Minutemen: Do No Harm – Prologue


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MINUTEMEN: Do No Harm

Prologue – “No Exit

16:00 DLT

Frigate Enduring Progress

High orbit above colony world Eridanus

The Frigate Enduring Progress was a nuclear-armed coffin tumbling through the inkwell of space. To the passing ship or satellite she was a metal husk, a rush-job war machine with weapons that looked welded on last week. To sensors, the Progress was bereft of life, fallow, useless. As Colonel Tovald Bristow stalked the Progress’ hallways only by the grace of magnetic soled boots, he could not help but agree with that assessment.

As the Progress’ Executive Officer reached the rusty blast doors of the warship’s bridge, a hacking cough attacked and he scowled at the sky blue mucus floating in front of him. Now matter how short the journey, cryogenic freezing was, is, and forever would be a mother.

Ancient blast doors scraped open and Bristow scowled as he stepped into the cold dark silence of the bridge. Nothing moved, save a few pieces of trash floating in zero gravity. No hum of computers, no rush of air outside, only the eerie sensation of hurtling through space at a ludicrous speed yet feeling nothing at all.

The Colonel grunted and put an orange key into a glowing blue port on the captain’s chair. The soft, ethereal, symphonic tones of the ship’s computer booting managed to lift Tovald’s a mood a little as he nodded to the room. “Report.”

The seemingly ubiquitous, disembodied woman’s voice filled the room. “Per emergency order by the Commander. I have repaired essential systems. And am prepared to calculate an escape vector.”

“Where are we?”

 

“We are drifting with the remains of the Resistance Fleet. Of the thirty ships involved in combat action, only Martyr’s Sword and Just Cause survived. Be advised, Just Cause is venting atmosphere and has not responded to my hails in three months.”

 

             “Three months?” The cobwebs in Colonel Tovald Bristow’s head fell away in an instant. Bristow was already dreading the weeks of physical therapy required after such a sustained cryogenic freeze.

All essential systems suffered catastrophic damage in the assault against Colonial forces. Immediate repairs are required.”

“What’s the body count on the ‘Collies? How many did we get?”

The Libertad suffered one fatality from equipment failure during an after-action space walk–”

 

            “Computer to mute.”

 

The clinking of trinkets falling to the deck informed the XO of the return of artificial gravity a split-second before the computer flashed confirmation on the navigation table. A DNA swab and a hand wave later, the table hummed and disgorged gorgeous holograms of turquoise Dominion and its twin moons, Scylla and Charybdis; but there were no holograms of any of the dozens of ships that were always buzzing around the planet.

Bristow smacked the table with a fist, causing the image to flicker and splice, still nothing but the planet and moons. “God damn border control officers,” he muttered as he stalked back to the chair, feeling the hot flush of his blood pressure rising, “Bribe ‘em and they give you a blank map…god damn criminals.”

The Colonel jabbed a button on the captain’s chair. “Begin cryo thaw for all crew and bring jump systems online. Lieutenant Hartley is required ASAP at the bridge to explain himself to the Commander.”

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Minutemen: The Crucible -Chapter 13-


Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12

MINUTEMEN: THE CRUCIBLE

UNSC Halo medicChapter Thirteen: “The Pride of Portland”

“Ron? Ron?

Ron Parsons opened his eyes lazily, squinting in the light and wincing as he rubbed a hand over his face. His chest, ribcage, and back burned in pain. He gave a very slow thumbs-up to indicate he was all right.

“Jesus,” the disembodied voice said out of Parsons’ vision, “you scared us. How do you feel?”

“I’ll live.” Parsons croaked.

“What the hell were you thinking, dude?”

Ron thought about rolling over on his side, but the weightless feeling and the lingering pain in his chest made him think twice. Ron chuckled to himself. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Seriously, you okay?”

Ron gave another thumbs-up and motioned for the voice to come closer. “How’d it look?”

“Get back on the boat and we’ll tell you.”

Parsons lazily spun his body around and began paddling toward the red, shiny new speedboat bobbing in the middle of the largely empty river. The sun beamed just over the distant mountains and bathed Ron in gentle yellow light. Ron sighed wistfully as he fought his wakeboard’s resistance behind him. “Be right there.”

Portland, Oregon
United North American Protectorate
August 4, 2550
Two years before Covenant invasion of Earth

wakeboarding-into-the-sunset

“So why’d you wipe out?” A busty, black-haired beauty purred over the edge of the Togokhan watercraft. Ron shrugged mid-stroke.

“The freecam was right in front of me,” Parsons explained over the smooth hum of the vessel’s fusion drive. “I thought taking a bow would be too douchey. Gotta keep it fun.”

Ron Parsons climbed the short ladder up to the sleek boat, shaking the water from his shaggy blonde hair and deactivating his lifevest as he had done since he was old enough to stumble. The sleek black and gold floatation device disengaged with a moist hiss of air, straps retracting into the suddenly baggy device automatically, followed immediately by the vest itself separating around the ribs and compacting into a tiny dry square of what looked like plastic. The soggy Portland native tucked the lifevest into his back pocket, sat down in a heap on a comfy captain’s chair, and swiveled around to face the rest of the boat’s occupants.

Despite the craft’s size, a small convention had gathered composed of kids in their teens and early twenties, wearing swimwear that walked the fine line between revealing and indecent. With bodies and builds like theirs, though, no person would complain. On either side of the Togokhan VF-13 speedboat similar boats were idling, full of admirers of close age, build, and awe. They all looked up at Ron like Greeks at the temple of Apollo, and their sun god took a long pull from his bottle of beer before speaking again.

“How’d I do?” Parsons asked, beaming.

“Looks ok,” replied a nonchalant, heavily tattooed twenty-two year old who withdrew a data crystal from the hovering dark gray freecam.

Ron gave the cameraman a jovial finger. “Lisa?” He asked expectantly.

“Not bad.” Ron’s raven-haired girlfriend shrugged in her shiny black bikini as she slipped on sunglasses big as plate glass windows. As she flipped her long black hair over her shoulder, the sunglasses’ color shifted constantly, like looking through a kaleidoscope underwater. Parsons winked in her direction.

“A tumbleturn 720 into a Hilton Orbital! It was freaking extreme!” Bellowed an intoxicated fan that stepped up to the local wakeboarding hero and delivered a palm-deadening high five. The rest of the boat’s “crew” gave a big laugh over the popping of beers and the rhythmic slap of the craft’s hull against the cold, dark water.

Unsatisfied even with that outpouring of admiration, Ron shifted his weight in the chair and draped an arm confidently over the back. Across from the rising star a beautiful, angelic face framed by shimmering golden curls made a show of keeping an eye on the river.

“What’d you think, lil’ sis?” Ron jabbed playfully, mussing her hair with an outstretched hand. Katie Parsons smacked her big brother’s arm away and exaggerated a pout that lasted a grand total of ten seconds. As she did every time Ron asked her what she thought, she flashed a big, blissful smile and looked admiringly at her role model.

“My brother’s the best wakeboarder in the galaxy,” Katie said with all sincerity. “You’re gonna wow ’em all, Ronnie.”

The tattooed cameraman took a glance at the images racing across his media player and shook his head in disbelief. “They’re gon’ be cryin’ fer help once Ron gets in the water with ’em.”

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Minutemen: The Crucible -Chapter 12-


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MINUTEMEN: THE CRUCIBLE

86076948Chapter Twelve: “An evening with Rachel Lynch”

Black Rose Bar
City of Boston
United North American Protectorate
October 19, 2552
Night before invasion of Earth

It was illegal to look that good in the Black Rose bar. It was sacrilege. The establishment simply did not deserve the beauty that was casually strutting through the front door and over the bouncer’s jaw. Autumnal red hair, meticulously blown and teased with an artist’s touch, sashayed and swayed along the middle of her back. A short black dress drew attention to her figure without being obnoxious or desperately showy. Subtle jewelry caught the dim light of arcade games, a dingy vending machine, and a single fritzing holo panel that was doing its level best to broadcast the Boston Bruins game.

To the clutches of blue collar Bostonians gathered in islands of bar stools and the midday drunks hunched over the horseshoe-shaped bar, she was gliding over the dark stained hardwood floor. The three attractive girls at the top of the horseshoe turned around on their stools to stare at incoming Aphrodite. A petite young girl with short blonde hair and a look that screamed preparatory schooling took a courageous sip of her martini, spilling a few drops on her jeans and making her curse softly. After dabbing at the drops with a cocktail napkin, she turned her attention back to the gorgeous redhead.

“I thought you were going on a date.”

“I am,” Rachel Lynch replied, a sly smile forming in the corner of her lips. The bartender was already standing at attention when the Boston College Junior perched herself on her bar stool. She could not be sure, but Rachel could have sworn the barrel chested barman was holding his breath. She put her elbows on the bar and leaned forward, craning her graceful neck to examine the arrangement of bottles, even though she knew the layout by heart. The bartender looked like he was about to pass out.

“Vodka soda,” Lynch said, locking eyes with her server. “Make it cheap and hard.”

The bartender’s legs buckled ever so slightly as he turned to fetch the beverage. Rachel now turned to face her friends as they threw her mildly disapproving looks.

“That’s just not fair to the new guy,” the blonde said, swirling her olive around in the martini glass as the rest of the attractive girls in the group turned back to their conversations. “So when’s this date?”

Lynch glanced at the ancient clock above the bar. “Should be…any minute now.”

Each of the girls turned as one and gave their well-dressed “bestie” a collective sideways glance. Blonde spoke for the group.

“He’s coming…here.”

Rachel nodded, avoiding eye contact and draining her cocktail hastily.

“R. Lynch! You’re breaking the rules!”

Lynch spun in her bar stool and stared at the ceiling tiles with feigned exasperation. “Am not.”

A striking girl with long, wavy, raven black hair fixed pleading eyes on Rachel and reached to put a soft, manicured hand on her arm to get Lynch’s attention. “R. Lynch. We. Like. This. Bar. We like that no one else from BC comes here. We like that us girls can be ourselves where no one can find us, and no strange guys hit on us. We like drinking here for next to nothing. You’re breaking rule number one: no boys, and rule number two: don’t dress to impress.”

Rachel shot a look at Raven like she had just been stabbed in the back. “I am not that dressed up,” the Boston College Junior declared.

All the girls swivled on their barstools like a Broadway musical chorus line. Their eyes flitted across the bar and locked on to the only cute boy in the entire establishment: a moderately built bar back sporting a backwards Boston Red Sox cap with a shock of red hair slipping out from underneath it. He was casual to the point of scruffy and shier than a nun at Mardi Gras. He was the girls’ favorite target. Their voices turned to honey while his knees turned to jello.

“Seamus,” Raven and Blonde cooed, “Seamus Conner, come here.”

Seamus looked over his shoulder, a schoolboy being called on in a class he never studied for. He seemed to be taking a second to answer the Sirens’ call. Finally, he stammered, “Yeah?”

“It’s all right,” Rachel said in a reassuring tone. The Irish import flipped a bar towel over his shoulder, thought better of it too late, then grabbed it again and began nervously wiping his hands as he approached.

“Seamus,” Blonde took over, “is Rachel overdressed?”

Seamus looked over his shoulder, then quickly examined the other rough-looking patrons around the bar. He looked at the girls uneasily and responded as if he detected a trick question. “…We don’t really have a dress code here.” His face was doing its best to match his hair.

“When Rachel walked in,” Blonde prodded, “did you notice her?”

“Oh hell yes,” Seamus blurted out, realizing simultaneously that he had indeed said those words and he was indeed staring at the girl in question. These thoughts caused a four-car pile up in his mind, and as the mental conflagration blazed, the young bar back beat a hasty retreat to a phantom emergency that had to be tended to immediately. The rest of the girls turned to Rachel with serene satisfied looks on their faces. Rachel was quietly amused.

“It’s not nice, or fair, to pick on Seamus.”

“Rach,” Blonde said, perfectly plucked eyebrow raised, “we’re picking on you.”

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Minutemen: The Crucible -Chapter 11-


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MINUTEMEN: THE CRUCIBLE

Chapter Eleven: “End of the road.”

Rowes Wharf
Evacuated City of Boston
Late afternoon

The scene at the warehouse was now the embodiment of chaos. While everyone at the scene had witnessed their fair share of violence and destruction over the course of the day, the Pelican being shot out of the air in full view of the civilians was the equivalent of a match being thrown on a long trail of gasoline. Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds and the rest of the soldiers were doing their best to get everyone out before the wharves went up in flames.

Captain Jack O’Shea, Tim McManus, Ron Parsons, and Rachel Lynch jogged back into the tumultuous loading area only a minute after the airship went down, but they hardly recognized the scene now.

What had once been orderly lines of shuffling wounded refugees was now a wobbling, pulsing, bending and breaking mass of desperate people clawing for a chance to board the last available truck, a salty cargo vehicle that, while quite large, did not stand a chance of fitting everyone. The soldiers on hand were on the verge of losing control of the horde and looked like they were considering using their weapons to maintain order. The Captain craned his head and searched the crowd for his second in command, and upon finding the Master Guns directing a pair of soldiers back into action, picked up the pace and ran the rest of the distance to the tall, dark-skinned leader.

“Captain!” Reynolds shouted over the growing noise, “COMs were a mess after that Pelican got—well, truck two’s safely away, we’re loading up Mr. McHale’s commandeered vehicle and throwing the rest on truck one’s return.”

Jack turned around and jumped on the back of Adam McHale’s commandeered mail vehicle, which was sitting lower and lower to the ground with the sheer weight of the refugees. O’Shea frowned. “We’re going to need an escort Warthog right the hell now. Where’s the doctor?” O’Shea began snapping his fingers, trying to recall something. “What was her name again?
Halo Marine
Gus glanced down at his data pad. “Kathleen. Dr. Kathleen De Vere.”

“Dr. De Vere. Where is she?”

“Truck two. Said she wanted to get to camp ASAP to take care of the worst. Didn’t see any harm.”

Jack grunted, taking the pad from Reynolds’ hand. “I would have felt better keeping her in sight.”

“She wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer, sir, and I wasn’t about to restrain her in front of all these folks.”

“For a smart woman, she wasn’t exactly thinking about the mess she left behind.” The Captain shook his head in brief exasperation, scanning the crowd again. “All right,” he yelled to huddled masses, “we’re locking down this transport and loading the remainder in the returning truck, warthogs, wherever we can fit people! It’s a short ride, so sit tight!”

Rachel groaned, doing a mental headcount of the remaining soldiers and civilians. “It’s going to be a hot meat locker in that last truck,” she said, tilting her head toward Tim, “I think I’d rather walk.”

“We might have to,” McManus replied, checking his watch. “No way we fit all these people. But if push comes to shove,” he said, patting Ron on the arm, “We’ve slipped by Covenant already, we can do it again.”

“And please don’t diss meat lockers,” Parsons interjected, still looking up at the sky where the Pelican had been shot down. “At this point, I kinda miss my pride-swallowing, soul-sucking sandwich gig.”

“So you’re cool getting packed into a container?” Lynch turned toward Ron, tilting her head at the people crowding into the truck. The lithe amateur sniper shook his head, finally taking his eyes off the sky.

“It beats flying, apparently,” Parsons took a step back as the truck fired up its engine and began rolling away from the docks.

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Minutemen: The Crucible -Chapter 10-


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MINUTEMEN: THE CRUCIBLE

PelicanOnHarvest

Chapter Ten: “Happy Landings”

Ron Parsons was about to die. One minute the red-lit troop bay of the Pelican transport was shuddering with the stress of escaping the extraction point, the next it was screaming with stress and twisting with multiple G’s, throwing his stomach into his throat and choking him with fear and dread. One minute red light illuminated the steady faces of his comrades in arms, the next harsh natural sunlight flooded terrified faces as the rear hatch shrieked open and hurtled into open hostile air. Sky and earth became one steady blur until Ron controlled his eyes and stared at the unforgiving ground rushing up to meet them. He tried to listen for instructions, but the howling wind drowned out any other noise.
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The Pelican slammed against the side of an apartment building and starting a sickening flat spin, turning the edges of Ron’s vision red and black. Food was starting to force its way back up his throat. The dropship hurtled to the street, spitting the lucky ones out onto the pavement and enveloping the unfortunate in a flaming tomb. Parsons smacked against the rough street and actually skipped along the ground for several feet, feeling each separate impact, feeling the helplessness of becoming a rag doll tossed away by a bored child, feeling the joints twist and bones break until he finally came to a miserable, painful stop.

Ron gasped for air in rasping gulps and looked up groggily, his trained eyes catching two pairs of Jackals walking leisurely toward him, not a care in the world as they leaned down and locked eyes with him. Ron tried to yell out a warning, but found something blocking his airway. As one Jackal put its glowing plasma pistol to his head, Ron’s eyes opened wide and he flailed to get away but it was never enough and the Covenant were too strong and—

The passing maglev train shook the dingy apartment with a firm hand, bolting the young man out of his nightmare. Parsons sat upright, chest heaving, shaggy blond hair hanging just in range of his vision, matted to his scalp. His eyes swept the room as they did every day, searching out phantoms in the morning light. A cheery girl with an upbeat voice informed him that it was nine in the morning, it was a beautiful day in the city of Boston, and he could look forward to a new single from a generic pop group right after this.

“See you there,” Ron breathed, and shut off his alarm.

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Minutemen: The Crucible -Chapter 9-


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MINUTEMEN: THE CRUCIBLE

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Chapter Nine: “Everything Must Go.”

Broad Street
City of Boston
United North American Protectorate
October 10, 2552
Late Afternoon

Tim McManus’ face dropped in total shock, his green eyes wide as saucers as the pair of trucks tore towards his Warthog and certain death. Ron Parsons’ featured twitched with confusion at Tim’s sudden and drastic expression; he immediately turned back to face the rapidly growing front grills of what looked like large, gray mail trucks.

Before Ron could react with a scream of warning, surprise, or fear, the Warthog jerked to the left, nearly rolling the vehicle. The heavy duty Marine transport’s wheels screamed in protest and Tim’s vision blurred and the passing obliterated building facades lurched sickeningly from his perspective. Lance Corporal Adam McHale and McManus twisted in their seats and fought against the force of the skid as Ron Parsons began to fly out of the transport.

Both men barely snatched the arm holes of the tactical vest as Ron lost his balance and began to fall toward the rushing pavement and the huge tires of Delta’s trucks. As Bravo’s Warthog righted itself, Parsons managed to get a grip on his large S2 AM sniper rifle, which was slipping out of his hands. The petrified, former Harvard cook clutched the weapon like a newborn against his chest.

Tim noted for the briefest of moments that the lead Warthog had fallen back to guard the rear of the now-doubled convoy. The trucks took just as hard a turn onto the main street, flirting with tipping onto two wheels, but righting themselves at the last minute. Eventually O’Shea’s Warthog, now the head of the convoy, stopped listing to either side and found its balance. The trio in the back of the troop transport collapsed in their chairs, sweating.

“What the fuck!” Parsons gasped, gesturing angrily at the trailing trucks.

“Delta stole some trucks to move the civvies,” McHale explained. “IFF tags occasionally go nuts and we know the aliens track our COM traffic. We’re operating dark most of the time after we issue orders across town and we’re trusting our sync to time ops right.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Ron wheezed, finally finding his breath. McManus looked pale as well.

“How many close calls have there been?” Tim asked, genuinely concerned.

Adam made a point of looking away from the vehicles and avoiding the three kids’ prying eyes. “That was our first.”

Rachel looked relieved. “Well, that’s not so bad.”

“…That everyone survived.” McHale finished, shutting up the new recruits.
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Minutemen: The Crucible -Chapter 8-


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MINUTEMEN: THE CRUCIBLE

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Chapter Eight: Backseat Drivers

State Street
City of Boston
United North American Protectorate
October 10, 2552
Late Afternoon

“Where are the seatbelts?”

“Say again?”

“I don’t see seatbelts anywhere in the back of this Warthog.”

“That’s ’cause there aren’t any.”

“What? Why?

Captain Jack O’Shea frowned at Tim McManus like a disappointed schoolteacher whose star pupil had botched a routine quiz. “They’re life threatening,” he stated matter of factly.

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Tim said, fumbling to keep himself secure in his seat and out of the laps of his neighboring riders. O’Shea sighed.

“At any point that this convoy has to stop, there’s going to be incoming enemy fire, and you have to be out of the vehicle and shooting, not fumbling around with a seat belt and trapped in here with your nerves.”

Tim McManus’ eyebrows arched up as if he were the only sane person in the vehicle, which he was beginning to believe. “This thing’s almost punted me twice! If I’m not strapped in, I’m gonna be street pizza!”

Captain Jack O’Shea barely shrugged, turning back around in his passenger seat and trying not to smile, “Welcome to life in the United Nations Space Command,” he said grandly over the wind and dropping temperature.

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