major Winters was from Pennsylvania, and joined the paratroopers in 1941, when Airborne warfare was still new concept in warfare. He landed in Normandy without his weapon, but through the darkness, he gathered his men and got into the war. Winters would be come a leader in Easy Company through Operation Market Garden, the frozen hell of Bastogne, and on to Berchtesgaden.

Major Winters would later try to deploy to Korea, to serve again. He would later honor his men that survived and fell, by telling his story of the Band of Brothers book and miniseries.

One cannot read the history of D-DAY without the deeds of men like Major Winters. Without the Paratroopers on that day of days, America would be a very different place.

Every person living today, as a debt to the Allied soldiers of World War II, especially men like Major Winters.

Thank You, Sir.
Currahee, Major Winters, Currahee

09 January 2011

Live-Action Space Battleship Yamato Review

Space Cruiser Yamato (AKA Starblazers) was one of the founding pillars of my science fiction consciousness, and for years, the fans have been promised a live-action Japanese verison.

It finally happened in 2010, and the fans (including me) of Yamato got lucky, the Japanese turned out a movie that is heralded as a solid B+ by Anime News Network, and the Japanese press seem to also pleased by the effort. From the reviews (both American and Japanese), it seems that the new Battlestar Galactica was largely used as the template for the action and mood of the Yamato movie.

Once again, thank you, Ronald D. Moore!

The task of condensing the 26 episode 1970's Anime epic Space Cruiser Yamato into a 2.5 hour movie was a huge risk for the film markers, especially considering how worshipped the original series is global. The trailers were impressive in keeping the costuming similar to the 1970's Anime series, especially the Anchor symbol, the frank and correct (to the series) above ground landscape of a dying Earth at the hands of the Gamilions.

But it was the emotional impact of the seeing the beautiful lines of the Yamato, the massive tracer round pouring out of the side AAA turrets, and the music, made me believe that justice had been done by the old series.
The biggest change as been in the Gamilions. In the original Anime TV series, they were blue skinned Roman-esque humans that drank wine and planned bad war strategies. Now, there are, according to the blog: the Good, the Bad, and Godzilla: "while the enemy Gamilas Fighter, an arthropod-like design, is a vast departure from the original," and AICN reports that the Gamilion/Starsha races and story lines have been reworked and that is the most controversial aspect of the live-action movie. That might be a good thing. The Gamilion and the Iscandar element of the Space Cruiser Yamato is one of those weak links, and the older I get the less I like blue-skinned human-aliens. The Internet seems lacking in information on what they look like, regarding it as a major spolier. My guess...insects... I just hope to the Lords of Kobol that Starsha is not some bug with a long blonde hair!

So, will there be a US release? It seems so, but no DVD or movie theater date is currently available...maybe I should buy an international codeless DVD player, and learn to read Japanese.  

And if you are hungry for some old-school original Starblazers then the official website as a rather good FREE webcomic that is set 25 years from the original series. It's quiet good.
here it is in 17 parts:


LINKS to the Reviews:

For those that want to see the cool props of the Yamato movie:

Here is the Anime News Network Review:

The Review by AICN:

Here is another English website review:

And lastly, a English text review of the movie by Japan Times:

05 January 2011

The best Military Science-Fiction Website (besides this one!)

Ladies and Gentlemen, the best military science-fiction website is back up after appearing to be dead....Tips on Writing Military Science-Fiction, created  by William S. Frisbee Jr.

Tips on Writing MSF is a vast, detailed resources that covers a number of topics on the reality of war, military, weapons, and life in the military that only a veteran can tell you. I personally have mined this site since 2008, while writing my own MSF novels, and I can say that this valued resource.

Since I am not a soldier, I am limited by the amount of information that I can glean from books, interviews, and videos. Even with advent of the internet, it is difficult to gather information on topics like the reality of not getting hit, or small-unit tactics, or the role of field artillery.

At the moment, FWS is still trying to be an interview with Mr.Frisbee, to discuss his excellent website (if you are Mr. Frisbee, then contact us!). But from his own website opening page, he lists the reason why he created this site:

"Some people actually care about what they write and some would like to add more reality to their story but don't have many resources to draw from. That is what this resource is about. It is my intent to help newbies and veterans alike to understand small unit tactics and techniques. It is also my intent to help Science Fiction writers understand what war is like now and how it may evolve for the individual infantryman.
I was US Marine Non-Commissioned Officer and a squad leader. I served in Desert Storm and Desert Shield. While I was in the Marines my hobby was small unit tactics. I enjoyed learning about all manner of small unit fighting from guerrilla wars to large scale conflicts. I was an NCO, not an officer so my viewpoints are that of a small unit leader who loved his job and strove for excellence.

This may be why I like Military Science Fiction so much. I despise writers who are too lazy to do their research and that may be why I shy away from most modern fiction. Movies are a sore point with me especially because most producers are stupid and believe their audience is stupid too. The Rambo series is an excellent example of a producer's stupidity and ignorance. Ask any combat veteran."

This site details a number of topics on the reality of war, military, weapons, and life in the military that only a veteran can tell you. I personally have mined this site since 2008, while writing my own MSF novels, and I can say that this valued resource.

If you are writing MSF, than this site is the best on the web.

Nice to have you back, Mr.Frisbee!

01 January 2011

HALO: Frontline-Part One: Dark Mirror

Ever wondered what Noble Six did before Reach? Wonder no more.

0115 Hours June 18th, 2551 (Military Calendar)
41 Arae 2 System, Osage Colony

Despite the air-scrubbing filters inside of his Mark V(B) helmet, SPARTAN-B312 could clearly smell the harsh aroma of home-rolled cigarettes. These were a hallmark of the United Rebel Front to the UNSC. The rebels wouldn’t pay the taxes on their sinful habit to support the very government they were rebelling against.

He was glad for the telltale sign of the patrol’s position, and he moved gingerly on the open tall-grass plains, even though the SPARTAN III worn a next-gen ghillie suit with heat-sinks. From his new position among some thick brush, his audio-pickups recorded their fireside talk, while he counted heads through his 3x zoom of his DMR’s scope.


Eight-to-one with a normal soldier was unthinkable, even if he was a ODST, he would outmatched, but he was a SPARTAN, raised from a child to be a trained lethal tool of UNSC policy.

Eight wasn’t too much. Especially since these rebels were not even local colonial militia that linked up with the rebels. These were just ordinary men. Even if B312 was not in his new MJOLNIR Mark V powered armor. Few SPARTAN-III’s had them, he was just lucky to have NAVSPECWAR buying his toys.

He checked his armaments one last time before he would go into battle. DMR with a screw-on sound suppressor, along with a 7.62mm MA5K carbine, and on his thigh was a M6C/SOCOM. Normally, operators liked to use that caseless 5mm bullet hose for up close work, but B312 preferred his shortened carbine, especially with loaded with shredder bullets. While the 5mm bullet was meant to maul, the fat 7.62mm was designed to murder. He didn’t like an enemy getting back up when you think he is KIA.

That’s the way soldier’s die, by not finishing the job. Lt. Cmder Ambrose’s words echoed as he gave the rebel campsite one last survey, mentally locking-in their locations before the strike. But he paused, and then looked again. There were nine. Tucked in next two of the bigger farmers, was a teenager, about 12 by the SPARTAN’s judgment. He was not expecting any child-soldiers on this OP. For a moment, he eased-dropped on the conversation, and determined that his father thought this patrol would make a man of him.

For a moment, the SPARTAN III paused and dwelled on how alien the interaction between the father and son made him feel. Twelve was the age when he had taken his first life on the battlefield, and he had never known his father.

Would he kill this boy? Could he kill them? It was one thing to pull the trigger on a soldier or rebel, but a boy of twelve?

While his interior conflict waged, the SPARTAN kept them under the crosshairs. Deep Winter, their AI construct, had told them about the various religions of old Earth, and that God had created mankind in his image. And now, man made the SPARTAN in humanity’s more brutal reflection, like a dark mirror.

Orders were orders. The UNSC obeying citizens of Osage had been killed or driving off their lands when they refused to yield to the demands of the rebels. The foodstuffs produced on those farms were critical to the war-effort against the aliens trying to wiped mankind off of the galaxy.

No, his duty was clear…the rebels were to be killed.

With a firm slap, the DMR was magnetically attached to his back, and the MA5K was in his hands.

Time to go.

With the enhanced speed via his armor, he would be in range in less than three heartbeats.

It was not the report of the SPARTAN’s gun that alerted the rebel patrol that a real-life Übermensch was bearing down on them, but the crunch of the dry pirate grass.

It did not matter that they heard the rush of the armored warrior; he was on them before they had their weapons up to bear. He strafed the campsite with shredder rounds until the weapon clicked dry. When the echoes of the muffled gunfire drifted off into the windy night, the SPARTAN took to the grim task for checking the bodies.

All nine appeared dead, a testimony to Dr. Catherine Halsey’s skill, and to his endless training, but he had to confirm it. When he rolled the massive dead weight of the father, the son and the SPARTAN locked eyes. His M6S was wiped out in flash, but he then noticed the femoral artery pumping out into the air freely.

It wouldn’t be long.

With an un-SPARTAN moment of weakness, B312 stopped his impulse to waste the kid right there. He knelt down and un-sheathed his combat knife. The kid’s eye popped open to the size of the twin moons hanging over their heads. No doubt, the kid had heard the stories of the knife abilities of a SPARTAN. Then he pulled out the magnum, and the kid stared for a moment, taking in the jester.

The kid’s eyes and nod selected the pistol.

“Good choice.”Spoke the SPARTAN, and made it quick.

None of this sat well with him. He was sure at times on his counter-insurgency operations, he had called in artillery on structures were women and children were hiding, or taking out a vehicle with teenage soldiers. But, the difference was, he didn’t think of them as human. This encounter was too real for him. The meat grinder of Camp Currahee on Onyx with its manpower demands by ONI forced his humanity out.

He told himself that he did not have time for that shit.

While picking the pockets of the rebels, B-312 wondered why these simple farmers on a backwater colony would risk the wrath of the superior UNSC. Then he reason that’s how those alien Covenant bastards thought of humanity. Why didn’t we just roll over for them?

Shaking out those thoughts, he checked the bodies for any intel, computers, or useful ammo. Within the pocket of the commander of the patrol, his wrist-computer had some GPS coordinates. With the Mark V (B) helmet, the data was scanned in, and with the suit’s own software, the location was laid over a map projected over his visor. It was just a few klicks south-west from here.

There was nearly nothing between him and the enemy encampment on these barren plains, and intel was weak on the level of sensor being used. He needed something to cover his advance. When wood cracked in the campfire, the SPARTAN had his answer.

The smoke and marching phalanx of fire would cover his insertion.

He chuckled when the so-called base became visible over the hills. Being the errand boy for ONI’s dirty wet-works operations, he had seen dozens of rebel bases, and this was certainly the most comically.

The united rebel front base was a dairy farm.

From his raised position, the SPARTAN-III observed about forty rebels inside the wire, with three manned watchtowers, however, much of the firepower and focus was directed towards a frontal assault. Much of the original farm building was retrofitted for military use, but the command post was settled in the farm house. That was his primary objective.

The situation reminded him of a quote that Lt. Cmder Ambrose used from Sun Tzu: So in war, the way is to avoid what is strong and to strike at what is weak. The weakest point seemed to be the domed tents that dotted most of the territory inside the defensive positions, and for his strategy to work; he needed access to the motor pool area.

Three squeezes on the DMR trigger resulted in three prefect headshots, unmanning the watchtowers. The path into the rear of the base was clear.

Keeping his profile as small as possible, he climbed down the embankment and the scent of fresh brewed coffee hit him. B-312 remained in the shadows behind one of the dome tents. Two rebels talked while the flames illumined their dirty faces, in the dancing lighting, the SPARTAN noticed their ancient assault rifles were at their feet. He slung his MA5K, despite the name, sound suppressed weapons made noise, and he could not afford to be caught. SPARTAN or no, he couldn’t win against forty in a stand-up fight, and SPARTANs did not like to lose.

B-312 would utilize the tools of those ancient warriors that attacked from the shadows, fear and a blade.

The two rebels enjoyed their dark French press coffee, and he listened in to them bitching about the lack of supplies and worry about the encroaching grassfire. Sensing the moment was favorable, he emerged from the night with the orange and fire colors playing across his dark armor.

One of the soldiers dropped his mug, and froze in terror at the silent armored warrior, before the man could muster his voice and warn the man with the SPARTAN behind him, a knife was shoved into his lung, robbing him of a scream. The other solider, got his wits about him, and threw the French press at the attacker. It was easily dodged, but B-312 respect the fight in him, and returned the favor with a knife through the chest.

Once he confirmed both were down, he dragged the bodies into a tent, zipped them up into their sleeping bags, and then covered up the scent of the body with the coffee. The way to the motor pool was clear.

From the thermal sweeps, three mechanics were working away, two under the civilian version of the Warthog, another was walking the floor.

It would have been very easy for the SPARTAN to burst in a waste the three of them before they could blink twice, but there was risk. If the suppressed gunfire was heard, or if one was about to raise the alarm, then his mission was finished.

SPARTAN were created to win, and B312 was going finish the job.

Luck, as it was, was on the side of the übermensch, the one walking the floor was coming out the back door. He drew his combat knife and waiting for his prey.

When the mechanic wandered over to the spare parts pile, and was murmuring to himself. The SPARTAN-III saw the moment was here; his prey was distracted and unaware. With speed and darkness, B312 positioned himself directly behind the normal human and waited for him to turn around.

When the mechanic turned, 7 inches of high carbon steel plunged through the greasy coveralls of the mechanic, his eyes bugged out, while his mouth attempted to makes a sound, but nothing came but a gasp.

The SPARTAN-III stashed the body behind the junk pile, and moved into the shed with pistol drawn.

“Daryl!” Yelled out one of the mechanics under the lift. “Took your sweet time!” The SPARTAN holstered his weapon, located the lift control, and hit the release, squishing the mechanics like cockroaches under a boot. With the motor pool clear, B-312 planted remote detonation charges under the hydrogen tanks.

The massive armored soldier seemed to melt back into the shadow, and made his way to the barn. This was the highest point in the encampment, and risky maneuver due to a SPARTAN soldier in MJOLNIR weights about half a ton.

While watching the activities, he mentally reviewed his orders: locate and destroy the rebel base of operations, purge their computers of any data, destroy all rebel war material.

His plan was direct and violent, the kind the SPARTAN’s like. Once he dealt with the primary object of the rebels HQ in the farm house, B-312 would return to his perch, and take out the survivors of his attack with the DMR.

When the severed communications with the rest of the rebels on Osage colony got their attention, someone would be sent to investigate the downed comm.-lines. They would see the SPARTAN-III’s handiwork, and there would be little doubt that one of the mysterious warriors of the UNSC did this. He hoped the message to the rebels would be simple, give up, or I’ll be coming after you next.

A quick sweep with thermal revealed the farm house was occupied with five. Four were manning computer stations, and one was busy pacing.

That was the commander.

From the body profile, B-312 was able to deduce that one of the computer techs was female.


The software, enhanced strength, and experience manufactured a prefect toss of a stun grenade, sailing through a window, just a second before it exploded; the SPARTAN keyed the remote detonators. The rebel encampment was a washed in noise, as B-312 leapt into the air, throwing himself from the barn to the farm house. This time his weight of 1,000lbs worked for him, the force of his landing on the roof of the farm house caused him to crash through the roof and directly into the command center.

Smoke from the debris, and the effects of the flash-bang grenade, allowed the SPARTAN-III to be unopposed for the moment. With this VISR illumining the targets, he drew his sound suppressed M6 Magnum, and killed three of the techs in less than three seconds. Then he moved on the female. She attempted to level her inferior sidearm at the armor encased warrior, but in a blur of moment, he stripped of the weapon, and had her in a headlock complete with a combat knife to her throat.

Through the confusion, the commander of the base was recovering from the few seconds of complete madness. To his dazed eyes, was a seven-foot warrior in menacing black armor. He could not see any hint of the warrior’s face or even if they were male or female.

“You bastard!” He splat when he noticed the bloodied bodies of his techs. With a tap from B-312 pistol muzzle on the computer terminal, he signed his demands. The commander responded with his middle finger.

With a high pained scream, female tech reacted to the SPARTAN pushing the knife blade just far enough into her neck to draw a few drops of blood.

He dropped his pistol, and walked over to the terminal with his hands up. “Alright…alright you bastard! I give it to you!” He jousted at angry finger into B-312’s faceplate. “But she lives.” The SPARTAN-III nodded.

With a few key strokes, the computer network was open, and with a trained maneuver, he shoved the girl into the commander’s arms, send them both to the floor. While they recovered from the blow, B-312 attached a data-pump to the data port, and within ten seconds, all of the data was his and the primary mission objective was done.

Then his massive shadow was cast over the commander and the tech. He pulled the girl of the rebel officer, and presented his sidearm and knife in both hands.

The rebel commander looked bewildered. Then he understood with a grim inevitability, and pointed a shaking finger to the blade.

“Bad choice.”Spoke the SPARTAN.