The Flood

CHAPTER TWO

Deployment+00h:03m:24s (Major Silva Mission Clock)

Command HEV, in combat drop to surface of Halo

Consistent with standard UNSC insertion protocols, Major Antonio Silva’s HEV accelerated once it was launched so that it was among the first to enter Halo’s atmosphere. There were a number of reasons for this, including the strongly held belief that officers should lead rather than follow, be willing to do anything their troops were asked to do, and expose themselves to the same level of danger.

There were still other reasons, however, beginning with the need to collect, sort, and organize the troops the moment their boots touched ground. Experience demonstrated that whatever the Helljumpers managed to accomplish during the first so-called golden hour would have a disproportionate effect on the success or failure of the entire mission. Especially now, as the Marines dropped onto a hostile world without any of the Intel briefings, virtual reality sims, or environment-specific equipment mods they would normally receive prior to such an insertion. To offset this, the command pod was equipped with a lot of gear that the regular “eggs” weren’t, including some high-powered imaging gear, and the Class C military AI required to operate it.

This particular intelligence had been programmed with a male persona, the name Wellsley – after the famous Duke of Wellington – and a personality to match. Though he was a good deal less capable than a top-level AI like Cortana, all of Wellsley’s capabilities were focused on things military, which made him extremely useful if somewhat narrow-minded.

The HEV shook violently and flipped end for end as the interior temperature rose to 98 degrees. Sweat poured down Silva’s face.

“So,” Wellsley continued, his voice coming in via the officer’s ear plugs, “based on the telemetry available from space, plus my analysis, it appears that the structure tagged as HS2604 will meet your needs.” The AI’s tone changed slightly as a conversational subroutine kicked in. “Perhaps you would like to call it ‘Gawilghur,’ after the fortress I conquered in India?”

“Thanks,” Silva croaked as the pod inverted a second time, “but no thanks. First: you didn’t take the fortress, Wellington did. Second: There weren’t any computers in 1803. Third: none of my troops would be able to pronounce ‘Gawilghur.’ The designator ‘Alpha Base’ will do just fine.”

The AI issued a passable rendition of a human sigh. “Very well, then. As I was saying, ‘Alpha Base’ is located at the top ofthis butte.” The curvilinear screen located just six inches from the end of the Marine’s nose seemed to shiver and the video morphed into a picture of a thick, pillarlike formation topped by a mesa with some variegated flat-roofed structures located at one end.

That was all Silva got to see before the HEV’s skin started to slough away revealing the alloy crash cage that contained the officer and his equipment. The air turned cold and ripped at his clothes. A moment later, the chute unfurled and assumed the shape of an airfoil. Silva winced as the pod decelerated with a bone-rattling jerk. His harness bit into his shoulders and chest.

Wellsley sent an electronic signal to the rest of the Helljumpers. The remains of their HEVs turned in whatever direction was necessary in order to orient themselves on the command pod and follow it down through the atmosphere.

All except for Private Marie Postly, who heard a snap as her main chute tore away. There was a sickening moment of freefall, then a jolt as the back-up chute deployed. A red light flashed on the instrument panel in front of her. She started to scream on freq two, until Silva cut her off. He closed his eyes. It was the death that every Helljumper feared, but none of them talked about. Somewhere, down toward Halo’s surface, Postly was about to dig her own grave.

Silva felt his HEV stabilize and took another look at the butte. It was tall enough to provide anyone who owned it with a good view of the surrounding countryside, plus the sheer cliffs would force attackers to either come by air or fight their way up along narrow paths. As a bonus, the structures located on top would provide his Marines with defensible shelter. “It looks good. I like it.”

“I thought you would,” Wellsley replied smugly. “There is one little problem, however.”

“What’s that?” Silva shouted as the last section of the HEV’s skin peeled away and the slipstream tore at his mask.

“The Covenant owns this particular piece of real estate,” the AI replied, calmly, “and if we want it, we’ll have to take it.”

Deployment+00h:02m:51s (SPARTAN-117 Mission Clock)

Lifeboat Lima Foxtrot Alpha 43, in emergency descent to surface of Halo

The Master Chief watched the ring open up in front of him as the pilot guided the lifeboat in past a thick silvery edge, and down “under” the construct’s inner surface, before putting the tiny ship into a shallow dive calculated to place it on the strange landscape below. As he looked forward, he saw mountains, hills, and a plain that curved up and eventually out of focus as the ring swooped upward to complete itself somewhere over his head. The sight was beautiful, strange, and disorienting all at the same time.

Then the sightseeing was over as the ground came up to meet them. The Master Chief couldn’t tell whether the lifeboat took enemy fire, suffered an engine failure, or nicked an obstacle on final approach. It really didn’t matter; the result was the same.

The pilot had time to yell, “We’re coming in too fast!” A moment later, the hull bounced off something solid, and the Spartan was knocked off his feet.

Pain stabbed through his temples as his helmet slammed into the bulkhead on his way to the deckplates – followed by clinging blackness...

“Chief... Chief... Can you hear me?” Cortana’s voice echoed in his head.

The Spartan opened his eyes and found himself facing the overhead light panels. They flickered and sparked. “Yes, I can hear you,” he replied. “There’s no need to shout.”

“Oh, really?” the AI replied in an arch tone. “Maybe you’d like to file a complaint with the Covenant. The crash triggered a lot of radio traffic and it’s my guess that the welcome wagon is on the way.”

The Master Chief struggled to his feet and was just about to answer in kind when he saw the bodies. The impact of the crash had ripped the boat open and mangled the unprotected people within. No one else had survived.

There was no time to dwell on that, not if he wanted to stay alive, and keep Cortana from falling into enemy hands.

He hurried to gather as much ammo, grenades, and supplies as he could carry. He had just finished checking the pins on a quartet of frag grenades when Cortana piped up in alarm: “Warning – I’ve detected multiple Covenant dropships on approach. I recommend moving into those hills. If we’re lucky, the Covenant will believe that everyone aboard the lifeboat died in the crash.”

“Acknowledged.”

Cortana’s plan made sense. The Spartan surveyed the area for threats, then hurried toward a canyon and the bridge that crossed it. The span was devoid of safety railings, and was constructed from a strange, burnished metal. Beneath the bridge, a towering waterfall thundered down a massive drop-off.

The rest of the world arched high overhead. Large outcroppings of weather-smoothed gray rock rose ahead, and a scattering of what looked like conifers reminded him of the forests he’d trained in on Reach.

There were differences, however, like the way the ring tapered up from the horizon, the manner in which its shadow fell upon the land, and the crisp, clean air that came in through his filters. It was beautiful, breathtakingly so, but potentially dangerous as well.

“Alert – Covenant dropship inbound.” Cortana’s voice was calm but insistent.

The prophecy soon proved correct as a large shadow floated over the far end of the bridge and the ship’s engines screamed a warning. There was very little doubt that the Spartan had been spotted, so he made plans to deal with it.

He reached the end of the bridge, saw a likely-looking boulder off to his left, and hurried to take advantage of it. He skirted the cliff edge, ignoring the long drop. Careful to watch his footing, the Master Chief circled the rock and found a crevice where the boulder touched the cliff. Now, with his back to the wall, he had a chance to defend himself.

He checked his motion tracker, and realized that a pair of Covenant Banshees were practically on top of him. The alien aircraft boasted plasma cannon and fuel rod guns. Though not especially fast, they were still dangerous, especially against ground troops.

Combined with air support, the Grunts and Elites that dropped from the fork-shaped alien troop carrier were a serious threat.

He steadied his aim and sighted on the nearest Banshee. Careful not to fire early, the Spartan waited for the Banshee to come within range, then squeezed the trigger. The first assault ship came straight at him, which made it relatively easy to stay on target. Bullet impacts sparked on the Banshee’s hull as his ammo counter dwindled.

The ship shuddered as at least some of the armor-piercing rounds penetrated the fuselage, pulled up out of its dive, and started to trail smoke.

The Master Chief was in no position to appreciate the results of his efforts, however, as the second Banshee swooped out of the sun, pounded the area around him with plasma fire. His shield display dropped, then pulsed red. An alarm whined in his helmet speakers.

The Master Chief returned fire. Without pause, he thumbed the magazine release and slammed a fresh clip into the receiver.

He crouched, searched the sky for targets, and spotted Banshee number one in the nick of time. He braced himself for another assault. The Spartan allowed the enemy aircraft to approach, took a slight lead, and squeezed the trigger again. The Covenant ship ran into the stream of bullets, exploded into flames, and slammed into the cliff wall.

The second ship was still up there, flying in lazy circles, but the Spartan knew better than to stand around and watch it. A half dozen red dots had appeared on his motion sensors. Each blip represented a potential assailant and most were located to his rear.

The Master Chief waited for his shields to return to their full charge, then turned, jumped up onto the boulder, and took a quick look around. The Covenant dropship had deposited a clutch of Grunts on the far side of the canyon where they were busy examining the wreckage of his lifeboat.

But that wasn’t all. To his left, on his side of the bridge, another group of Grunts was working its way through the trees, moving in his direction. They were still a ways off, however – which gave him a few seconds to prepare.

Though not armed with the standard S2 AM Sniper’s Rifle, his weapon of choice for this sort of situation, the Spartan was packing the M6D pistol that Keyes had given him. It was equipped with a 2X scope and, in the hands of an expert, it could reach out and touch someone.

The Master Chief drew the sidearm, turned to the group gathered around the wreckage, and placed the targeting circle over the nearest Grunt. In spite of the fact that they were of no immediate threat, the aliens on the other side of the canyon were in an ideal position to flank him, which meant he would deal with them first. Twelve shots rang out, and seven Grunts fell.

Satisfied that his right flank was reasonably secure, he slammed a fresh clip into the pistol and shifted his attention to the enemy troops that were emerging from the trees. This group of Grunts was closer now, much closer, and they opened fire. The Master Chief chose to target the most distant alien first, thereby ensuring that he would still get a crack at the others, even if they turned and tried to escape.

The pistol shots came in quick succession. The Grunts barked, hooted, and gurgled as the well-aimed bullets hurled their lifeless carcasses down the reverse slope.

When there were no more targets to fire at, the Master Chief took a moment to reload the handgun, clicked on the safety, and returned the weapon to its holster. He jumped off the boulder and crouched under an outcropping of rock.

He eyed the Banshee above. It was still there, circling well out of range, waiting to pounce should he emerge from cover. That meant he could sit there and wait for more ground forces to arrive, or he could abandon his hiding place and attempt to slip away.

The Spartan had never been one for standing around, so he readied his assault rifle and slid forward over the rock. Once on open ground it was a short dash past the scattering of dead Grunts. He crouched beneath the cover offered by a copse of trees.

He counted to three, then dashed from boulder to boulder. He leapfrogged uphill, still very much aware of the Banshee at his back, but reasonably certain he’d given the aircraft the slip.

There were no blips on his threat detector, until he topped the rise and paused to examine the terrain ahead. A telltale red dot popped onto his HUD. The Master Chief eased his way forward, waiting for the moment of contact.

Then he saw movement as hunched bodies dashed from one scrap of cover to the next. There were four of them, including a blue-armored Elite. The Elite charged recklessly forward, firing as he came.

He’d engaged such Elites before – there was some significance to the aliens’ armor colors – and they always fought like aggressive rookies. A thin smile touched the Master Chief’s lips. He ignored the alien’s badly-placed shots, stood, and returned fire. The Elite’s advance stalled, and the Grunts began to fall back toward a stand of trees. His threat indicator sounded a warning and a red arrow pointed to the right. The Master Chief drew and primed an M9 HE-DP grenade.

He turned just in time to see another Elite – this one in the scarlet armor of a veteran – charge him. The grenade was already in hand, and the distance to the target was sufficient, so the soldier let the M9 fly. The grenade detonated with a loud whump! and tossed the enemy soldier into the air, while stripping a nearby tree of half its branches.

The rookie was close now, and roared a battle cry. The alien hosed the Master Chief with plasma fire. His shields dropped precipitously.

The Spartan backed away, fired his assault rifle in short controlled bursts, and finally managed to knock the remaining Elite off his feet.

With their leader down, the Grunts broke ranks and began to scamper away. The Master Chief cut their retreat short in a hail of bullets.

He eased up on the trigger, felt the silence settle in around him, and knew he had made a mistake. The veteran had damned near blindsided him. How?

He realized with a start that he was still fighting like part of a unit. Though he was trained to act independently, he had spent most of his military career as part of a team. The Elite had managed to flank him because his was simply accustomed to one of his fellow Spartans watching out for him.

He was cut off from the chain of command, alone, and most likely surrounded by the enemy. He nodded, his face grim behind the mirrored visor. This mission would require a major revision in his tactics.

He pushed his way up through a meadow thick with knee-high, spiky grass. He could hear the distant chatter of automatic weapons fire and knew some Marines were somewhere up ahead.

He sprinted toward the sound of battle. Perhaps he wouldn’t be on his own for long.

Deployment+00h:05m:08s (Captain Keyes’ Mission Clock)

Lifeboat Kilo Tango Victor 17, in emergency descent to surface of Halo

Maybe it was because the Autumn’s navigator, Ensign Lovell, was at the controls, or maybe it was simply a matter of good luck, but whatever the reason, the rest of the trip down through Halo’s atmosphere was completely uneventful. So peaceful that it made Keyes nervous.

“Where would you like me to put her down, sir?” Lovell inquired, as the lifeboat skimmed a grassy plain.

“Anywhere,” Keyes answered, “so long as there aren’t any Covenant forces around. Some cover would be nice – since this boat will act like a magnet if we leave it out in the open.”

Like most of its kind, the lifeboat had never been intended for extended atmospheric use; it flew like a rock, in fact. But the suggestion made sense, so the pilot turned toward what he had arbitrarily designated as the “west,” and the point where the grasslands met a tumble of low rolling hills.

The lifeboat was low, so low that the Covenant patrol barely had time to see what it was before the tiny vessel flashed over their heads and disappeared.

The veteran Elites, both of whom were mounted on small single-seat hoversleds, Ghosts, stood to watch the lifeboat skim the plain.

The senior of the pair called the sighting in. They turned toward the hills and opened their throttles. What had promised to be a long, boring day suddenly seemed a great deal more interesting. The Elites glanced at each other, bent over their controls, and raced to see which of them could reach the lifeboat first – and which of them would score the first kill of the afternoon.

Deep in the hills ahead, Lovell fired the lifeboat’s bow thrusters, dropped what flaps the stubby little wings had, and jazzed the boat’s belly jets. Keyes watched in admiration as the young pilot dropped the boat into a gully where it would be almost impossible to spot, except from directly overhead. Lovell had been a troubled officer, well on his way to a dishonorable discharge, when Keyes had recruited him. He’d come a long way since then.

“Nice job,” the Captain said as the lifeboat settled onto its skids. “Okay, boys and girls, let’s strip this ship of everything that might be useful, and put as much distance between it and ourselves as we can. Corporal, post your Marines as sentries. Wang, Dowski, Abiad, open those storage compartments. Let’s see what brand of champagne the UNSC keeps in its lifeboats. Hikowa, give me a hand with this body.”

There was a certain amount of commotion as ’Nosolee’s corpse was carried outside and unceremoniously dumped into a crevice, the boat was stripped, and the controls were disabled. With emergency packs on their backs, the bridge crew started up into the hills. They hadn’t gone far when a sonic boom rolled over the land, the Pillar of Autumn roared across the sky, and dropped over the horizon to the arbitrary “south.”

Keyes held his breath as he waited to see what would happen. He, like all COs, had neural implants that linked him to the ship, the ship’s AI, and key personnel. There was a pause, followed by what felt like a mild earth tremor. A moment later, a terse message from Cortana’s subroutine scrolled across his vision, courtesy of his neural lace:

>CSR-1 :: BURST BROADCAST ::

>PILLAR OF AUTUMNIS DOWN. THOSE SYSTEMS WHICH REMAIN FUNCTIONAL ARE ON STANDBY. OPERATIONAL READINESS STANDS AT 8.7%.

>CSR-1 OUT.

It wasn’t the sort of message that any commanding officer would want to receive. In spite of the fact that the Autumn would never swim through space again, Keyes took some small comfort from the fact that his ship still had the equivalent of a pulse, and might still come in handy.

He forced a smile. “Okay, people, what are we waiting for? Our cave awaits. The last one to the top digs the latrine.”

The bridge personnel continued their climb.

In spite of efforts to keep the HEVs together, the Helljumpers came down in a landing zone that stretched approximately three kilometers in diameter. Some of the landings were classic two-point affairs in which the more fortunate Marines were able to jettison their crash cages about fifty meters off the ground, and land like sim soldiers in a training vid.

Others were a good deal less graceful, as the skeletal remains of their drop pods smashed against cliffs, dropped into lakes, and in one unfortunate case rolled into a deep ravine. As the surviving Helljumpers extricated themselves from their HEVs, a homing beacon snapped to life, and they were able to orient themselves to the red square which appeared on their transparent eye-screens. That was where Major Silva had landed, a temporary HQ had been established, and the battalion would regroup.

Each pod was stripped of extra weapons, ammo, and other supplies, which meant that the force which converged on the hot dry plateau was well equipped. Helljumpers were supposed to be able to operate without external resupply for two-week periods, and Silva was pleased that his troops had retained most of their gear, despite the difficult drop conditions.

In fact, Silva thought as he watched his troops stream in from every direction, the only thing we lack is a fleet of Warthogs and a squad of Scorpions. But those assets would come, oh, yes they would, shortly after the butte was wrenched from enemy hands. In the meantime, the Helljumpers would use what ground-pounders always use: their feet.

First Lieutenant Melissa McKay had landed safely, as had most of her 130-person company. Three of her people had been killed in action on the Autumn, and two were missing and presumed dead. Not too bad, all things considered.

As luck would have it, McKay hit the dirt only half a klick away from the homing beacon, which meant that by the time a perimeter had been established she had already humped her gear across the hardpan, located Major Silva, and reported in. McKay was one of his favorites. The ODST officer nodded by way of a greeting. “Nice of you to drop in, Lieutenant... I was beginning to wonder if you’d taken the afternoon off.”

“No, sir,” McKay responded. “I dozed off on the way down and slept through my wake-up alarm. It won’t happen again.”

Silva managed to keep a straight face. “Glad to hear it.”

He paused, then pointed. “You see that butte? The one with the structures on top? I want it.”

McKay looked, brought her binoculars up, and looked again. The butte’s range appeared along the bottom of the image and was soon chased out of the frame by coordinates that Wellsley inserted to replace the concepts of longitude and latitude which worked on most planetary surfaces, but not here.

The sun was “setting” but there was still enough light to see by. As she surveyed the target area, a Covenant Banshee took off from the top of the butte, circled out toward the “west,” and came straight at her. The only thing that was surprising about that was the fact that it had taken the enemy so long to respond to their landing.

“It looks like a tough nut to crack, sir. Especially from the ground.”

“It is,” Silva agreed, “which is why we’re going to tackle it from both the air and the ground. Lord only knows how they did it, but a group of Pelican pilots were able to launch their transports before the Old Man brought the Autumn down, and they’re hidden about ten klicks north of here. We can use them to support an airborne operation.”

McKay lowered her binoculars. “And the Autumn?”

“She’s KIA back thataway,” Silva replied, hooking his thumb back over a shoulder. “I’d like to go pay my final respects, but that will have to wait. What we need is a base, something we can fortify, and use to hold the Covenant at bay. Otherwise they’re going to hunt our people down one, two, or three at a time.”

“Which is where the butte comes in,” McKay said.

“Exactly,” Silva answered. “So, start walking. I want your company at the foot of that butte ASAP. If there’s a path to the top I want you to find it and follow it. Once you get their attention, we’ll hit them from above.”

There was a loudbang as one of the first company’s rocket jockeys fired her M19 SSM man-portable launcher, blew the incoming Banshee out of the sky, and a put a period to Silva’s sentence. The battalion cheered as the Banshee bits dribbled smoke and wobbled out of the sky.

“Sir, yes sir,” McKay answered. “When we get up there, you can buy me a beer.”

“Fair enough,” Silva agreed, “but we’ll have to brew it first.”

Even Grunts had to be granted some rest once in a while, which was why long, cylindrical tanks equipped with air locks had been shipped to Halo’s surface, where they were pumped full of methane and used in lieu of barracks.

Having survived the nearly suicidal attack on the Autumn by rescuing a wounded Elite, and insisting that the warrior be evacuated rather than left to die, Yayap had extended the duration of his own life, not to mention those of the Grunts directly under his command.

Now, by way of celebrating that victory, the alien soldier was curled in a tiny ball, fast asleep. One leg twitched slightly as the Grunt dreamed of making his way through the swamps of his home world, past naturally occurring pillars of fire, to the marshy estuary where he had grown up.

Then, before he could cross a row of ancient stepping-stones to the reedy hut on the far side of the family’s ancestral fish pond, Gagaw shook his arm. “Yayap! Get up quick! Remember the Elite we brought down from the ship? He’s outside, and he wants to see you!”

Yayap sprang to his feet. “Me? Did he say why?”

“No,” the other Grunt replied, “but it can’t be good.”

That much was certainly true, Yayap reflected as he waded through the chaos of equipment that hung in untidy clusters along the length of the cylinder. He entered the communal lavatory, and hurried to don his armor, breathing apparatus, and weapons harness.

Which was more dangerous, he wondered, to show up disheveled, and have the Elite find fault with his appearance, or to show up later because he had taken the time required to ensure that his appearance would be acceptable? Dealing with Elites always seemed to involve such conundrums, which was one of the many reasons that Yayap had a hearty dislike for their kind.

Finally, having decided to favor speed over appearance, Yayap entered the air lock, waited for it to cycle him through, and emerged into the bright sunlight. The first thing he noticed was that the sentries, who could normally be found leaning against the tank discussing how awful the rations were, stood at rigid attention.

“Are you the one called Yayap?” The deep voice came from behind him and caused the Grunt to jump. He turned, came to attention, and tried to look soldierly. “Yes, Excellency.”

The Elite named Zuka ’Zamamee wore no helmet. He couldn’t, not with the dressing that was wrapped around his head, but the rest of his armor was still in place. It was spotlessly clean, as were the weapons he wore. “Good. The medics told me that you and your file not only pulled me off the ship – but forced the assault boat to bring me down to the surface.”

Yayap felt a lump form in his throat and struggled to swallow it. The pilot had been somewhat reluctant, citing orders to wait for a full load of troops before breaking contact with the human ship, but Gagaw had been quite insistent – even going so far as to pull his plasma pistol and wave it about.

“Yes, Excellency,” Yayap replied, “but I can explain–”

“There’s no need,” ’Zamamee replied. Yayap almost jumped; the Elite’s voice lacked the customary bark of command. It sounded almost... reassuring.

Yayap was anything but reassured.

“You saw that a superior had been wounded,” the Elite continued, “and did what you could to ensure that he received timely medical treatment. That sort of initiative is rare, especially among the lower classes.”

Yayap stared at the Elite, unable to reply. He felt disoriented. In his universe, Elites didn’t offer accolades.

“To show my appreciation I’ve had you transferred.”

Yayap liked the normally sleepy unit to which he was attached, and had no desire to leave it. “Transferred, Excellency? To what unit?”

“Why, to my unit,” the Elite replied, as if nothing could be more natural. “My assistant was killed as we boarded the human ship. You will take his place.”

Yayap felt his spirits plummet. The Elites who acted as special operatives of the Prophets were fanatics, chosen for their limitless willingness to risk their lives – and the lives of those under their command. “Th-thank you, Excellency,” Yayap stuttered, “but I don’t deserve such an honor.”

“Nonsense!” the Elite replied. “Your name has already been added to the rolls. Gather your belongings, say good-bye to your cohort, and meet me here fifteen units from now. I’m scheduled to appear in front of the Council of Masters later this evening. You will accompany me.”

“Yes, Excellency,” Yayap said obediently. “May I inquire as to the purpose of the meeting?”

“You may,” ’Zamamee replied, allowing a hand to touch the bandage that circled his head. “The human who inflicted this wound was a warrior so capable that he represents a danger to the entire battle group. An individual who, if our records can be believed, is personally responsible for the deaths of more than a thousand of our soldiers.”

Yayap felt his knees start to give. “By himself, Excellency?”

“Yes. But never fear, those days are over. Once I receive authorization, you and I will find this human.”

“Find him?” Yayap exclaimed, protocol forgotten. “Then what?”

“Then,” ’Zamamee growled, “we will kill him.”

The dawn air was cold, and McKay could see her breath as she stared upward and wondered what awaited her. Half the night had been spent marching across the stretch of intervening hardpan to get into position below the butte, and the other half had been spent between trying to find a way up to the top, and grabbing a little bit of sleep.

The second task had been easy, perhaps a little too easy, because other than a sloppily constructed barricade, the foot of the four-foot-wide ramp was entirely unguarded. Still, the last thing the Covenant expected was for a human ship to appear out of Slipspace, and land infantry on the surface of the construct. Viewed in that light, a certain lack of preparation was understandable.

In any case, the path started at ground level, spiraled steadily upward, and hadn’t been used in some time judging from what she could see. That’s the way it appeared, anyway, although it was hard to be sure from below, and Silva was understandably reluctant to send in one of the Pelicans lest it give the plan away.

No, McKay and her troops would have to wind their way up along the narrow path, engage whatever defenses the Covenant might have in place, and hope that the Pelicans arrived quickly enough to take the pressure off.

The Lieutenant eyed the readout on the transparent boom-mounted eye-screen attached to her helmet, waited for the countdown to complete itself, and started up the steep incline. Company Sergeant Tink Carter turned to face the men and women lined up behind him. “What the hell are you waiting for? An engraved invitation? Let’s get it in gear.”

While B Company marched toward the butte, and C Company marched off to rendezvous with the Pelicans, the rest of the battalion used the remaining hours of darkness to prepare for the following day under Major Silva’s watchful eye. Wireless sensors were placed two hundred meters out and monitored by Wellsley; three-person fire teams took up positions a hundred fifty meters out; and a rapid response team was established to support them.

There wasn’t any natural cover here, so the Helljumpers moved their gear up onto a low rise, and did what they could to place fortifications around it. Dirt excavated from the firing pits was used to build a low barrier around the battalion’s perimeter, connecting trenches were dug, and a landing pad was established so that Pelicans could put down within the battalion’s footprint.

Now, standing at the very highest point of the pad, and gazing off to the west, Silva listened as Wellsley spoke into his ear. “I have good news and bad news. The good news is that Lieutenant McKay has started her climb. The bad news is that the Covenant is about to attack from the west.”

Silva lowered his glasses, turned, and looked to the west. An enormous dust cloud had appeared during the five minutes that had passed since he looked that way. “What kind of attack?” the ODST officer demanded curtly.

“That’s rather difficult to say,” Wellsley replied deliberately, “especially without the ships, satellites, and recon drones that I normally rely on for information. However, judging from the amount of dust, plus my knowledge of the Covenant weapons inventory, it looks like an old-fashioned cavalry charge similar to the one that Napoleon threw my way at Waterloo.”

“You weren’t at Waterloo,” Silva reminded the AI as he brought the binoculars up to his eyes. “But, assuming you’re correct, what are they riding?”

“Rapid attack and reconnaissance vehicles which our forces refer to as Ghosts,” Wellsley replied pedantically. “Perhaps a hundred of them... judging from the dust.”

Silva swore. The timing couldn’t have been worse. The Covenant had to respond to his presence, he knew that, but he had hoped for a little more time. Now, with fully half his strength committed elsewhere, he was left with roughly two hundred troops. Still, they were ODST troops, the best in the UNSC.

“All right,” Silva said grimly, “if they want to charge, let’s give them the traditional counter. Order the pickets to pull back, tell Companies A and D to form an infantry square, and let’s get all the backup ammo below ground level. I want assault weapons in the pits, launchers halfway up the slope, and snipers up on the pad. No one fires until I give the command.”

Like Silva, Wellsley knew that the Roman legions had used the infantry square to good effect, as had Lord Wellington, and many since. The formation, which consisted of a box with ranks of troops all facing outward, was extremely hard to break.

The AI relayed the instructions to the troops, who, though surprised to be deployed in such an archaic way, knew exactly what to do. By the time the Ghosts arrived and washed around the rise like an incoming tide, the square was set.

Silva studied the rangefinder in his tac display and waited until the enemy was in range. He keyed the all-hands freq and gave the order: “Fire! Fire!”

Sheets of armor-piercing bullets sleeted through the air. The lead machines staggered as if they had run into a wall, Elites tumbled out of their seats, and a runaway machine skittered to the east.

But there were a lot of the attack vehicles and as the oncoming horde sprayed the Marines with plasma fire, ODST troopers began to fall. Fortunately, the weapons that fired the energy bolts were fixed, which meant that the rise would continue to offer the humans a good deal of protection, so long as the Ghosts weren’t allowed to climb the slopes.

Also operating in the Helljumpers’ favor were the skittish nature of the machines themselves, some poor driving, and a lack of overall coordination. Many of the Elites seemed eager to score a kill: They broke formation and raced ahead of their comrades. Silva saw one attack craft take fire from another Ghost, which crashed into a third machine, which subsequently burst into flame.

The majority of the Elites were quite competent, however, and after some initial confusion, they went to work devising tactics intended to break the square. A gold-armored Elite led the effort. First, rather than allowing the riders to circle the humans in whatever direction they chose, he forced them into a counterclockwise rotation. Then, having reduced collisions by at least a third, the enemy officer chose the lowest pit, the one against which the fixed plasma cannons would be most effective, and drove at it time and time again. Marines were killed, the outgoing fire slackened, and one corner of the square became vulnerable.

Silva countered by sending a squad to reinforce the weak point, ordering his snipers to concentrate their fire on the gold Elite, and calling on the rocket jockeys to provide rotating fire. If the humans’ launchers had a weakness, it was the fact that they could only fire two rockets before being reloaded, which left at least five seconds between volleys. By alternating fire, and concentrating on the Ghosts closest to the hill, the Marine defenders were able to leverage the weapons’ effectiveness.

This strategy proved effective. Wrecked, burned, and mangled Ghosts formed a metal barricade, further protecting the humans from plasma fire, and interfering with new attacks.

Silva lifted his binoculars and surveyed the smoke-laced battle area. He offered a silent thanks to whatever deity watched over the infantry. Had he led the assault, Silva would have sent in air support first to pin the Helljumpers down – followed by Ghosts from the west. His opposite number had been trained differently, had too much confidence in his mechanized troops, or was just plain inexperienced.

Whatever the reason, the Banshees were thrown into the mix late, apparently as an afterthought. Silva’s rocket jockeys knocked two of the aircraft out of the air on the first pass, nailed another one on the second pass, and sent the fourth running south with smoke trailing from its failing engines.

Finally, with the gold Elite dead, and more than half of their number slaughtered, the remaining Elites withdrew. Some of the Ghosts remained untouched, but at least a dozen of the surviving ships carried extra riders, and most were riddled with bullet holes. Two, their engines destroyed, were towed off the field of battle.

This is why we need the butte, Silva thought as he surveyed the carnage, to avoid another victory like this one. Twenty-three Helljumpers were dead, six were critically injured, and ten had lesser wounds.

Static burped in his ear, and McKay’s voice crackled across the command freq. “Blue One to Red One, over.”

Silva swung toward the butte, raised his glasses, and saw smoke drift away from a point about halfway up the pillarlike formation. “This is Red One – go. Over.”

“I think we have their attention, sir.”

The Major grinned. It looked more like a grimace. “Roger that, Blue One. We put on a show for them, as well. Hang tight... help is on the way.”

McKay ducked back beneath a rocky overhang as the latest batch of plasma grenades rained down from above. Some kept on falling, others found targets, bonded to them, and exploded seconds later.

A trooper screamed as one of the alien bombs landed on top of his rucksack. A sergeant yelled, “Dump the pack!” but the Marine panicked, and backpedaled off the path. The grenade exploded and sprayed the cliff face with what looked like red paint. The infantry officer winced.

“Roger, Red One. Sooner would be a whole helluva lot better than later. Over and out.”

Wellsley ordered the Pelicans into the air as Silva stared out over the plain. He wondered if his plan would work, and if he could stomach the price.

CHAPTER THREE

D+03:14:26 (SPARTAN-117 Mission Clock)

Surface

Up ahead the Master Chief saw a light so bright that it seemed to compete with the sun. It originated somewhere beyond the rocks and trees ahead, surged up between the horns of a large U-shaped construct, and raced into the sky where the planet Threshold served as a pastel backdrop. Was the pulse some sort of beacon? Part of what held the ring world together? There was no way for him to know.

Cortana had already warned the Spartan that a group of Marines had crash-landed in the area, so he wasn’t surprised to hear the rattle of automatic weapons fire or the characteristic whine as Covenant energy weapons answered in kind.

He eased his way through the scrub and onto the hillside above the U-shaped edifice and the blocky structures that surrounded it. He could see a group of Grunts, Jackals, and Elites dashing back and forth as they tried to overwhelm a group of Marines.

Rather than charge in, assault weapon blazing, the Master Chief chose to use his M6D pistol instead. He raised the weapon, activated the 2X magnification, and took careful aim. A series of well-placed shots knocked a trio of Grunts off their feet.

Before the Covenant forces could locate where the incoming fire had originated, the Master Chief opened fire on a blue-armored Elite. It took a full magazine to put the warrior down, but it beat the hell out of going toe-to-toe with the alien when there wasn’t any need to.

The quick, unexpected sniping attack gave the Marines the opportunity they needed. There was a quick flurry of fire as the Spartan made his way down the slope, paused to strip some plasma grenades off a dead Grunt, and was welcomed by a friendly private. “Good to see you, Chief. Welcome to the party.”

The Spartan’s reply was a curt nod. “Where’s your CO, Private?”

“Back there,” the Marine said. He turned and called over his shoulder. “Hey, Sarge!”

The Master Chief recognized the tough-looking Sergeant who trotted to join them. He’d last seen Sergeant Johnson during a search-and-destroy run aboard one of Reach’s orbital docking facilities.

“What’s your status here, Sergeant?”

“It’s a mess,” Johnson growled. “We’re scattered all over this valley.” He paused, and added in a quiet voice, “We called for evac, but until you showed up, I thought we were done for.”

“Don’t worry,” Cortana said over the Spartan’s external speakers, “we’ll stay here till evac arrives. I’ve been in touch with AI Wellsley. The Helljumpers are in the process of taking over some Covenant real estate – and one of the Pelicans has been dispatched to pick you up.”

“Glad to hear it,” Johnson replied. “Some of my people need medical attention.”

“Here comes another Covenant dropship,” the Private put in. “It’s time to roll out the welcome mat!”

“Okay, Bisenti,” Johnson barked. “Re-form the squad. Let’s get to work.”

The Master Chief looked up and saw that the Marine was correct – another Covenant landing craft hovered for a moment, then dropped close to the ground. The oddly shaped vehicle dipped slightly, and the mandible structures that formed the bulk of the dropship’s fuselage hinged open. A clutch of Grunts and an Elite dropped to the ground.

The Master Chief moved fifty meters to the right, and raised his pistol once again. In seconds, a team of Marines poured fire into the Covenant LZ and flushed them out. As the aliens scattered and dove for cover, the Spartan put them down one by one.

There was a brief respite, and the Master Chief paused to survey the situation. Cortana pulled up the Marine positions, tagged them as FIRE TEAM C, and highlighted their locations on his HUD. Several of them had climbed the large structure that dominated the area, and the rest patrolled the perimeter.

He had just readied his assault rifle when a Marine voice called out: “Contact! Enemy dropship sighted! They’re trying to flank us!”

Seconds later, the Spartan’s motion sensor painted a contact – a large one – nearby. He stayed close to a large boulder and used it for cover, then cautiously checked for targets.

The dropship disgorged another contingent of troops – including a trio of Jackals. Their distinctive, glowing shields flared as Sergeant Johnson’s men opened fire. Bullets ricocheted as the birdlike aliens crouched behind their protective devices, like medieval footmen forming a shield wall.

Behind them, more Grunts and a blue Elite spread out in an enveloping formation. It was a good tactic, particularly if there were more dropships inbound. Eventually, the Covenant would wear down the Marine defenses and overrun the position.

There was just one problem with their plan: He was in a perfect flanking position. He crouched, then sprinted forward into the Jackal’s line. His assault rifle barked and bullets tore into the exposed aliens. They had barely hit the ground as the Spartan spun, primed a captured plasma grenade, and threw it at the Elite, almost thirty meters away.

The alien only had time to roar in surprise before the glowing plasma orb struck him in the center of his helmet. The weapon fused to the alien’s helmet and began to pulse a sickly blue-white. A moment later, as the alien attempted to tear off his helmet, the grenade detonated.

After that it was a relatively simple matter for the Master Chief to move through the ruins and hunt down the remainder of the Covenant reaction force.

A welcome voice sounded from his radio receiver. “This is Echo 419. Does anyone read me? Repeat: any UNSC personnel, respond.”

Cortana was quick to reply on the same frequency. “Roger, Echo 419, we read you. This is Fire Team Charlie. Is that you, Foehammer?”

“Roger, Fire Team Charlie,” Foehammer drawled, “it’s good to hear from you!”

There was a distant rumbling, and the Master Chief turned to identify the source of the noise. In the distance, he saw movement – lifeboats, trailing smoke and fire as their friction-heated hulls tore through the atmosphere.

“They’re coming in fast,” Cortana warned. “If they make it down, the Covenant will be right on top of them.”

The Chief nodded. “Then we should find them first.”

“Foehammer, we need you to disengage your Warthog. The Master Chief and I are going to see if we can save some soldiers.”

“Roger.”

The Pelican rounded the spire of the alien structure, circled the area once, then hovered above the crest of a nearby hill. Slung beneath the Pelican was a four-wheeled vehicle – an M12 LRV Warthog. The light reconnaissance vehicle hung beneath the dropship for a moment, then dropped to the ground as Foehammer released it from her craft. The Warthog bounced once on its heavy suspension, slid five meters down the hill, then was still.

“Okay, Fire Team Charlie – one Warthog deployed,” Foehammer said. “Saddle up and give ’em hell!”

“Roger, Foehammer, stand by to load survivors and evac them to safety.”

“That’s affirmative... Foehammer out.”

As the Marines sprinted for the Pelican, the Master Chief made his way to the Warthog. The all-terrain vehicle was mounted with a standard M41 light antiaircraft gun, or LAAG. The weapon fired five hundred rounds of 12.7X99mm armor-piercing rounds per minute and was effective on both ground and airborne targets. The vehicle was capable of carrying up to three soldiers, and one Marine had already taken his place behind the gun. His rank and ID scrolled across the Spartan’s display: PFC. FITZGERALD, M.

“Hey, Chief!” Fitzgerald said. “Sergeant Johnson said you could use a gunner.”

The Spartan nodded. “That’s right, Private. There’s two boatloads of Marines on the far side of that ridge, and we’re going after them.”

Fitzgerald pulled the gun’s charging lever back toward his chest, and released it with a metallic snap. A shell slipped into the first of the weapon’s three barrels. “I’m your man, Chief! Let’s roll.”

The Master Chief pulled himself up behind the wheel, started the engine, and strapped himself into the seat. The engine roared and the wheels kicked up geysers of dirt. The Warthog accelerated to the top of a rise, caught some air, and landed with a spine-jarring thump.

“I put a nav indicator on your HUD,” Cortana said, “just follow the arrow.”

“Figures,” the Spartan said, a hint of amusement in his level voice. “You always were a backseat driver.”

True to the aircraft’s nickname, Keyes heard the Banshee long before he actually caught a glimpse of the attack aircraft. The alien pilot had them on his sensors – Keyes was sure of that – and it wouldn’t be long before another team dropped out of the sky in an attempt to root them out.

The hills, which had seemed so welcoming when the command party first landed, had been transformed into a hellish landscape where the humans scuttled from one rocky crevice to the next, always on the run, and never allowed to rest.

They had faced capture on three different occasions, but each time Corporal Wilkins and his Marines had managed to blow a hole in the Covenant’s tightening net and lead the naval personnel to safety.

But for how much longer? Keyes wondered. The continuous scrambling through the rocks, the lack of sleep, and the constant danger not only left them exhausted but levied a toll on morale as well.

Abiad, Lovell, and Hikowa were still in fairly good shape, as were Wang and Singh, but Ensign Dowski had started to crack. It had started with a little self-concerned whining, grown into a stream of nonstop complaints, and now threatened to escalate into something worse.

The humans were gathered in a dry grotto. Jagged rocks projected over their heads to provide some protection from the Banshee above. Wang knelt next to the thin, dirt-choked stream that gushed through the rocky passageway. He splashed water on his face. Singh was busy filling the command party’s canteens while Dowski sat on a rock and glowered. “They know where we are,” the junior officer said accusingly, as if her commanding officer were somehow at fault.

Keyes sighed. “‘They know where we are, sir.’”

“Okay,” the Ensign replied, “They know where we are, sir. So why continue to run? They’ll catch us in the end.”

“Maybe,” Keyes agreed as he dabbed ointment onto a burst blister, “and maybe not. I’ve been in contact with both Cortana and Wellsley. They’re both busy at the moment, but they’ll send help as soon as they can. In the meantime, we tie up as many of their resources as possible, avoid capture, and kill some of the bastards if we can.”

“For what?” Dowski demanded. “So you can make Admiral? I submit that we’ve done all we could reasonably be expected to do, that the longer we delay the harsher the Covenant will be. It makes sense to surrender now.”

“And you are an idiot,” Lieutenant Hikowa put in, her eyes blazing with uncharacteristic anger. “First of all, the Captain rates the honorific ‘sir.’ You will render that honorific or I will plant my foot in your ass.

“Secondly, use your brain, assuming that you have one. The Covenant doesn’t take prisoners, everyone knows that, so surrender equals death.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dowski said defiantly. “Well, why haven’t they already killed us then? They could strafe us with cannons, fire rockets into the rocks, or drop bombs on our position, but they haven’t. Explain that.”

“Explain this,” Singh said, inserting the barrel of his M6D into the Ensign’s left ear. “I’m starting to think that you look a lot like a Grunt. Lovell... check her face. I’ll bet it peels right off.”

Keyes closed the fastener on the light-duty deck shoes, wished he had a pair of combat boots like the Marines wore, and knew Dowski was partially correct, insubordination aside. It did seem as though the aliens were intent on capturing his party rather than killing them, but why? It didn’t square with their behavior in the past.

Of course, the Covenant had changed tactics on him before – when he’d beaten the tar out of them at Sigma Octanus, and again when they’d returned the favor at Reach.

The officer watched the tableau as it unfolded in front of him. Hikowa stood with her fists on her hips, face contorted with anger, while Singh screwed his weapon into Dowski’s ear. The rest of the bridge crew were frozen, uncertain. The Marines weren’t present, thank God, but it would be naïve to think they weren’t aware of the Ensign’s opinions, or of the discord among their superiors. The enlisted ranks always knew, one way or another. So, what to do? Dowski wasn’t about to change her mind, that was obvious, and she was becoming a liability.

The Banshee whined loudly as it passed over the grotto for the second time. They needed to move and do it soon.

“Okay,” Keyes said, “you win. I should charge you with cowardice, insubordination, and dereliction of duty, but I’m a little pressed for time. So I hereby give you permission to surrender. Hikowa, relieve her of her weapon, ammo, and pack. Singh, truss her up. Nothing too tight... just enough so she can’t follow us.”

A look of horror came over Dowski’s face. “You’re going to leave me? All by myself? With no supplies?”

“No,” Keyes answered calmly, “you wanted to surrender, remember? The Covenant will keep you company, and as for supplies, well, I have no idea what sort of rations they eat, but it should be interesting if they allow you a last meal. Bon appétit.”

Dowski started to babble incoherently but Singh grew tired of it, shoved a battle dressing into the Ensign’s mouth, and used some all-purpose repair tape to hold it in place. He used some of the same tape to hog-tie the officer. “That should keep her out of trouble for a while.”

Rocks clattered as Corporal Wilkins and two of his fellow Marines made their way down the streambed. The noncom saw Dowski, nodded as if everything were perfectly normal, and looked to Keyes. “A Covenant dropship landed a squad of Elites about one klick to the south, sir. It’s time to move.”

The Naval officer nodded. “Thank you, Corporal. The command team is ready. Please lead the way.”

Meanwhile, a few hundred meters above, and half a klick to the north, the Elite named Ado ’Mortumee put his Banshee into a wide turn, and watched the dropship touch down. There weren’t many places to land, which meant that once on the ground his fellow Elites would still have a ways to go.

Rather than drop hundreds of troops onto the rocky hillsides, and leave them to scramble over the exhausting up-and-down terrain, the Covenant command structure decided to use its air superiority to locate the humans and capture them.

And there, ’Mortumee mused, is the problem. Locating the aliens is one thing – capturing them is another. During the time since they had landed, the humans had proven themselves to be quite resourceful. Not only had they evaded capture, they had killed six of their pursuers, who, acting under strict orders to take the aliens alive, were at a considerable disadvantage. It made more sense simply to kill the humans. Of course, he was a mere pilot and soldier, not privy to the machinations of the Prophets or the Ship Masters.

After the human lifeboat had been located, it wasn’t long before Covenant scouts found Isna ’Nosolee’s body, and ran a check on his identity. Intelligence was notified, official wheels began to turn, and the Covenant commanders were confronted with a problem: Why would an Ossoona risk his life to board a human lifeboat and ride it to the surface? The answer seemed obvious: Because someone important was on that boat.

All of which served to explain why none of the humans had been killed. There was no way to know which alien ’Nosolee had been after – so all of them had to be preserved. ’Mortumee glanced down at the instruments arrayed in front of him. A change! A string of seven heat blobs was winding its way to arbitrary “north,” while one remained behind. What did that signify?

It wasn’t long before ’Mortumee’s Banshee circled above the grotto. Dowski wrestled to free herself from the tape, and the Covenant closed in around her.

Smoke swirled around the top of the butte as a Pelican pilot made use of his 70mm chin gun to silence a Covenant gun emplacement. Satisfied that the Covenant plasma turret – a powerful weapon that could be easily deployed and recovered – was silent, he dropped down to within four feet of the top of the butte.

Fifteen ODST Helljumpers – three more than the Pelican’s operational maximum – leaped from the Pelican’s troop bay and fanned out.

Cramming extra troops into a Pelican was a risky move, but Silva wanted to put as many soldiers as possible on the mesa, and Lieutenant “Cookie” Peterson knew his ship. The Pelican was still in reasonably good shape, he had the best maintenance crew in the Navy – what more could a pilot ask for?

Peterson felt the dropship drift upward as the Marines bailed out, and he fought to keep the ship steady and level. He spotted movement in the landing zone. The chin gun – linked to his helmet sensors – followed the movement of Peterson’s head. He spotted a column of Covenant troopers and fired. The heavy rotary cannon uttered a throaty roar and pounded the enemy formation into a puddle of blue-green paste.

As the last of the Helljumpers jumped off, the Crew Chief yelled “Clear!” over the intercom. Peterson fired the ship’s belly jets, demanded additional power from the twin turbine engines, and left the butte behind.

“This is Echo 136,” the pilot said into his mike. “We are green, clean, and extremely mean. Over.”

“Roger that,” Wellsley replied emotionlessly. “Please return to way point two-five for another load of troopers. And, if you’re going to insist on poetry, try some Kipling. You might find some of it rather instructive. Over and out.”

Peterson grinned, directed a one-fingered salute in the general direction of battalion HQ, and banked the dropship into a wide turn.

Resistance had slackened within minutes of the first landing, which allowed Lieutenant Melissa McKay and the surviving members of her company to advance upward. A significant number of the path’s defenders were pulled away in a last-ditch attempt to hold their position.

McKay discovered that the path was blocked by an ancient rockfall about thirty meters up, but saw the side door that was located just downhill of it, and knew what the aliens had been trying to defend. Here was the back door, the way she could enter the butte’s interior, and push upward from there.

Plasma fire stuttered out of the entryway, struck the cliff above her head, and blew rocky divots out of the smooth surface.

McKay motioned for her troops to retreat back around the pillar’s broad curvature, and waved a hand in the air. “Hey, Top! I need a launcher!”

The company sergeant was six troopers back so that a single well-placed grenade couldn’t kill both leaders at once. He signaled assent, bawled an order, and passed one of the M19s forward.

McKay accepted the weapon from the private behind her, checked to ensure that it packed a full load of rockets, and inched around the curve. Plasma fire sizzled out of the door, but the officer forced herself to remain perfectly still. She triggered the weapon’s 2X scope, sighted carefully, and squeezed the trigger. The tube jumped as the 102mm rocket raced away, sailed through the hole, and detonated with a loud roar.

There must have been some ammo stored inside, because there was a blue-white secondary explosion which shook the rock beneath the ODST officer’s boots. A gout of fire flared from the side of the cliff.

It was difficult to imagine anyone or anything having survived such a blast, so McKay passed the launcher to the rear, and waved her troops forward.

There was a cheer as the Marines ran up the path, shouldered their way through the smoke, and entered the butte’s ancient interior. There were bodies, or what had been bodies. Fortunately, the tunnel was intact.

A couple of troopers collected plasma weapons, tried them out on the nearest wall, and added them to their personal armament.

Others, McKay included, stared up through a thirty-meter-wide well toward the circle of daylight above. She saw a shadow pass overhead as one of the Pelicans dropped even more Helljumpers onto the mesa. The distant thump! of a frag grenade detonation made dust and loose soil tumble down on them.

“Hey, Loot,” Private Satha said, “what’s the deal with this?”

Satha stomped on the floor and it rang in response. That was when McKay realized that she and her troops were standing on a large metal grating.

“What’s it for?” the private wondered aloud. “To keep us out?”

McKay shook her head. “No, it looks old, too old to have been put in place by the Covenant.”

“I found a lift!” one of the Marines yelled. “That’s what it looks like, anyway – come check it out!”

McKay went to investigate. Was this a way to reach the mesa? Her boot dislodged a shell casing which fell through one of the grating’s rectangular holes and dropped into the darkness below. It was a long time before it could be heard clanging off ancient stone.

Silva, Wellsley, and the rest of the Major’s headquarters organization were on top of the butte waiting for her by the time McKay rode the antigrav lift to the surface and stepped out into the harsh sunlight. She blinked as she looked around.

Bodies lay everywhere. Some wore Marine green but the vast majority were dressed in the rainbow colors that the Covenant used to identify its various ranks and specialties. A squad of Helljumpers moved through the carnage, searching for wounded humans, and kicking corpses to make sure that the enemy soldiers were actually dead. One of them attempted to rise and received a burst from an assault weapon for his trouble.

“Welcome to Alpha Base,” Major Silva said as he arrived at McKay’s side. “You and your company did a damn good job, Lieutenant. Wellsley will have the rest of the battalion up here within the hour. It looks like I owe you that beer.”

“Yes, sir,” McKay replied happily. “You sure as hell do.”

The tunnel was huge, plenty large enough to handle a Scorpion tank, which meant that the Master Chief had little difficulty steering the Warthog through the initial opening.

He’d almost missed the entry, at the bottom of a large dry wash. Cortana’s sensors had identified the entrance to the tunnel system. “It’s not a natural formation,” she’d warned him.

That meant someone built it. Logically, it meant that the tunnelled somewhere – and it might shave precious time off his search for the crashed lifeboats.

Once inside, things became a little more difficult as the Spartan was forced to maneuver the LRV up ramps, through a series of tight turns, and right to the very edge of a pit.

A quick recon confirmed that the gap was narrow enough to jump, assuming the ’Hog had a running start. The Master Chief backed away, warned the gunner to hang on, and put his foot to the floor. The LRV raced up the ramp, sailed through air, and jounced to a hard landing on the other side.

“I’m picking up lots of Covenant traffic,” Cortana said. “It sounds like Major Silva and the Helljumpers have captured an enemy position. If we can round up the rest of the survivors, and find Captain Keyes, we’ll have a chance to coordinate some serious resistance.”

“Good,” the Master Chief answered. “It’s about time something broke our way.”

The Warthog’s headlights swung across ancient walls as the Spartan turned the wheel, and the LRV emerged into a large open area, dotted with mysterious installations. It was dark; the road ended in front of a deep chasm. It wasn’t long before Covenant troops emerged like maggots spilling out of a rotting corpse.

Plasma fire splashed across the Warthog’s windscreen. The Spartan dove from the vehicle, crouched near the driver’s-side front tire, and drew his pistol. Fitzgerald opened up with the LAAG and swept the area with fire. Spent shell casings rained all around them.

The Chief peered over the edge of the Warthog. They were dangerously exposed. The roadway they’d been using was devoid of cover, elevated roughly three meters above the rest of the massive vaulted chamber. Worse, it bisected the chamber, which left them exposed on virtually all sides.

The giant enclosure was dimly lit; visibility was poor and the muzzle flash from the Warthog’s gun played hell with his night vision. He blinked his eyes to clear them, then activated his pistol’s scope.

The metal floor dropped away to either side, and every surface was engraved with the strange geometric patterns that festooned Halo’s mysterious architecture. Set well back from their position were a number of small structures, pillars, and support pylons. The Covenant were dug in among them.

A Grunt popped out from cover, his plasma pistol glowing green – he’d overcharged the weapon. The little SOBs liked to dump energy into the weapon, and discharge it all at once. It drained the weapon damn quick, but it also inflicted hellish damage on a target. A pulsing green-white orb of plasma sizzled past the Warthog.

The Master Chief returned fire, then dropped back behind the ’Hog. “Fitzgerald,” he barked. “Keep fire on them. I’ll move up on the left and take them out.”

“Got it.” The tribarreled gun thundered, and fire hosed the Covenant position.

The Spartan was prepared to charge ahead and into the fight when his motion sensor painted movement from the rear. The LAAG ceased fire as Fitzgerald yelled in pain and fell from the back of the Warthog. The Marine’s helmet cracked into the metal floor.

A shard of glassy, translucent material, tapered to a wicked point, protruded from the Marine’s bicep. The shard glowed a ghostly purple. “Goddamn it!” Fitzgerald grunted, as he tried to regain his footing. Two seconds later, the purple shard exploded, and blood sprayed from the wound. Fitzgerald howled in agony.

There was no time to tend to Fitzgerald’s injuries. A pair of Grunts charged up the slight incline and opened fire. A barrage of the glassy projectiles arced toward them and ricocheted madly from the Warthog.

They were too close. The Chief fired at the nearest Grunt, three shots in succession. A trio of bullet pocks formed a neat cluster in the alien’s chest. The Grunt’s partner squealed in anger and brought his gun to bear – an odd, hunchbacked device with a ridge of the glassy projectiles protruding from it like dorsal fins. The weapon spat purple-white needles at him.

He sidestepped and slammed the butt of the pistol into the Grunt’s head. The alien’s skull caved in. He kicked the corpse back down the incline.

Fitzgerald had crawled to cover behind the Warthog. He was pale, but didn’t look shocky yet. The Spartan grabbed a first aid kit and expertly treated the wound. Self-sealing bio-foam filled the wound, packed it off, and numbed it. The young Marine would need some stitches and some time to rebuild the torn, savaged muscle of his arm, but he’d live – if either of them made it out of here alive.

“You okay?” he asked the wounded soldier. Fitzgerald nodded, wiped sweat from his forehead with a bloody hand, then struggled back to his feet. Without another word, he manned the LAAG.

It took the better part of fifteen minutes for the Master Chief and the gunner to sweep the area clear of Covenant forces. The Spartan patrolled the perimeter. To the left of the Warthog, the chamber stretched roughly eighty meters, then ended – as did the road ahead – in a massive chasm.

“Any ideas?” he asked Cortana.

There was a brief pause as the AI examined the data. “The roadway ahead ends in a gap, but it’s logical to assume that there’s some kind of bridge mechanism. Find the controls that extend the bridge and we should be able to get across.”

He nodded. He turned back and crossed the roadway and headed off to the right of the parked Warthog. As he passed the vehicle, he called over his shoulder to Fitzgerald. “Wait here. I’m going to find us a way across.”

The Master Chief marched across the chamber, and checked the odd structures that dotted the landscape. Some were illuminated by the dim glow from some kind of light panels, but there was no indication what powered them, or what the structures contained.

He frowned. There didn’t seem to be any sign of mechanisms or controls. He was about to head back to the Warthog and backtrack their course, then stopped. He stared at one of the massive pillars that stretched to the ceiling far overhead.

There was nothing down here, but perhaps the mechanism he sought was above them.

He moved as far to the end of the area as he could. Unlike the opposite side of the chamber, this half was bordered by a high, grooved metal wall. He followed the edge of the barrier and was gratified to locate a gap in the wall – a doorway.

Inside, a ramp led up twenty meters, then turned ninety degrees to the left. The Spartan drew his pistol, activated his helmet lamp, and crept up the ramp.

His caution was justified. As he reached the top, his motion sensor showed a contact – right on top of him. He ducked around the corner just in time to meet the charge of a crimson-armored Elite. The Elite growled a challenge and swung a vicious blow at the Chief’s head.

He ducked, and his shields took the brunt of the blow. He fired at point-blank range, not even bothering to aim. The Elite reared and returned fire and plasma blasts slashed through the narrow corridor.

In one fluid motion, the Chief drew, primed, and dropped a frag grenade, practically at the Elite’s feet. The alien warbled in surprise as the Spartan spun and ducked back around the corner.

He was rewarded by a flash of smoke and fire. A spray of purple-black blood splashed the metal wall. He rounded the corner, pistol at the ready, and stepped over the Elite’s smoking corpse.

The Chief continued along the corridor, which opened onto a narrow ledge. Directly to his right, the thick metal walls stretched up and out of sight. To his left, the metal sloped away at a steep angle that led back to the main floor, that gradually gave way to the yawning abyss as he continued forward. Ahead of him, there was a pulsing glow, like the strobe of a Pelican’s running lights.

He stopped at the source of the light: A pair of small, glowing orbs hung suspended above a roughly rectangular frame of blue matte metal. Floating within the frame were a series of pulsing, shifting displays – semitransparent, like Cortana’s holographic appearance, though there was no visible projection device. The display’s shimmering geometric patterns nagged at him, as if he should recognize them somehow. Even with his enhanced memory, he couldn’t place where he’d seen them before. They just seemed... familiar.

He reached a finger out to one of the symbols, a blue-green circle. The Spartan expected his finger to pass through nothing more than air. He was surprised when his finger met resistance – and the panel lights began to pulse more quickly.

“What did you do?” Cortana asked, her voice alarmed. “I’m detecting an energy spike.”

“I... don’t know,” the Spartan admitted. He wasn’t sure why he touched the “button” on the display. He just knew it felt right.

There was a high-pitched whine and, from his vantage point, he could see the gap in the roadway in the distance. At its edges, harsh white light sprang into view, forming a path across the break in the road, like a flashlight beam in smoke.

The light brightened, and there was a tremendous ripping sound. “I’m showing a lot of photonic activity,” Cortana said. “The excited photons have displaced the air around the light path.”

“Which means?”

“Which means,” she continued, “that the light has become coherent. Solid.”

She paused, then added, “How did you know what control to push?”

“I didn’t. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The ride across the light bridge was harrowing. He had tested the phenomenon with his foot, and discovered that it was as solid and unyielding as rock. Then he’d shrugged, told Fitzgerald to hang on, and sped the Warthog directly at the beam of illumination. He could hear Fitzgerald alternate between cursing and praying as they drove over the seemingly bottomless chasm on nothing more than a beam of light.

Once on the other side, they followed the tunnel out into the valley beyond, where the Master Chief guided the ’Hog up through a scattering of rocks and trees, to the top of a grassy rise. A sheer cliff threatened to block progress to the right, forcing them to stay to the left, as they headed toward a gap to the south.

The vehicle splashed through a shallow river. They saw the mouth of a passageway off to the right, decided that it would be best to investigate, and guided the all-terrain vehicle up through a rocky pass.

It was only a matter of minutes before the Warthog arrived on a ledge that looked out over a valley below. The Master Chief could see a UNSC lifeboat and a scattering of Covenant troops, but no Marines. Not a good sign.

A vaguely pyramidal structure rose to dominate the very center of the valley. The Master Chief saw a pulse of light race toward the sky, and knew that the structure had to be similar to whatever caused the flash he’d seen earlier.

There was only a moment to take in the situation before the aliens opened fire and the gunner replied in kind. It was time to put the ’Hog into motion. The Master Chief drove as the M41 LAAG whirred and rattled behind him. Marine Fitzgerald shouted, “You like that? Here, have some more!” and fired another sustained burst. A pair of Grunts rolled in opposite directions, as a squat, long-armed Jackal was cut in half, and the heavy-caliber slugs blew divots out of the ground beyond.

As the LRV swung past the pyramid, Cortana said, “There are some Marines hiding up on the hill. Let’s give them a hand.”

The Spartan aimed for a gap between two trees and saw a tall, angular Elite step out from cover. The Elite raised a weapon but was quickly transformed into a speed bump as the Warthog knocked him down and the huge tires crushed his body.

The Marines appeared soon after that, holding their assault weapons in the air, and calling greetings. A sergeant nodded. “It’s good to see you, Chief. It was starting to get a little bit warm around here.”

Covenant forces made a run at the hill after that, but the 12.7X99 mm rounds made short work of them, and the slope was soon littered with their bodies.

The Master Chief heard a burst of static, followed by Foehammer’s voice. “Echo 419 to Cortana... come in.”

“We read you, 419. We have survivors and need immediate dust-off.”

“Roger, Cortana. On my way. I spotted additional lifeboats in your area.”

“Acknowledged,” Cortana answered. “We’re on our way.”

It took the better part of the afternoon to check the interlocking valleys, locate the rest of the survivors, and deal with the Covenant forces who attempted to interfere. But finally, having rounded up a total of sixty-three Marines and naval personnel, the Spartan watched Echo 419 land for the last time, and jumped aboard. Foehammer looked back over her shoulder. “You put in a long day, Chief. Nice job. Our ETA at Alpha Base is thirty minutes.”

“Acknowledged,” the Spartan said. He exhaled, then softened his clipped tone. He allowed himself to lean back against the bulkhead and added, “Thanks for the ride.”

Thirty seconds later he was asleep.

Captain Jacob Keyes stood, hands on knees, panting in front of a vertical cliff face. He and the rest of the command party had been running off and on for three hours. Even the Marines were exhausted, as the shadow cast by the Covenant dropship drifted over them and blocked the sun.

Keyes considered making use of Dowski’s pistol to fire at the aircraft but couldn’t summon the energy. The voice that boomed through the externally mounted speakers was all too familiar. “Captain Keyes? This is Ellen Dowski. This is a box canyon. There’s no place for you to run. You might as well pack it in.”

The darkness cast by the ship shifted as the aircraft lowered itself onto the bottom of the canyon. The engines howled and blew dust in all directions before eventually spooling down. A hatch opened and Dowski jumped to the ground. She appeared to be unharmed and wore what could only be described as a self-satisfied smirk. “You see? It’s just like I told you it would be.”

A half dozen veteran Elites dropped to the ground, followed by a brace of Grunts. All were heavily armed. Gravel crunched as they approached the cliff face. One of the aliens spoke, his booming voice warbling the human speech with detectable discomfort. “You will drop your weapons. Now.”

The command crew looked at Keyes. He shrugged, bent over, and laid the M6D on the ground. The others did likewise.

The Grunts scurried about and collected the weapons. One of them chortled in his own language, as he collected all three of the Marines’ assault weapons, and carried them away.

“Which?” the Elite with the translator demanded, and looked at Dowski.

“That one!” the renegade officer proclaimed, and pointed at Keyes.

Hikowa started forward. “You little bitch! I’ll–”

No one ever learned what Hikowa would do, because the Elite shot her dead. Keyes lunged forward and attempted to tackle the Elite, to no avail. A lightning-fast blow clipped the side of his head, hard enough that his vision grayed out. He fell to the dirt.

The Elite was methodical. Starting with the Marines, he shot each captured human in the head. Wang attempted to run but a plasma bolt hit him between the shoulder blades. Lovell made a grab for the pistol, and took a blast to the face.

Keyes struggled to his feet again, dizzy and disoriented, and attempted to rush the Elite. He was clubbed to the ground a second time. Hikowa’s dead eyes stared vacantly back at him.

Finally, after the last plasma bolt had been fired and while the odor of burned flesh still hung in the air, only two members of the command crew were still alive: Keyes and Dowski. The Ensign was pale. She shook her head and wrung her hands. “I didn’t know, sir, honest I didn’t. They told me–”

The Elite snapped up a fallen M6D pistol and shot Dowski. The bullet hit her in the center of her forehead. The pistol’s report echoed down the canyon. The Ensign’s eyes rolled back in her head, her knees gave way, and she collapsed in a heap.

The Elite turned the M6D over in his hand. The weapon was small compared to his pistol – and his finger didn’t fit easily inside the trigger guard. “Projectiles. Very primitive. Take him away.”

Keyes felt the other Elites grab him by the arms and drag him up a ramp into the dropship’s murky interior. It seemed that the Covenant’s rules had changed again. Now they did take prisoners – just not very many. The ship lifted, and the only human to survive sincerely wished that he hadn’t.

Alpha Base didn’t offer a whole lot of amenities, but the Spartan took full advantage of what few there were. First came a full ten hours of completely uninterrupted sleep, followed by components selected from two MREs, or Meals Ready to Eat, and a two-minute hot shower.

The water was provided by the ring itself, the heat was courtesy of a Covenant power plant, and the showerhead had been fabricated by one of the techs from the Pillar of Autumn. Though brief, the shower felt good, very good, and the Spartan enjoyed every second of it.

The Master Chief had dried off, scrounged a fresh set of utilities, and was just about to run a routine maintenance check on his armor when a private stuck his head into the Spartan’s quarters, a prefab memory-plastic cubicle that had replaced the archaic concept of tents.

“Sorry to bother you, Chief, but Major Silva would like to see you in the Command Post... on the double.”

The Spartan wiped his hands with a rag. “I’ll be right there.”

The Master Chief was just about to take the armor off standby when the Marine reappeared. “One more thing... The Major said to leave your armor here.”

The Spartan frowned. He didn’t like to be separated from his armor, especially in a combat zone. But an order was an order, and until he determined what had happened to Keyes, Silva was in command.

He nodded. “Thank you, Private.” He checked to ensure that his gear was squared away, activated the armor’s security system, and buckled an M6D around his waist.

The Major’s office was located in Alpha Base’s CP, the centermost of the alien structures at the top of the butte. He made his way through the halls, and down a bloodstained corridor. A pair of manacled Grunt POWs were hard at work scrubbing the floor under the watchful gaze of a Navy guard.

Two Helljumpers stood guard outside of Silva’s door. Both looked extremely sharp for troopers who had been in combat the day before. They favored the Spartan with the casually hostile look that members of the ODST reserved for anyone or anything that wasn’t part of their elite organization. The larger of the pair eyed the noncom’s collar insignia. “Yeah, Chief, what can we do for you?”

“Master Chief SPARTAN-117, reporting to Major Silva.”

“SPARTAN-117” was the only official designation he had in the eyes of the military. It occurred to him that, after Reach fell, there was no one left who knew his name was John.

“SPARTAN-117?” the smaller of the two Marines inquired. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

“Look who’s talking,” McKay interrupted, as she approached the Master Chief from behind. “That’s a pretty strange question coming from a guy named Yutrzenika.”

Both of the Helljumpers laughed, and McKay waved the Spartan through the door. “Never mind those two, Chief. They’re jump happy. My name is McKay. Go on in.”

The Spartan said “Thank you, ma’am,” took three steps forward, and found himself standing in front of a makeshift desk. Major Silva looked up from what he was doing and met the Master Chief’s eyes. The Chief snapped to attention. “Sir! Master Chief SPARTAN-117, reporting as ordered, sir!”

The chair had been salvaged from a UNSC lifeboat. It made a gentle hissing noise as Silva leaned backward. He held a stylus which he used to tap his lips. That was the moment when most officers would have said, “At ease,” and the fact that he didn’t was a clear indication that something was wrong. But what?

McKay circled around to Silva’s left, where she leaned on the wall and watched the scene through hooded eyes. She wore her hair Helljumper style, short on the sides so that the tattoos on her scalp could be seen, and flat on top. She had green eyes, a slightly flattened nose, and full lips. It managed to be both a soldier’s face and a woman’s face at the same time.

When Silva spoke, it was as if he could read the Spartan’s mind. “So, you’re wondering who I am, and what this is all about. That’s understandable, especially given your elite status, your close relationship with Captain Keyes, and the fact that we now know he has been captured. Loyalty is a fine thing, one of the many virtues for which the military is known, and a quality I admire.”

Silva stood and started to pace back and forth behind his chair. “However, there is a chain of command, which means that you report to me. Not to Keyes, not to Cortana, and not to yourself.”

The Marine stopped, turned, and looked the Master Chief square in the eye. “I thought it would be a good idea for you and I to pull a com check. So, here’s the deal. I’m short a Captain, so Lieutenant McKay is serving as my Executive Officer. If either one of us says ‘crap,’ then I expect you to ask ‘what color, how much, and where do you want it?’ Do you read me?”

The Chief stared for a moment and clenched his jaw. “Perfectly, sir.”

“Good. Now one more thing. I’m familiar with your record and I admire it. You are one helluva soldier. That said, you are also a freak, the last remaining subject in a terribly flawed experiment, and one which should never be repeated.”

McKay watched the Master Chief’s face. His hair was worn short, not as short as hers, but short. He had serious eyes, a firm mouth, and a strong jaw. His skin hadn’t been exposed to the sun for a long time and it was white, too white, like something that lived in the deep recesses of a cave. From what she had heard he had been a professional soldier since the age of six, which meant he was an expert at controlling what showed on his face, but she could see the words hit like bullets striking a target. Nothing overt, just a slight narrowing of the eyes, and a tightness around his mouth. She looked at Silva, but if the Major was aware of the changes, he didn’t seem to care.

“The whole notion of selecting people at birth, screwing with their minds, and modifying their bodies is wrong. First, because the candidates have no choice, second, because the subjects of the program are transformed into human aliens, and third, because the Spartan program failed.

“Are you familiar with a man named Charles Darwin? No, probably not, because he never went to war. Darwin was a naturalist who proposed a theory called ‘natural selection.’ Simply put, he believed that those species best equipped to survive would do so – while other, less effective organisms would eventually die out.

“That’s what happened to the Spartans, Chief: They died out. Or will, once you’re gone. And that’s where the ODST comes in. It was the Helljumpers who took this butte, son – not a bunch of augmented freaks dressed in fancy armor.

“When we push the Covenant back, which I sincerely believe we will, that victory will be the result of work by men and women like Lieutenant McKay. Human beings who are razor-sharp, metal tough, and green to the core. Do you read me?”

The Master Chief remembered Linda, James, and all the rest of the seventy-three boys and girls with whom he learned to fight. All dead, all labeled as “freaks,” all dismissed as having been part of a failed experiment. He took a deep breath.

“Sir, no sir!”

There was a long moment of silence as the two men stared into each other’s eyes. Finally, after a good five seconds had elapsed, the Major nodded. “I understand. ODSTs are loyal to our dead, as well. But that doesn’t change the facts. The Spartan program is over. Human beings will win this war... so you might as well get used to it. In the meantime, we need every warrior we have – especially those who have more medals than the entire general staff put together.”

Then, as if some sort of switch had been thrown, the ODST officer’s entire demeanor changed. He said, “At ease,” invited both of his guests to sit down, and proceeded to brief the Master Chief on his upcoming mission. The Covenant had Captain Keyes, recon had confirmed it, and Silva was determined to get him back.

Though their ship had been damaged by the Pillar of Autumn during her brief rampage through the system, the Covenant’s Engineers were hard at work making repairs to the Truth and Reconciliation. Now, hovering only a few hundred units off Halo’s surface, the ship had become a sort of de facto headquarters for those assigned to “harvest” the ring world’s technology.

The warship was at the very center of the command structure’s activities. The corridors were thick with officer Elites, major Jackals, and veteran Grunts. There was also a scattering of Engineers, amorphous-looking creatures held aloft by gas bladders, who had a savant-like ability to dismantle, repair, and reassemble any complex technology.

But all of them, regardless of how senior they might be, hurried to get out of the way as Zuka ’Zamamee marched through the halls, closely followed by a reluctant Yayap. Not because of his rank, but because of his appearance and the message it sent. The arrogant tilt of his head, the space-black armor, and the steady click-clack of his heels all seemed to radiate confidence and authority.

Still, formidable as ’Zamamee was, no one was allowed onto the command deck without being screened, and no less than six black-clad Elites were waiting when he and his aide stepped off the gravity lift. If these Elites were intimidated by their fellow’s demeanor they gave no sign of it.

“Identification,” one of them said brusquely, and extended his hand.

’Zamamee dropped his disk into the other warrior’s hand with the air of someone who was conferring a favor on a lesser being.

The security officer accepted ’Zamamee’s identity disk and dropped it into a handheld reader. Data appeared and scrolled from right to left. “Place your hand in the slot.”

The second machine took the form of a rectangular black box which stood about five units high. Green light sprayed out of a slot located in the structure’s side.

’Zamamee did as instructed, felt a sudden stab of pain as the machine sampled his tissue, and knew that a computer was busy comparing his DNA with that on file. Not because he might be human, but because politics were rife within the Covenant, and there had been a few assassinations of late.

“Confirmed,” the Elite said. “It appears as though you are the same Zuka ’Zamamee that’s scheduled to meet with the Council of Masters fifteen units from now. The Council is running behind schedule, however, so you’ll have to wait. Please hand all personal weapons to me. There’s a waiting room over there – but the Grunt will have to remain outside. You will be called when the Council is ready.”

Though not burdened by his energy rifle, which he had given to Yayap to carry, the Elite did have a plasma pistol, which he surrendered butt first.

’Zamamee made his way into the makeshift holding area and discovered that a number of other beings had been forced to wait as well. Most sat hunched over, kept to themselves, and stared at the deck.

Making matters even worse was the fact that, rather than first come, first served, it seemed as though rank definitely had its privileges, and the most senior penitents were seen first.

Not that the Elite could complain. Had it not been for his rank the Council would never have agreed to see him at all. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, ’Zamamee was ushered into the chamber where the Command Council had convened.

A minor Prophet sat, legs folded, at the center of a table which curved around a podium at which the Elite was clearly expected to stand. Whenever a gust of air hit the exalted one he seemed to bob slightly, suggesting that rather than sit on a chair, he preferred to let his antigrav belt support him, either as a matter of habit, or as a stratagem designed to remind others of who and what he was. Something ’Zamamee not only understood, but admired.

The Prophet wore a complex headpiece. It was set with gemstones and wired for communications. A silver mantle rested on his shoulders and supported a fancifully woven cluster of gold wires which extended forward to place a microphone in front of his bony lips. Richly embroidered red robes cascaded down over his lap and fell to the deck. Obsidian black eyes tracked the Elite all the way to the podium while an assistant whispered in his ear.

The other Elite, an aristocrat named Soha ’Rolamee, raised a hand palm outward. “I greet you ’Zamamee. How is your wound? Healing nicely, I hope.”

’Rolamee outranked ’Zamamee by two full levels. The junior officer gloried in the respectful manner with which the other Elite had greeted him. “Thank you, Excellency. I will heal.”

“Enough,” the Prophet said officiously, “we’re running late, so let’s get on with it. Zuka ’Zamamee comes before the Council seeking special dispensation to take leave of the unit he commands, in order to locate and kill one particular human. A rather strange notion, since all of them look alike and are equally annoying. However, according to our records, this particular human is responsible for hundreds of Covenant casualties.

“The Council notes that Officer ’Zamamee was wounded during an encounter with this human, and reminds Officer ’Zamamee that the Covenant has no tolerance for personal vendettas. Please keep that in mind as you make your case, and be mindful of the time. A measure of brevity will serve you well.”

’Zamamee lowered his eyes as a signal of respect. “Thank you, Excellency. Our spies suspect that the individual in question was raised to be a warrior from a very young age, surgically altered to enhance his abilities, and furnished with armor which may be superior to our own.”

“Better than our own?” the Prophet inquired, his tone making it clear that he considered such a possibility extremely unlikely. “Mind your words, Officer ’Zamamee. The technology underlying the armor you wear came straight from the Forerunners. To say that it is in any way inferior verges on sacrilege.”

“Still, what ’Zamamee says is true,” ’Rolamee put in. “The files are full of reports which, though contradictory in some cases, all make mention of one or more humans clad in reactive special armor. Assuming that the eyewitness accounts are accurate, it appears that this individual or group of individuals can absorb a great deal of punishment without suffering personal injury, have exceptional combat skills, and demonstrate superior leadership capabilities. Wherever he or they appear, other humans rally and fight with renewed vigor.”

“Exactly,” ’Zamamee said gratefully. “Which is why I recommend that a special Hunter-Killer team be commissioned to find the human and retrieve his armor for analysis.”

“Noted,” the Prophet said gravely. “Withdraw while the Council confers.”

’Zamamee had little choice but to lower his eyes, back away from the podium, and turn to the door. Once out in the hallway, the Elite was required to wait for only a few units before his name again was called, and he was ushered back into the room. ’Zamamee saw that both the Prophet and the second Elite had disappeared, leaving ’Rolamee to deliver the news.

The other officer stood as if to reduce the width of the social gap that separated them. “I regret, ’Zamamee, that the Prophet places little weight on the reports, labeling them ‘combat-induced hysteria.’ More than that, we all agreed that you are far too valuable an asset to expend on a single target. Your request has been denied.”

’Zamamee knew that ’Rolamee had invented the “far too valuable” aspect of his report in order to cushion the blow, but appreciated the intent behind the words. Though severely disappointed, he was a soldier, and that meant following orders. He lowered his eyes. “Yes, Excellency. Thank you, Excellency.”

Yayap saw the Elite emerge, read the slight droop of his shoulders, and knew his prayers had been answered. The Council had denied the Elite’s insane request, he would be allowed to return to his unit, and life would return to normal.

If ’Zamamee had been intimidating on his way to see the Council, he was a good deal less so on his way out. He walked even faster, however, forcing Yayap to break into a run. The Grunt weaved his way through the foot traffic arrayed in front of him and struggled to keep pace with ’Zamamee.

Yayap squealed in surprise when he slammed into the back of ’Zamamee’s armored legs; the Elite had come to a sudden halt. The Grunt noticed with unease that his new master’s hands were clenched. He followed ’Zamamee’s gaze and spotted a group of four Jackals.

They dragged a uniformed human between them.

Keyes had just been interrogated for the third time. Some sort of neural shock treatment had been administered to make him talk, and his nerve endings continued to buzz as the aliens prodded his back, yelled incomprehensible gibberish into his ears, and laughed at his discomfort. He tasted his own blood.

The procession came to a sudden stop as an Elite in black combat armor blocked the way, pointed a long slender finger at the human, and said “You! Tell me where the I can find the human who wears the special armor.”

Keyes looked up, struggled to focus his eyes, and faced the alien. He saw the dressing and guessed the rest. “I don’t have the foggiest idea,” he said. He managed a weak smile. “But the next time you run into him, you might consider ducking.”

’Zamamee took a full step forward and backhanded the human across the face. Keyes staggered, recovered his balance, and wiped a trace of blood away from the corner of his mouth. He locked eyes with the alien for the second time. “Go ahead – shoot me.”

Yayap saw the Elite consider doing just that, as his right hand went to the pistol, touched the butt, and fell away. Then, without another word, ’Zamamee walked away. The Grunt followed. Somehow, by means Yayap wasn’t quite sure of, the human had won.

CHAPTER FOUR

D+17:11:04 (SPARTAN-117 Mission Clock)

Pelican Echo 419, in flight

Recon flights conducted the day before had revealed that the sensors aboard Covenant vessel Truth and Reconciliation might have a blind spot down-spin of the alien vessel’s current position, where a small mountain rose to block the electronic view.

Even more important, Wellsley had concocted an array of signals designed to trick the Covenant technicians into believing that any UNSC dropship was actually one of their own. Fifty meters above the deck, and cloaked in electronic camouflage, the Master Chief and a Pelican-load of Helljumpers waited to find out if their ruse would work.

Only time would tell if the fake signals were effective. One thing was for certain: Though conceived for the express purpose of rescuing Captain Keyes, the mission put together by Silva, Wellsley, and Cortana bore still another, even more important purpose.

If the rescue team did manage to penetrate a Covenant vessel, and successfully remove a prisoner, the human presence on Halo would be transformed from an attempt merely to survive into a full-fledged resistance movement.

The ship shuddered as it hit a series of air pockets, then swayed from side to side as the pilot who referred to herself as Foehammer wove back and forth through an obstacle course of low-lying hills. The Master Chief took the opportunity to assess the Marines seated around him. They were Helljumpers, the same people Silva said would ultimately win the war, relegating “freaks” like himself to the dustbin of history.

Maybe Silva was right, maybe the Spartan program would end with him, but that didn’t matter. Not here – not now. The Marines would help him take out the sentries, cope with weapons emplacements, and reach the gravity lift located directly below the Truth and Reconciliation’s belly, and he was glad to have their help. Even with the element of surprise, plus support from the ODST troops, things were likely to be pretty hot by the time they made it to the lift. That’s when a second dropship would land and discharge a group of regular Marines that would join the assault on the ship itself.

There was some concern that the Truth and Reconciliation might simply lift at that point, but Cortana had been monitoring Covenant communications, and was convinced that critical repairs were still being made to the alien cruiser.

Assuming that they were able to reach the gravity lift, meet up with their reinforcements, and fight their way aboard the ship, all they had to do was find Keyes, eliminate an unknown number of hostiles, and show up for the dust-off. A walk in the park.

Foehammer’s voice came over the intercom. “We are five to dirt... repeat five to dirt.”

That was Sergeant Parker’s cue to stand and eye his troops. His voice came over the team freq and grated on the Spartan’s ears. “All right, boys and girls... lock and load. The Covenant is throwing a party and you are invited. Remember, the Master Chief goes in first, so take your cues from him. I don’t know about you, but I like having a swabbie on point.”

There was general laughter. Parker gave the Spartan a thumbs-up, and he offered the same gesture in return. It felt good to have some backup for a change.

He mentally reviewed the plan, which called for him to insert ahead of the Helljumpers, and clear a path with his S2 AM sniper’s rifle. Once the outer defenses were cleared, the Marines would move up. Then, once the element of surprise had been lost, the Master Chief planned to switch to his MA5B assault rifle for the close-in work. Like the rest of the troops, the Spartan was carrying a full combat load of ammo, grenades, and other gear, plus two magazines for the M19 launchers.

“Thirty seconds to dirt!” Foehammer announced. “Shoot some of the bastards for me!”

As the Pelican hovered a foot above the surface, Parker yelled, “Go, go, go!” and the Master Chief sprang down the ramp. He sidestepped and swept the area. The Helljumpers thundered down the ramp and onto the ground, right behind him.

It was dark, which meant they had nothing beyond the light reflected off the moon that hung in the sky and the glow of Covenant work lights to guide them to their objective. Seconds later, Echo 419 was airborne again. The pilot turned down-spin, fed fuel to her engines, and disappeared into the night.

The Master Chief heard the aircraft pass over his head, gathered his bearings, and spotted a footpath off to the right. The ODST troops spread out to either side as Parker and a three-Marine fire team turned to cover the group’s six.

He crept along the rocky footpath, which rose to a two-meter-high embankment. As he neared a cluster of rocks, Cortana warned the Spartan of enemy activity ahead. A host of red dots appeared on his motion sensor. Several meters ahead and to the left was a deep pit – some kind of excavation, judging from the Covenant work lights that dotted the area with pools of illumination. He briefly wondered what the aliens were looking for.

He clicked the rifle’s safety off. What they were looking for didn’t matter. In the end, he’d make sure they never lived to find it.

The Master Chief found a patch of cover next to a tree, raised the rifle, and used the scope’s 2X and night optics setting to find the Covenant gun emplacements located on the far side of the depression. There were lots of Grunts, Jackals, and Elites in the area, but it was imperative to neutralize the plasma cannons – known as Shades – before the Marines moved out into the open. His MJOLNIR armor and shields could handle a limited amount of the Shades’ plasma fire. The Helljumpers’ ballistic armor, on the other hand, just couldn’t handle that kind of firepower.

Once both Shades had been located, the Spartan switched to the 10X setting, practiced the move from one target to the next, and tried it yet again.

Once he was sure that he could switch targets quickly enough, he exhaled quietly, then held his breath. His hand squeezed the trigger and the rifle kicked against his shoulder. The first shot took the nearest gunner in the chest. As the Grunt tumbled from the Shade’s seat, the Master Chief panned the rifle to the right, and put a 14.5mm round through the second Grunt’s pointy head.

The rifle’s booming report alerted the Covenant and they returned fire. He moved forward along the low ridge and took a new firing position behind the scaly bark of a tree. The rifle barked twice more, and a pair of Jackals fell. He reloaded with practiced ease, and continued sniping. Without the Shades to support them, the enemy fell in ones, twos, and threes.

The Master Chief reloaded again, fired until there were no more targets of opportunity, and made the switch to his assault rifle. He jumped down into the open pit and crouched behind a large boulder, one of several that were strewn around the depression.

“Helljumpers: move up!” he barked into the radio. In seconds, the ODSTs charged into the pit. As the lead soldiers entered, a trio of Grunts burst from hiding, shot one of the Marines in the face, and tried to run. The Helljumper’s body hadn’t even hit the ground before the Spartan and another ODST hosed the aliens with bullets.

The gunshots echoed through the twisting canyons, then faded. The Spartan frowned; there was no way the fracas would go unnoticed. The element of surprise was gone.

There was no time to waste. The Master Chief led the Helljumpers through the depression, up a hill on the far side of the pit, and along the side of a sheer cliff face. He stayed close to this rock wall on his right, mindful of the sheer drop that awaited any who strayed too far to the left. He could just make out the glint of moonlight on a massive ocean, far below him.

His motion sensor pinged two contacts and he waved the ODSTs to a halt. He crouched behind a clump of brush at the top of the cliff path, conscious of the massive drop on the other side. A pair of Jackals rounded the bend ahead, their overcharged plasma pistols pulsing green, and paid dearly for their enthusiasm.

The Spartan sprang from his cover and slammed the butt of his rifle into the nearest Jackal’s shield. The energy field flared and died, and the force of the blow sent the alien tumbling off the path. The alien screamed and plummeted off the cliff.

The Chief pivoted and fired his rifle from the hip. The burst struck the second alien in the side. The Jackal slammed to the ground as his finger tightened on his weapon’s trigger as he died. A massive hole blossomed in the rock above the Master Chief’s head.

He slammed a fresh magazine into his weapon, and continued to advance.

“Here’s a little something to remember me by,” one of the Marines growled, and shot each Jackal in the head.

As the team continued up the path, they encountered another Shade, more Grunts, and a pair of Jackals, all of whom seemed to melt away under the combined assault by the Master Chief’s sniper rifle, the Marine’s assault weapons, and a few well-placed grenades.

The rescue force pressed on, toward the lights beyond. Covenant resistance was determined but spotty, and before long the Master Chief could hear the thrumming sound of the alien ship as it hovered more than a hundred meters above them. His skin crackled with static electricity. In the center of a steep dip in the rock lay a large metal disk, the gravity lift that the Covenant used to move troops, supplies, and vehicles to and from the ring world’s surface. Purple light shimmered around the platform where the beam was anchored.

“Come on!” the Master Chief shouted, pointing at the lift. “That’s our way in. Let’s move!”

There was a mad dash through a narrow canyon followed by a pitched battle as the Master Chief and the Helljumpers entered the area directly below the ship.

The depression was ringed with Shades, and all of them opened fire at once. The Chief made use of the sniper rifle to kill the nearest gunner, charged up the intervening slope, and jumped into the now vacant seat. The first order of business was to silence the other guns.

He yanked the control yoke to the left and the gun swiveled to face a second Shade, across the defile. A glowing image of a hollow triangle floated in front of his face. When it lined up with the other gun, it flashed red. He thumbed the firing studs, and lances of purple-white energy lashed the enemy emplacement. The Grunt gunner struggled to leap free of his Shade, fell into the path of the Spartan’s fire, and was speared by a powerful blast. He slumped against the base of his abandoned Shade, a smoking hole burned through his chest.

The Master Chief swiveled the captured gun and took aim on the remaining Shades. He hosed the targets with a hellish wave of destructive energy, then, satisfied that the emplacements were silenced, went to work on the enemy ground troops.

He had just burned a pair of Jackals to the ground when Cortana announced that a Covenant dropship was inbound, and the Master Chief was forced to shift his fire to the alien aircraft and the troops that spilled out onto the ground.

The human walked the blue Shade fire across the aliens, cutting them down, and pounding what remained into mush. He was still at it when a Marine yelled, “Look at that! There’s more of them!” and a dozen figures floated down through the gravity lift. A pair of the newcomers were huge and wore steel-blue armor as well as handheld plate-armor shields.

The Chief had faced such creatures before, not long before Reach fell. Covenant Hunters were tough, dangerous foes – practically walking tanks. They were slow and appeared clumsy, but the cannons mounted on their arms were equivalent to the heavy weapons a Banshee carried, and they could leap into motion with startling suddenness. Their metal shields could withstand a tremendous amount of punishment. Worse, they would never stop until the enemy lay dead at their feet... or they were dead themselves.

The Helljumpers opened fire, grenades exploded, and the pair of Hunters roared defiance. One of them lifted his right arm and fired his weapon, a fuel rod gun. One of the ODSTs screamed and fell, his flesh melting. The Marine’s rocket fired into the air, slid into the grav lift beam, and detonated harmlessly.

The Hunters lumbered from the grav lift and strode up the edge of the pit. Behind them, a swarm of Jackals and Elites formed a rough phalanx and peppered the human positions with plasma fire.

Sergeant Parker yelled, “Hit ’em, Helljumpers!” and the ODSTs poured fire onto the massive alien juggernauts. Bullets pinged from their armor and whined through the rocks.

The Spartan swiveled around, and heard a warning tone as a Hunter’s weapon discharged. Burning energy smashed into him. The Shade shook under the force of the incoming fire as the Master Chief clenched his jaw and forced himself to bring the targeting reticle down onto the target. His shield bled energy and began to shriek a shrill alarm.

The instant the targeting display pulsed red, he mashed down the firing studs and unleashed a flood of incandescent blue light. The Hunter didn’t have time to bring its shield fully into play, and plasma blasts burned through multiple layers of armor, and exited through his spine.

The Spartan heard a cry of what sounded like anguish as the second alien saw his bond brother fall. The Hunter spun and fired his fuel rod gun at the Master Chief’s captured emplacement. The Shade took a direct hit, flipped over onto its side, and threw him to the ground.

The ground vibrated as the enraged alien charged up the slope, right for the downed Spartan. The Chief rolled to his right and came up in a low crouch. The alien was close now, within five meters. A row of razor-sharp spines sprang up along the Hunter’s back. With his shields depleted, the Chief knew that those spines could cut him in two.

He dropped to one knee and unslung his assault rifle. Bullets bounced harmlessly from the alien’s armor. At the last second, he dodged left and slid down the slope. The Hunter didn’t anticipate the move, and the razor-spines passed over the Spartan’s head, missing him by mere inches.

The Chief rolled onto his belly – and saw his opportunity. A patch of orange, leathery skin was visible along the Hunter’s curved spine. He emptied the MA5B’s magazine into the unprotected target, and thick orange blood gouted from a cluster of bullet wounds. The Hunter gave a low, keening wail, then collapsed in a puddle of his own gore.

He rose to one knee, fed a fresh magazine into the assault rifle, and scanned the area for enemies. “All clear,” he called out.

The remaining ODSTs called in all clears as well. That opened the way to the lift and Cortana was quick to seize on the opportunity. She activated the armor’s communication system. “Cortana to Echo 419. We made it to the gravity lift – and are ready for reinforcements.”

“Copy that, Cortana... Echo 419 inbound. Clear the drop zone.”

“What’s the matter?” Sergeant Parker demanded of his troops, several of whom were looking longingly at the fast-approaching Pelican’s running strobes. “Never seen a UNSC dropship before? Keep your eyes on the rocks, damn it – that’s where the bastards will come from.”

The Spartan waited for Echo 419 to unload the fresh Marines, waved them forward, and joined the surviving Helljumpers on the lift pad. “Looks like we made it,” a private said, just before an invisible hand reached down to pluck him off the surface.

Sergeant Parker looked up toward the belly of the ship, and said, “Aren’t we the lucky ones?” then rose as if suspended from a rope.

“Once we’re in the ship I can home in on the Captain’s Command Neural Interface,” Cortana said. “The CNI will lead us to him. He’ll probably be in or near the ship’s brig.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the Chief answered dryly, and felt the beam pull him upward. Someone else yelled, “Yeehaw!” and vanished into the belly of the ship. The Covenant didn’t realize it yet – but the Marines had landed.

None of the humans understood, much less had the ability to predict, the ring world’s weather. So, when big drops of blood-warm rain fell on the mesa, it came as a complete surprise. The Helljumpers grumbled as the water streamed off their faces, soaked their uniforms, and started to pool on the surface of the landing pad.

McKay saw things differently, however. She liked the wet stuff, not just because it felt good on her skin, but because bad weather would offer the insertion team that much more cover.

“Listen up, people!” Sergeant Lister bellowed. “You know the drill. Let’s shake, rattle, and roll.”

There weren’t many lights, just enough so that people could move around without running into one another, but the fact that Silva had been on such missions himself meant that he could visualize what his eyes couldn’t see.

The troopers carried a full combat load, which meant that their packs were festooned with weapons, ammo, grenades, flares, radios, and med packs – all of which would make noise unless properly secured. Noise would bring a world of trouble down on their heads during an op. That’s why Lister passed through the ranks and forced each Marine to jump up and down. Anything that clicked, squeaked, or rattled was identified and restowed, taped, or otherwise fastened into place.

Once all the troops had passed inspection, the Helljumpers would board the waiting dropships for a short flight to the point where the Pillar of Autumn had crashed. The Covenant had placed guards in and around the fallen cruiser, so McKay and her Marines would have to retake the ship long enough to fill the extensive shopping list that Silva had given her.

According to Wellsley, Napoleon I once said, “What makes the general’s task so difficult is the necessity of feeding so many men and animals.”

Silva didn’t have any animals to feed, but he did have a flock of Pelicans, and the essence of the problem was the same. With the exception of the ODST troopers, who carried extra supplies in their HEVs, the rest of the Navy and Marine personnel had bailed out of the Autumn with very little in the way of supplies. Obtaining more of everything, and doing it before the Covenant launched an all-out attack on Alpha Base, would be the key to survival. Later, assuming there was a later, the infantry officer would have to find a way to get his people the hell off the ring world.

Silva’s thoughts were interrupted as Echo 419 raced in over the mesa, flared nose up, and settled onto what had been designated as Pad 3.

The assault on the Truth and Reconciliation had gone well so far, which meant that Second Lieutenant Dalu, who had been assigned to follow along behind the rescue team and scoop up everything he could, was having a good evening. Each time Echo 419 dropped a load of troops she brought enemy arms and equipment back in. Plasma rifles, plasma pistols, needlers, power packs, hand tools, com equipment, and even food packs. Dalu loved them all.

Silva grinned as the Lieutenant waved a team of Naval techs in under the Pelican’s belly to take delivery of the Shade he and his team had lifted right out from under the Covenant’s collective noses. That was the third gun acquired since the beginning of the operation, and would soon take its place within the butte’s steadily growing air defense system.

Sergeant Lister shouted, “Ten-shun!”, did a smart about-face, and saluted Lieutenant McKay. She returned the salute, and said, “At ease.”

Silva walked out into the rain and felt it pelt his face. He turned to look at the ranks of black, brown, and white faces. All he saw were Marines.

“Most, if not all of you, are familiar with my office aboard the Pillar of Autumn. In the rush to leave it seems that I left a full bottle of Scotch in the lower left-hand drawer of my desk. If one or more of you would be so kind as to retrieve that bottle, not only would I be extremely grateful, I would show my gratitude by sharing it with the person or persons who manage to bring it in.”

There was a roar of approval. Lister shouted them down. “Silence! Corporal, take that man’s name.” The Corporal to whom the order was directed had no idea which name he was supposed to take down, but knew it didn’t matter.

Silva knew the Helljumpers had been briefed, and understood the true purpose of the mission, so he brought his remarks to a close.

“Good luck out there... I’ll see you in a couple of days.” Except that he wouldn’t see them, not all of them. Good commanding officers had to love their men – and still be willing to order their deaths if needed. It was the aspect of command he hated the most.

The formation was dismissed. The Marines jogged up into the back of the waiting Pelicans, and the dropships soon disappeared into the blackness of the night.

Silva remained on the pad until the sound of the engines could no longer be heard. Then, conscious of the fact that every war must be won on the equivalent of paper before it can be won on the ground, he turned back toward the low-lying structure that housed his command post. The night was still young – and there was plenty of work left to do.

The gravity lift deposited the rescue team three feet above the deck. They hung suspended for a moment, then fell. Parker gave a series of hand signals, and the ODSTs crept forward into the lift bay.

The Covenant equivalent of gear crates – tapered rectangular boxes made from the shimmering, striated purple metal the aliens favored – were stacked around the high compartment. A pair of Covenant tanks, “Wraiths,” were lined along the right side of the bay.

The Master Chief moved forward toward one of the high metal doors that were spaced along the perimeter of the compartment.

Parker gave the all clear signal and the Marines relaxed a bit. “There’s no Covenant here,” one of them whispered, “so where the hell are they?”

The door was proximity activated, and as he neared the portal, it slid open and revealed a surprised Elite. Without pause, the Spartan tackled the alien and slammed its armored head into the burnished deckplates. With luck, he’d finished the Elite quietly enough–

Another set of doors flashed open on the other side of the bay, and Covenant troops boiled into the compartment.

A second Marine turned to the Corporal who’d just spoken. “‘No Covenant,’” he snarled, mocking his fellow trooper. “You just had to open your mouth, didn’t you?”

Inside the Covenant ship, chaos reigned. The Master Chief charged ahead, and the rescue team fought their way through a maze of interlocking corridors, which eventually emerged into a large shuttle bay. A Covenant dropship passed through a bright blue force field as all hell broke loose. Fire stuttered down from a platform above. A Marine took a flurry of needles in the chest and was torn in half by the ensuing explosion.

A Grunt dropped from above and landed on a Corporal’s shoulders. The Marine reached up, got a grip on the alien’s methane rig, and jerked the device off. The Grunt started to wheeze, fell to the deck, and flopped around like a fish. Someone shot him.

Numerous hatches opened into the bay and additional Covenant troops poured in from every direction. Parker stood up and motioned his men forward. “It’s party time!” he bellowed.

He spun and opened fire, and was soon joined by all the rest. Within a matter of seconds what seemed like a dozen different firefights had broken out. Wounded and dead – humans and Covenant alike – littered the deck.

The Master Chief was careful to keep his back to a Marine, a pillar, or the nearest bulkhead. His MJOLNIR armor, and the recharging shield it carried, provided the Spartan with an advantage that none of the Marines possessed, so he focused most of his attention on the Elites, leaving the Jackals and Grunts for others to handle.

Cortana, meanwhile, was hard at work tapping into the ship’s electronic nervous system in an attempt to find the best way out of the trap. “We need a way out of this bay now,” the Master Chief told her, “or there won’t be anyone left to complete the mission.”

He ducked behind a crate, emptied his magazine into a charging Grunt who wielded a plasma grenade, then paused to reload.

A Hunter gave a bloodcurdling roar as it charged into the fray. The Spartan turned and saw Sergeant Parker fire at the massive alien. A trio of bullets spat from his assault rifle – the last three rounds in the weapon. He discarded the empty gun and backpedaled in an attempt to buy himself some time. His hand dipped for his sidearm.

The Hunter sprang forward and the tips of the beast’s razor-spines shredded through the Marine’s ballistic armor. He crashed to the deck.

The Master Chief cursed under his breath, slapped a fresh clip into place, racked a round into the chamber and took aim on the Hunter. The alien was coming on fast, too fast, and the Spartan knew he wasn’t going to get a kill-shot in time.

The Hunter stepped past Sergeant Parker’s prone form. The alien’s razor spines sprang into view, and it roared again as the Spartan sprayed it with gunfire, knowing the gesture was futile, but unwilling to let the enemy at his teammate’s exposed flank.

Without warning, the Hunter reared up, howled, and crashed to the ground. The Master Chief was puzzled, and briefly checked his weapon. Could he have gotten in a lucky shot?

He heard a cough, and saw Sergeant Parker struggling to his feet, a smoking M6D pistol in his hand. Blood flowed from the gashes in his side, and he was unsteady on his feet, but he found the strength to spit on the Hunter’s fallen corpse.

The Chief took a covering position near the wounded sergeant. He gave him a brisk nod. “Not bad for a Marine. Thanks.”

The sergeant grabbed a fallen assault rifle, slammed a fresh magazine into place, and grinned. “Any time, swabbie.”

His motion sensor showed more contacts inbound, but they were keeping their distance. Their failed assault on the bay must have left them disorganized. Good, he thought. We need all the time we can get. “Cortana,” he said, “how much longer before you get a door open?”

“Got it!” Cortana proclaimed exultantly. One of the heavy doors hissed open. “Everyone should move through the door now. I can’t guarantee that it won’t lock when it closes.”

“Follow me!” he barked, then led the surviving Marines out of the shuttle bay and into the comparative safety of a corridor beyond.

The next fifteen minutes were like a slow-motion nightmare as the rescuers fought their way through a maze of corridors, up a series of narrow ramps, and onto the launch bay’s upper level. With Cortana’s guidance, they plunged back into the ship’s oppressive passageways.

As they proceeded through the bowels of the large warship, Cortana finally gave them good news: “The Captain’s signal is strong. He must be close.”

The Chief frowned. This was taking too long. Every passing second made it that much less likely that any of the rescue party would be able to get off the Truth and Reconciliation alive, let alone with Captain Keyes. The ODSTs were good fighters, but they were slowing him down.

He turned to Sergeant Parker and said, “Hold your men here. I’ll be back soon – with the Captain.”

She started to protest, then nodded. “Just don’t tell Silva,” she said.

“I won’t.”

The Master Chief ran from door to door until one of them opened to reveal a rectangular room lined with cells. It appeared that the translucent force fields served in place of bars. He dashed inside and called the Captain’s name, but received no answer. A quick check confirmed that, with the exception of one dead Marine, the detention center was empty.

Frustrated, yet reassured by Cortana’s insistence that the CNI signal remained strong, the Spartan exited the room, entered the hall, and literally went door to door, searching for the correct hatch. Once he located it, the Master Chief almost wished he hadn’t.

The portal slid open, a Grunt yelled something the Master Chief couldn’t understand, and a plasma beam lashed past the human’s helmet.

The Master Chief opened fire, heard a Marine yell from within one of the cells, “Good to see you, Chief!” and knew he was in the right place.

A plasma beam appeared out of nowhere, hit the Spartan in the chest, and triggered the armor’s audible alarm. He ducked behind a support column, just in time to see an energy beam slice through the spot he had just vacated. He scanned the room, looking for his assailant.

Nothing.

His motion sensor showed faint trace movements, but he couldn’t spot their source.

His eyes narrowed, and he noticed a slight shimmer in the air, directly in front of him. He fired a sustained burst through the middle of it, and was rewarded with a loud howl. The Elite seemed to materialize out of thin air, made a grab for his own entrails, and managed to catch them before he died.

He strode to the access controls and, with Cortana’s help, killed the force fields. Captain Keyes stepped out of his cell, paused to scoop a Needler off the floor, and met the Chief’s eyes. “Coming here was reckless,” he said, his voice harsh. The Chief was about to explain his orders when Keyes’ expression warmed, and the Autumn’s CO smiled. “Thanks.”

The Spartan nodded. “Any time, sir.”

“Can you find your way out?” Keyes inquired doubtfully. “The corridors of this ship are like a maze.”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” the Master Chief replied. “All we have to do is follow the bodies.”

Lieutenant “Cookie” Peterson put Echo 136 down a full klick from the Pillar of Autumn, looked out through the rain-spattered windscreen, and saw Echo 206 settle in approximately fifty meters away. It had been an uneventful flight, thanks in part to the weather, and the fact that the assault on the Truth and Reconciliation had probably served to distract the Covenant from what was going on elsewhere.

Peterson felt the ship shudder as the ramp hit the ground, waited for the Crew Chief to call “Clear!”, and fired the Pelican’s thrusters. The ship was extremely vulnerable while on the ground – and he was eager to return to the relative safety of Alpha Base. Then, assuming the Helljumpers got the job done, he and his crew would be back to transport some of the survivors and their loot.

Back at Alpha Base, McKay watched Echo 136 wobble as a gust of wind hit the Pelican from the side, saw the ship gather speed, and start to climb out. Echo 206 took off a few moments later and both ships were gone within a matter of seconds.

Her people knew what they were doing, so rather than make a pest of herself, McKay decided to wait and watch as the platoon leaders sorted things out. The officer felt the usual moments of fear, of self-doubt regarding her ability to accomplish the mission, but took comfort from something an instructor once told her.

“Take a look around,” the instructor had advised. “Ask yourself if there’s anyone else who is better qualified to do the job. Not in the entire galaxy, but right there, at that point in time. If the answer is ‘yes,’ ask them to accept command, and do everything you can to support them. If the answer is ‘no,’ which it will be ninety-nine percent of the time, then take your best shot. That’s all any of us can do.”

It was good advice, the kind that made a difference, and while it didn’t erase McKay’s fears, it certainly served to ease them.

Master Sergeant Lister and Second Lieutenant Oros seemed to materialize out of the darkness. Oros had a small, pixie-like face which belied her innate toughness. If anything happened to McKay, Oros would take over, and if she bought the farm Lister would step in. The battalion had been short of officers before the shit hit the fan, and what with Lieutenant Dalu off playing Supply Officer, McKay was one Platoon Leader short of a full load. That’s why Lister had been called upon to fill the hole.

“Platoons one and two are ready to go,” Oros reported cheerfully. “Let us at ’em!”

“You just want to raid the ship’s commissary,” McKay said, referring to the Platoon Leader’s well-known addiction to chocolate.

“No, ma’am,” Oros replied innocently, “the Lieutenant lives only to serve the needs of humanity, the Marine Corps, and the Company Commander.”

Even the normally stone-faced Lister had to laugh at that, and McKay felt her own spirits lift as well. “Okay, Lieutenant Oros, the human race would be grateful if you would put a couple of your best people on point and lead this outfit to the ship. I’ll ride your six with Sergeant Lister and the second platoon walking drag. Are you okay with that?”

Both Platoon Leaders nodded and melted into the night. McKay looked for the tail end of the first platoon, slid into line, and let her mind roam ahead. Somewhere, about one kilometer ahead, the Pillar of Autumn lay sprawled on the ground. The Covenant owned the ship for the moment – but McKay was determined to take her back.

It was time to get off the Truth and Reconciliation. As Covenant troops ran hither and yon, the recently freed Marines armed themselves with alien weapons, then linked up with the rest of the rescue team. Keyes and Cortana convened a quick council of war. “While the Covenant had us locked up in here, I heard them talking about the ring world,” Keyes said, “and its destructive capabilities.”

“One moment, sir,” Cortana interrupted, “I’m accessing the Covenant battle net.” She paused, as her vastly powerful intrusion protocols sifted through the Covenant systems. Information systems seemed to be the one field where human technologies held their own against those of the Covenant.

Seconds later, she finished her sift of the alien data stream. “If I’m interpreting the data correctly, they believe Halo is some kind of weapon, one that possesses vast, unimaginable power.”

Keyes nodded thoughtfully. “The aliens who interrogated me kept saying that ‘whoever controls Halo controls the fate of the universe.’”

“Now I see,” Cortana put in thoughtfully. “I intercepted a number of messages about a Covenant search team scouting for a control room. I thought they were looking for the bridge of the ship I damaged during the battle above the ring – but they must be looking for Halo’s control room.”

“That’s bad news,” Keyes responded gravely. “If Halo is a weapon, and the Covenant gains control of it, they’ll use it against us. Who knows what power that would give them?

“Chief, Cortana, I have a new mission for you. We need to beat the Covenant to Halo’s control room.”

“No offense, sir,” the Master Chief replied, “but it might be best to finish this mission before we tackle another one.”

Keyes offered a tired grin. “Good point, Chief. Marines! Let’s move!”

“We should head back to the shuttle bay and call for evac,” Cortana said, “unless you’d like to walk home.”

“No thanks,” Keyes said. “I’m Navy – we prefer to ride.”

The journey out of the detention area and back to the launch bay was hairy but not quite as bad as the trip in. It wasn’t long before they all realized that they really could follow the trail of dead bodies back to the launch bay. Sadly, some of the dead wore Marine green, which served to remind the Chief of how many humans the Covenant had murdered since the war had begun more than twenty-five years before. Somehow, in some way, the Covenant would be made to pay.

The tactical situation was made even more risky by the Captain’s condition. He didn’t complain, but the Spartan could tell that Keyes was sore and weak from the Covenant interrogation. It was a struggle for him to keep up with the others.

The Master Chief signaled for the team to halt. Keyes – out of breath – favored him with a sour look, but seemed grateful for the breather.

Two minutes later, the Chief was about to signal the group to move forward when a trio of Grunts scuttled into view. Needler rounds bounced from the bulkhead and angled right for him.

His shields took the brunt of it, and he returned fire, as did the rest of the group. Keyes blew one Grunt apart with a barrage of the explosive glassy needles. The rest were finished off by a combination of plasma rifle fire and the Chief’s assault rifle.

“Let’s get moving,” the Spartan advised. He took point and moved down the corridor, bent low and ready for trouble. He’d barely gotten twenty meters down the passageway when more Covenant moved in – two Jackals and an Elite.

The enemy was getting closer, and more determined, the longer they remained. He finished off the Jackals with his last frag grenade, then pinned the Elite down with assault rifle fire. Keyes directed the Marines to fire on the alien’s flank, and he went down.

“We need to go, sir,” the Chief warned Keyes. “With respect, we’re moving too slowly.”

Keyes nodded, and as a group they sprinted down the twisting passages, stealth abandoned. Finally, after numerous twists and turns, they reached the shuttle bay. The Spartan thought it was empty at first, until he noticed what appeared to be two light wands, floating in midair.

Fresh from his encounter with the stealth Elite who had been stationed in the brig, the Master Chief knew better than to take chances. He drew his pistol, linked in the scope, and took careful aim. He squeezed the trigger several times and put half a clip into the area just to the right of the energy blade. A Covenant warrior faded into view and toppled off the platform.

A Marine yelled, “Watch it!” and “Cover the Captain!” as the second blade sliced the air into geometric shapes, and started to advance as if on its own. The Spartan put three quick bursts into the second alien, hit his stealth generator, and the Elite was revealed. Fire poured in from all sides and the warrior went down.

There was a blast of static as Cortana activated the MJOLNIR’s communication relays. “Cortana to Echo 419... We have the Captain and need extraction on the double.”

The reply was nearly instantaneous. “Negative, Cortana! I have a flock of Banshees on my tail... and I can’t seem to shake them. You’ll be better off finding your own ride.”

“Acknowledged, Foehammer. Cortana out.” The radio clicked as Cortana switched from the suit’s radio to its external speakers.

“Air support is cut off, Captain. We’ll need to hold here until Foehammer can move in.”

A Marine heard the interchange and, already traumatized by the time spent as a Covenant prisoner, began to lose it. “We’re trapped! We’re all gonna die!”

“Stow the bellyaching, soldier,” Keyes growled. “Cortana, if you and the Chief can get us into one of those Covenant dropships, I can fly us out of here.”

“Yes, Captain,” the AI replied. “There’s a Covenant ship docked below.”

The Master Chief saw the nav indicator appear on his HUD, followed the arrow through a hatch, down a series of corridors, and out into the troopship bay.

Unfortunately, the bay was well defended, and another firefight broke out. The situation was getting worse. The Chief slammed his last full clip into the MA5B and fired short, controlled bursts. Grunts and Jackals scattered and returned fire.

The ammo counter dropped rapidly. A pair of Grunts fell under the Spartan’s hail of fire. Within seconds, the ammo counter read 00 – empty.

He tossed the rifle away and drew his pistol, and continued firing at the alien forces that had begun to regroup at the far side of the bay. “If we’re going,” he called out, “we need to go now.”

The dropship was shaped like a giant U. It rode a grav field and bobbed slightly as some of the outside air swirled around it. As they approached it, Keyes said, “Everybody mount up! Let’s get on board!” and led the Marines through an open hatch.

The Spartan waited until everyone else had boarded and backed into the aircraft – just in time. He was down to a single round in his sidearm.

Cortana said, “Give me a minute to interface with the ship’s controls.”

Keyes shook his head. “No need. I’ll take this bird up myself.”

“Captain!” one of the Marines called. “Hunters!”

The Master Chief peered out through the nearest viewport and saw that the private was correct. Another pair of the massive aliens had arrived on the loading platform and were making for the ship. Their spines stood straight up, their fuel rod guns were swinging into position, and they were about to fire.

“Hang on!” Keyes said as he disengaged the ship’s gravity locks, brought the ship up over the edge of the platform, and pushed one of two joysticks forward. The twin hulls straddled a column, struck both Hunters with what appeared to be glancing blows, and withdrew.

Even a glancing blow from a ship that weighs thousands of kilos proved to be a serious thing indeed. The dropship’s hull crushed the Hunters’ chest armor and forced it through their body cavities, killing both of them instantly. One corpse somehow managed to attach itself to one of the twin bows. It fell as the dropship cleared the Truth and Reconciliation’s hull.

The Master Chief leaned back against the metal wall. The Covenant craft’s troop bay was cramped, uncomfortable, and dimly lit – but it beat hell out of wandering through one of their cruisers.

He braced himself as Keyes put the alien aircraft into a tight turn, and accelerated out into the surrounding darkness. He forced his shoulders to relax, and closed his eyes. The Captain had been rescued, and the Covenant had been put on notice: The humans were determined to be more than an annoyance – they were going to be a major pain in the ass.

Dawn had just started to break when Zuka ’Zamamee and Yayap passed through the newly reinforced perimeter that surrounded the gravity lift, and were forced to wait while a crew of hardworking Grunts pulled a load of Covenant dead off the blood-splattered pad, before they could step onto the sticky surface and be pulled up into the ship.

Although the Truth and Reconciliation’s commanding officer believed that all of the surviving humans had left the ship, there was no way to be certain of that without a compartment-by-compartment check. The shipboard sensors read clear, but this raid had demonstrated beyond a doubt that the humans had learned how to trick Covenant detection gear.

The visitors could feel the tension as teams of grim-faced Elites, Jackals, and Grunts performed a deck-by-deck search of the ship.

As the pair made their way through the corridors to the lift that would carry them up to the command deck, ’Zamamee was shocked by the extent of the damage that he saw. Yes, there were long stretches of passageway that were completely untouched, but every now and then they would pass through a gore-streaked section of corridor, where bullet-pocked bulkheads, plasma-scorched decks, and half-slagged hatches told of a hard-fought running gun battle.

’Zamamee stared in wonder as a grav cart loaded with mangled Jackals was towed past, blood dripping onto the deck behind it.

Finally, they made their way to the appropriate lift, and stepped out onto the command deck. The Elite expected the same level of security scrutiny as the last time he addressed the Prophet and the Council of Masters; no doubt he’d be dumped into the holding room for another interminable wait.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. No sooner did ’Zamamee clear security than he and Yayap were whisked into the compartment where the Council of Masters had been convened during his last visit.

There was no sign of the Prophet, or any of ’Zamamee’s immediate superiors – but the hardworking Soha ’Rolamee was there, along with a staff of lesser Elites. There was no mistaking the crisis atmosphere as reports flowed in, were evaluated, and used to create a variety of action plans. ’Rolamee saw ’Zamamee and raised his hand by way of a greeting.

“Welcome. Please sit.”

’Zamamee complied. It didn’t occur to either one of the Elites to offer the same courtesy to Yayap, who continued to stand. The diminutive Grunt rocked back and forth, ill at ease.

“So,” ’Rolamee inquired, “how much have you heard about the latest... ‘incursion’?”

“Not much,” ’Zamamee was forced to admit. “The humans managed to board the ship via the gravity lift. That’s the extent of my knowledge.”

“That’s correct in so far as it goes,” ’Rolamee agreed. “There is more. The ship’s security system recorded quite a bit of the action. Take a look at this.”

The Elite touched a button and moving images popped into view and hovered in the air nearby. ’Zamamee found himself looking at two Grunts and a Jackal standing in a corridor. Suddenly, without warning, the same human he had encountered on the Pillar of Autumn – the large one with the unusual armor – stepped around the corner, spotted the Covenant troops, and opened fire on them.

The Grunts went down quickly, but the Jackal scored a hit, and ’Zamamee saw plasma splash the front of the human’s armor.

However, rather than fall as he should have, the apparition shot the Jackal in the head, stepped over one of the dead Grunts, and marched toward the camera. The image froze as ’Rolamee touched another control. ’Zamamee felt an almost unbelievable tightness in his chest. Would he have the courage to face the human again? He wasn’t sure – and that frightened him as well.

“So,” ’Rolamee said, “there he is, the very human you warned us about. A dangerous individual who is largely responsible for the six-score casualties inflicted during this raid alone, not to mention the loss of a valuable prisoner, and six Shades which the enemy managed to steal.”

“And the humans?” ’Zamamee inquired. “How many of them were our warriors able to kill?”

“The body count is incomplete,” the other Elite replied, “but the preliminary total is thirty-six.”

’Zamamee was shocked. The numbers should have been reversed. Would have been reversed had it not been for the alien in the special armor.

“You will be pleased to learn that your original request has now been approved,” ’Rolamee continued. “We have preliminary reports from other strike groups that most of these unusual humans were killed in the last large engagement. This one is believed to be the last of his kind. Take whatever resources you need, find the human, and kill him. Do you have any questions?”

“No, Excellency,” ’Zamamee said as he stood to leave. “None at all.”