The Flood

CHAPTER TWELVE

D+76:18:56 (SPARTAN-117 Mission Clock)

Commandeered Banshee, on approach to the Pillar of Autumn

The Banshee screamed through a narrow valley and out over an arid wasteland. The assault ship’s shadow raced ahead as if eager to reach the Pillar of Autumn first. The Master Chief felt the slipstream fold in behind the aircraft’s nose and tug at his armor. It felt good to be out of twisting corridors and cramped compartments if only for a short while.

The first sign of the ship’s presence on the ring world’s surface was the hundred-meter-deep trench the Autumn’s hull had carved into Halo’s skin. It started where the cruiser had first touched down, vanished where the vessel had bounced into the air, and reappeared a half klick farther on. From there the depression ran straight as an arrow to the point where the starship had finally come to rest with its blunt bow protruding out over the edge of a massive cliff. There were other aircraft in the area as well, all of which belonged to the Covenant, and they had no reason to suspect the incoming Banshee. Not yet, at any rate.

The Spartan, who was eager to make his approach look normal, chose one of the many empty lifeboat bays that lined the starship’s starboard side, and bored in. Unfortunately the engine cut out at the last moment, the Banshee hit the Autumn’s hull, and although the Spartan was able to bail out, the alien fighter fell to the rocks below. Not the low visibility arrival he had hoped for. Still, given Cortana’s plans for the vessel, his presence wouldn’t remain secret for long anyway.

“We need to get to the bridge,” Cortana said. “From there we can use the Captain’s neural implants to initiate an overload of the ship’s fusion engines. The explosion should damage enough systems below it to destroy the ring.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” the Chief commented as he made his way toward the tiny air lock. “I don’t know who’s better at blowing things up – you or me.”

The moment he stepped outside he saw a cluster of red dots appear on his motion detector and knew some nasties were lurking off to his left. The only question was, which hostiles did he face – the Covenant or the Flood? Given a choice, he’d take the Covenant. Maybe, just maybe, the Flood hadn’t located the ship yet.

The passageway ended to the right, which meant he had little choice but to turn left. But, rather than run into the Covenant or the Flood, the Spartan came under attack from a flock of Sentinels.

“Uh-oh,” Cortana said as the noncom opened fire, “it looks like the Monitor knows where we are.”

I wonder if he knows what we’re up to, the Chief mused.

A robot exploded, another hit the deck with a loud clang, and the Master Chief shifted fire to a third. “Yeah, he’s after my head, but it’s you that he really wants.”

The AI made no reply as the third machine exploded – and the Chief made his way down the hall using the lifeboat bays for cover. Two additional Sentinels appeared, were blown out of the air, and turned into scrap.

Soon after that they arrived at the end of the corridor, took a right, and spotted an open maintenance hatch. Not ideal, since he didn’t relish the thought of having to negotiate such tight quarters, but there didn’t seem to be any other choice. So he ducked inside, found himself in a maze, and blundered about for a while before spotting a hatch set flush into the deck in front of him. That’s when a group of infection forms swarmed up out of the hole, and the Chief’s question was answered. It appeared that the Flood had located the Autumn – and already taken up residence there.

He swore under his breath, backed away, and hosed the Flood with bullets. He eased forward and looked down through the floor hatch. He saw a carrier form, and knew there were bound to be more. He dropped a plasma grenade down through the hole, backed away, and took a certain amount of pleasure in the ensuing explosion.

The maintenance tunnels didn’t seem to be taking him where he needed to go, so he dropped through the hole, crushed a handful of infection forms, and shot two more. The blood-splattered corridor was messy but well lit. He pried open a wall-mounted locker, and was pleased to find four frag grenades and spare ammo. He quickly stowed them, and moved on.

Two Sentinels nosed around a corner, opened fire with their lasers, and got what they deserved. “They might have been looking for us,” Cortana observed, “but it’s my guess that they were assigned to Flood control.”

The theory made sense, but didn’t really help much as the Master Chief was forced to fight the Sentinels, the Flood, and the Covenant, while he made his way through a series of passageways and into the ship’s heavily damaged mess, where a large contingent of Elites and Grunts were waiting to have him for lunch.

There were a lot of them, too many to handle with the assault weapon alone, so he served up a couple of grenades. One of the Elites was blown to pieces by the overlapping explosions, another lost a leg, and a Grunt was thrown halfway across the room.

They’d come full circle – he’d blasted Covenant troops apart before the crash landing, and here he was again. The enemy just didn’t learn, he thought.

There was a survivor, however, a tough Elite who threw a plasma grenade of his own, and missed by a matter of centimeters. The Master Chief ran and was clear of the blast zone by the time the device went off. The Elite charged, took the better part of a full clip, and finally slammed into the deck, dead.

It was a short distance to the burned-out bridge, where a Covenant security team was on duty. Word had been passed: They knew the human was on his way, and opened fire the moment they saw him.

Once again the Spartan made use of a grenade to even the odds – then crushed the head of an Elite with his fist. The alien’s head was turned to pulp and its body collapsed like a puppet with no strings. The armor gave him enough strength to flip a Warthog over. Then, just when he thought the battle was done, a Grunt shot him in the back. The audible went off as his armor sought to recharge itself. A second shot, delivered with sufficient speed, would kill him.

Time seemed to slow as the Master Chief turned toward his right.

The Grunt, who had been hiding inside an equipment cabinet, froze as the armored alien not only survived what should have been a fatal shot, but turned to face him. They were only an arm’s length away from each other, which meant that the Master Chief could reach out, rip the breather off his assailant’s face, and close the door on him.

There was a loud click followed by wild hammering as the Chief made his way forward to the spot where Captain Keyes had issued his orders. Cortana appeared over the control panel in front of him. Everywhere the AI looked she saw burned-out equipment, bloodstained decks, and smashed viewports.

She shook her head sadly. “I leave home for a few days, and look what happens.”

Cortana brought a hand up to her semitransparent forehead. “This won’t take long– There, that should give us enough time to make it to the lifeboat, and put some distance between ourselves and Halo before detonation.”

The next voice the Chief heard belonged to 343 Guilty Spark. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

Cortana groaned. “Oh, hell.”

The Chief brought his weapon up but saw no sign of the Monitor or his Sentinels. That didn’t prevent the construct from babbling in his ears, though – the AI had tapped into his comm system. “Ridiculous! That you would imbue your warship’s AI with such a wealth of knowledge. Wouldn’t you worry that it might be captured? Or destroyed?”

Cortana frowned. “He’s in my data arrays – a local tap.”

Though nowhere near the bridge, the Monitor was on board, and flitted from one control panel to the next, sucking information out of Cortana’s nonsentient subprocessors with the ease of someone vacuuming a set of drapes. “You can’t imagine how exciting this is! To have a record of all our lost time. Oh, how I will enjoy every moment of categorization. To think that you would destroy this installation, as well as this record... I am shocked. Almost too shocked for words.”

“He stopped the self-destruct sequence,” Cortana warned.

“Why do you continue to fight us, Reclaimer?” Spark demanded. “You cannot win! Give us the construct – and I will endeavor to make your death relatively painless and–”

The rest of 343 Guilty Spark’s words were chopped off as if someone had thrown a switch. “At least I still have control over the comm channels,” Cortana said.

“Where is he?” the Chief asked.

“I’m detecting taps throughout the ship,” Cortana replied. “Sentinels most likely. As for the Monitor – he’s in Engineering. He must be trying to take the core off-line. Even if I could get the countdown restarted... I don’t know what to do.”

The Spartan stared at the hologram in surprise. This was a first – and it made her seem more human somehow. “How much firepower would you need to crack one of the engine shields?”

“Not much,” Cortana replied, “a well-placed grenade perhaps. But why?”

He produced a grenade, tossed the device into the air, and caught it again.

The AI’s eyes widened and she nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”

The Spartan turned and started to leave.

“Chief!” Cortana said. “Sentinels!”

In unison, the machines attacked.

Major Silva stood at what amounted to parade rest, feet spread, hands clasped behind his back, as he looked out over the landing pads while the men and women under his command made final preparations for the assault on the Covenant ship Truth and Reconciliation.

Fifteen Banshees, all scrounged from different sites across Halo’s embattled surface, sat waiting for the order to launch.

Pelicans, three of the four that the humans had left, squatted ramps down as heavily loaded Marines filed aboard. Each of the surviving 236 leathernecks was armed with weapons appropriate to the mission at hand. No long-range stuff, like rocket launchers or sniper rifles, just assault weapons, shotguns, and grenades, all of which were lethal within enclosed spaces, and would be effective against both the Covenant and the Flood.

Naval personnel, and there were seventy-six of them, were armed with Covenant plasma rifles and pistols, which, thanks to their light weight, and the fact that there was no need to tote additional ammo, left the swabbies free to carry tools, food, and medical supplies. They had orders to avoid combat, if possible – and concentrate on running the ship. Some, a group of sixteen individuals, had skills considered to be so critical that each one had been given two Marine bodyguards.

Assuming that Cortana and the Master Chief were able to complete their mission, they would take one of the Autumn’s remaining lifeboats and rendezvous with the Truth and Reconciliation out in space. Annoying though she sometimes was, the officer knew Cortana would be able to pilot the alien vessel, and get them home.

Failing that, Silva hoped that Wellsley, with help from the Naval personnel, would be able to take the cruiser through Slipspace and back to Earth. An event he had already planned for, right down to what he would wear, and a short but moving speech for the media.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Wellsley chose that moment to intrude on the officer’s reverie. The AI, who rode in an armored matrix slung from Silva’s shoulder, was characteristically unapologetic. “Lieutenant McKay called in, Major. Force One is in place.”

Silva nodded, remembered that Wellsley couldn’t actually see him, and said, “Good. Now, if they can lay low for the next couple of hours, we’ll be in good shape.”

“I have every confidence in the Lieutenant,” the AI replied plainly.

The implication was obvious. While Wellsley had faith in McKay, the AI had concerns where the Lieutenant’s superior was concerned. Silva sighed. Had the artificial intelligence been human, the officer would have put him in his place long ago. But Wellsley wasn’t human, couldn’t be manipulated in the same fashion that flesh-and-blood subordinates could, and like the human on whom he had modeled himself, tended to speak his mind. “All right,” the Major said reluctantly, “what’s the problem?”

“The ‘problem,’” Wellsley began, “is the Flood. If the plan is successful, and we manage to take the Truth and Reconciliation, there will almost certainly be Flood forms on board. In fact, based on what Cortana and I have been able to piece together, that’s the only reason the vessel remains where it is. All of the necessary repairs have been made, and Covenant forces are trying to sterilize the ship’s interior prior to lifting off.”

“Which answers your question,” Silva said, struggling to contain his impatience. “By the time we take over, most of the Flood will be dead. Once underway, I will dispatch hunter-killer teams to find the survivors. With the exception of a few specimens which I will place under heavy guard, the rest will be ejected into space. There, are you satisfied?”

“No,” Wellsley replied firmly. “Were a carrier form to escape onto Earth’s surface, the entire planet could fall. This threat is as dangerous as, if not more so than, the Covenant. Cortana and I agree – no Flood form can be allowed to leave this system.”

Silva took a quick look around to make sure no one was close enough to hear him and let the anger enter his voice. “Both you and Cortana have a tendency to forget one very important fact – I’m in command here and you are not. And I defy you to find anywhere in my orders that identifies a threat to Earth bigger than the goddamned Covenant!

“Your role is to provide advice. Mine is to make decisions. It’s my belief that we could find better ways to combat the Flood if our scientists had live specimens with which to work. More than that, our people need to see this new enemy, know how dangerous they are, and believe that they can be conquered.”

Wellsley considered taking the debate one step further, by pointing out that Silva’s ambitions might well have clouded his judgment, but knew it would be a waste of time. “That’s your final decision?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then God help you,” the AI replied gravely, “because if your plan fails, no one else will have the power to do so.”

The compartment, a space untouched by the fighting, had once served as a ready room for the ship’s Longsword, Pelican, and shuttle pilots. Now, with no modifications other than the installation of some crude sleeping accommodations, a back table with some food on it, and crates of supplies, the room functioned as an unofficial HQ for Covenant forces stationed aboard the Pillar of Autumn.

The command staff, or what was left of it, sat slumped in the uncomfortably alien chairs, many too tired to move, and stared up at their leader. His name was ’Ontomee, and he was confused, frustrated, and secretly frightened. The situation aboard the Autumn had deteriorated dramatically. In spite of all the efforts to stop them, Flood forms continued to trickle into the ship.

The disgusting filth had even managed to seize control of the ship’s engineering spaces before a new enemy, one which was inimical to Covenant and Flood form alike, sent an army of flying robots into the ship and took control of the Engine Room.

Now, as if to prove that ’Ontomee was truly cursed, still another threat had arrived on the scene, and he was reluctant to share the news with the already exhausted Elites arrayed in front of him.

“So,” ’Ontomee began lamely, “it seems that a human crashed a Banshee into the side of the ship, and is now on board.”

A veteran named ’Kasamee frowned. “‘A human’? As in, a single human? With respect, Excellency, one human more or less will hardly make a difference.”

’Ontomee swallowed. “Yes, well, normally I would agree with you, except that this human is somewhat unusual. First, because he wears special armor, second, because it appears that he’s on some sort of mission, and third, because he singlehandedly killed every member of Security Team Three, which had responsibility for the command and control deck.”

Unnoticed by those in front of him, the seemingly lethargic officer known as Huki ’Umamee started to look interested. He sat up straighter, and began to pay close attention. Having chosen a seat in the last row, ’Zamamee found it difficult to hear. The discussion continued.

“One human accomplished all that?” ’Kasamee demanded incredulously. “That hardly seems possible.”

“Yes,” ’Ontomee agreed, “but he did. Not only that, but having accomplished whatever he entered the control area to do, he left, and is somewhere else on board this ship.” The Elite scanned the faces in front of him. “Who has the skill and courage required to find the alien and kill him?”

The response came with gratifying speed. “I do,” ’Zamamee said, now on his feet.

’Ontomee peered into the harsh human lights. “Who is that?”

“ ’Umamee,” the Elite lied.

“Ah, yes,” ’Ontomee replied gratefully. “A commando... Just the sort of person we need to rid ourselves of this two-legged vermin. The mission is yours. Keep me informed.

“Now, turning our attention to these new airborne mechanisms...”

Later, as the meeting ended, ’Kasamee went looking for the volunteer, fully intending to compliment the younger officer on his initiative. But, like the human the Elite was supposed to find, the Elite officer had disappeared.

Having fought his way clear of the bridge, the Master Chief made his way through a series of passageways, ran into more Flood and gunned them down. Cortana figured that they could access the Engine Room via the cryo chamber, and that was where the Chief was headed. The problem was that he kept running into jammed hatches, locked doors, and other obstacles that kept him from taking a direct route.

After he moved through a large, dark room strewn with weapons, the Chief heard the sounds of combat coming from the area beyond a closed hatch. He paused, heard the noises die away, and slipped out into the corridor. Bodies lay all about as he slid along a bulkhead, saw some spikes sticking up over a cargo module, and felt his blood run cold. A Hunter! Or more accurately two Hunters, since they traveled in pairs.

Lacking a rocket launcher, the Chief turned to the only heavy-duty fire power that he had: grenades.

He threw two grenades in quick succession, saw the spined behemoth go down, and heard a roar of outrage as the second Hunter charged.

The Spartan fired just to slow the alien down, backed through the hatch, and gave thanks as the door closed. That gave him two or three seconds that he needed to plant his feet, pull another grenade, and prepare to throw it.

The hatch opened, the fragmentation grenade flew straight and true, and the explosion knocked the beast off its feet. The deck shook as the body hit. The Hunter attempted to rise but fell under a hail of armor-piercing bullets.

The Master Chief gave the corpse a wide berth as he left the room, and passed back into the hall. As he made his way through the ship’s corridors, he saw blood-splattered bulkheads, bodies sprawled in every imaginable posture of death, blown hatches, sparks flying out of junction boxes, and a series of small fires, which thanks to a lack of combustible materials seemed to be fairly well contained.

He heard the sound of automatic weapons’ fire somewhere ahead, and passed through another hatch. Inside, a fire burned at the point where two large pipes traversed a maintenance bay. He was close to the cryo chamber, or thought he was, but needed to find a way in.

Hesitant to jump through the flames unless it was absolutely necessary, he took a right turn instead. The sounds of combat grew louder as the hatch opened onto a large room where a full array of Flood forms were battling a clutch of Sentinels. He paused, shouldered his weapon, and fired. Sentinels crashed, carrier forms exploded, and everyone fired at one another in a mad melee of crisscrossing energy beams, 7.62mm projectiles, and exploding needles.

Once the robots had been put out of action, and most of the Flood had been neutralized, the Chief was able to cross the middle of the room, climb a ladder, and gain the catwalk above. From that vantage point he could look across into the Maintenance Control Room, where a couple of Sentinels were hard at work trying to zap a group of Flood, none of whom were willing to be toasted without putting up a fight. The combatants were too busy to worry about stray humans, however, and the noncom took advantage of that to work his way down the walkway and into the Control Room.

And that, as he soon learned, was a big mistake.

It wasn’t too bad at first, or didn’t seem to be, as he destroyed both of the Sentinels, and went to work on the Flood. But every time he put one form down, it seemed as if two more arrived to take its place, soon forcing him onto the defensive.

He retreated into the antechamber adjacent to the Control Room. The human had little choice but to place his back against a locked hatch. The larger forms came in twos and threes – while the infection forms came in swarms. Some of the assaults seemed to be random, but many appeared to be coordinated as one, or two, or three combat forms would hurl themselves forward, die under the assault weapon’s thundering fire, and fall just as the Spartan ran out of ammo, and more carrier forms waddled into the fray.

He slung his AR, drew the shotgun – briefly hoping there would be a lull during which to reload – and opened fire on the bloated monstrosities before the force exerted by their exploding bodies could do him harm.

Then, with newly spawned infection forms flying in every direction it was clean-up time followed by a desperate effort to reload both weapons before the next wave of creatures attempted to roll over him.

He dropped into a pattern of fire and movement. He made his way through the ship, closer to the engineering spaces, pausing only to pour fire into knots of targets of opportunity. Then, he quickly disengaged, reloaded, and ran farther into the ship.

The noise generated by his own weapons hammered at the Master Chief’s ears, the thick gagging odor of Flood blood clogged his throat, and his mind eventually grew numb from all the killing.

After dispatching a Covenant combat team, he crouched behind a support strut and fed rounds into the shotgun. Without warning, a combat form leaped on his back and smashed a large wrench into his helmet. His shield dropped away from the force of the blow, which allowed an infection form to land on his visor.

Even as he staggered under the impact, and pawed at the form’s slick body, a penetrator punched its way through his neck seal, located his bare skin, and sliced it open.

The Spartan gave a cry of pain, felt the tentacle slide down toward his spine, and knew it was over.

Though unable to pick up a weapon and kill the infection form directly, Cortana had other resources, and rushed to use them. Careful not to drain too much power, the AI diverted some energy away from the MJOLNIR armor, and made use of it to create an electrical discharge. The infection form started to vibrate as the electricity coursed through it. The Chief jerked as the Flood form’s penetrator delivered a shock to his nervous system, and the pod popped, misting the Spartan’s visor with green blood spray.

The Chief could see well enough to fight, however, and did so, killing the wrench-wielding combat form with a burst of bullets.

“Sorry about that,” Cortana said, as the Spartan cleared the area around him, “but I couldn’t think of anything else to do.”

“You did fine,” he replied, pausing to reload. “That was close.”

Another two or three minutes passed before the Flood gave up and he could take the moment necessary to remove his helmet, jerk the penetrator out from under his skin, and slap a self-adhering antiseptic battle dressing over the wound. It hurt like hell: The Spartan winced as he lowered the helmet back over his head, and sealed his suit.

Then, pausing only to kill a couple of stray infection forms, and still looking for a way to gain entry to the cryo chamber, the Chief made his way through a number of passageways, into a maze of maintenance tunnels, and out into a corridor where he spotted a red arrow on the deck along with the word ENGINEERING.

Finally, a break.

No longer concerned with finding a way into cryo, the noncom passed through a hatch and entered the first passageway he’d seen that was well lit, free of bloodstains, and not littered with corpses. A series of turns brought him to a hatch.

“Engine Room located,” Cortana announced. “We’re here.”

The Spartan heard humming, and knew that 343 Guilty Spark was somewhere in the vicinity. He had already started to back through the hatch when Cortana said, “Alert! The Monitor has disabled all command access. We can’t restart the countdown. The only remaining option will be to detonate the ship’s fusion reactors. That should do enough damage to destroy Halo.

“Don’t worry... I have access to all of the reactor schematics and procedures. I’ll walk you through it. First we need to pull back the exhaust coupling. That will expose a shaft that leads to the primary fusion drive core.”

“Oh, good,” the Spartan replied. “I was afraid it might be complicated.”

The Chief reopened the hatch, stepped out into the Engine Room, and an infection form flew straight at his faceplate.

The attack on the Truth and Reconciliation came with mind-numbing speed as a wing of fifteen Banshees came screaming out of the sun, attacked the nearly identical number of Covenant aircraft assigned to fly cover over the cruiser, and knocked half of them out of the sky during the first sixty seconds of combat.

Then, even as individual dogfights continued, Lieutenant “Cookie” Peterson and his fellow Pelican pilots delivered Silva, Wellsley, and forty-five heavily armed Marines into the enemy cruiser’s shuttle bay, where the first leathernecks off the ramps smothered the Covenant security team in a hail of bullets, secured all the hatches, and sent a team of fifteen Helljumpers racing for the ship’s Control Room.

Conscious of the fact that occupying the Control Room wouldn’t mean much unless they owned engineering as well, the humans launched a nearly simultaneous ground attack. Thanks to the previous effort, in which the Master Chief and a group of Marines had entered the ship looking for Captain Keyes, McKay had the benefit of everything learned during that mission, including a detailed description of the gravity lift, video of the interior corridors, and operational data which Cortana had siphoned out of the ship’s systems.

Not too surprisingly, security around the gravity lift had been tripled since the previous incursion, which meant that even though McKay and her force of Helljumpers had been able to creep within meters of the hill on which the gravity field was focused, they still had six Hunters, twelve Elites, and a mixed bag of Grunts and Jackals to cope with before they could board the vessel above.

Having anticipated that problem, McKay had equipped her fifteen-person team with eight rocket launchers, all of which were aimed squarely at the Hunters.

The Covenant-flown Banshees had just come under attack, and the spined monsters were staring up into a nearly cloudless sky, when McKay gave the word: “Now!”

All eight launchers fired one, then two rockets, putting a total of sixteen of the shaped charges on the aliens, so that the Hunters never had a chance to fight as a series of red-orange explosions blew them apart.

Even as gobbets of raw meat continued to rain out of the sky, the launchers were reloaded, and another flight of rockets was sent on its way.

Three or four of the Elites had been killed during the initial attack, which meant that some of the survivors were targeted by as many as two missiles, and simply ceased to exist as the powerful 102mm rounds detonated.

Those who survived the volley, and there weren’t many, fell quickly as the rest of the team hurled grenades into the enemy positions, and hosed them with automatic fire. Total elapsed time: 36 seconds.

A full minute was consumed racing up the hill and greasing the guard at the top, which meant that 1:36 had passed by the time the murderous humans appeared inside the Truth and Reconciliation, slaughtered the Grunts on guard duty, and deactivated the lift.

Jenkins was chained between a pair of burly Marines. McKay waved the trio forward. “Let’s go, Marines. We’re supposed to take the Engine Room – so let’s get to work.”

Jenkins, or what remained of Jenkins, could smell the Flood. They were there, hiding in the ship, and he struggled to tell McKay that. But the only thing that came out was a series of grunts and hoots. The humans had taken the ship, but they had taken something else as well, something that could kill every single one of them.

’Zamamee ushered Yayap into the heavily guarded Covenant Communications Center – and gave the Grunt a moment to look around. The space had once housed all of the communications gear associated with the Pillar of Autumn’s auxiliary fighters, shuttles, and transports. Human gear had been ripped out to make room for Covenant equipment, but everything else was pretty much in the same configuration. A team of six com techs were on duty, all with their backs to the center of the room, banks of equipment arrayed in front of them. A constant murmur of conversation could be heard via the overhead speakers, some of which was punctuated by the sounds of combat, as orders went out and reports came back in.

“This is where you will sit,” the Elite explained, pointing toward a vacant chair. “All you have to do is listen to the incoming traffic, make note of the reports that pertain to the human, and pass the information along to me by radio.

“He has an objective, we can be sure of that, and once we know where he’s going, I’ll be there to greet him. I know you would prefer to be in on the kill, but you’re the only individual I can trust to handle my communications, so I hope you’ll understand.”

Yayap, who didn’t want to be anywhere near the kill, tried to look downcast. “I’ll do my part, Excellency, and take pleasure in the team’s success.”

“That’s the spirit!” ’Zamamee said encouragingly. “I knew I could count on you. Now sit down at the console, put on that headset, and get ready to take some notes. We know he left what the humans refer to as ‘the bridge,’ fought a battle near the Maintenance Control Room, and was last spotted heading toward the Engine Room. We don’t have any personnel in that compartment at the moment, but that doesn’t matter, because the real challenge is to figure out where he’s headed next. You feed the information to me, I’ll take my combat team to the right place, and the human will enter the trap. The rest will be easy.”

Yayap remembered previous encounters with the human, felt a chill run down his spine, and took his seat. Something told him that when it came to a final confrontation between the Elite and the human, it might be many things, but it wouldn’t be easy.

The Engine Room hatch opened, an infection form went for the Master Chief’s face, and he fired a quarter of a clip into it. A lot more bullets than the target required, but the memory of how the penetrator had slipped in under the surface of his skin was still fresh in his mind, and he wasn’t about to allow any of the pods near his face again, especially with a hole in his neck seal. A red nav indicator pointed the way toward a ramp at the far end of the enormous room.

He pounded his way up onto a raised platform, ran past banks of controls, and ducked through the hatch that led up to Level Two. He followed a passageway out into an open area, and then up the ramp to Level Three. Near the top, a pair of combat forms fell to his well-placed fire. He policed the fallen creatures’ ammo and grenades and kept going.

“Not acceptable, Reclaimer,” 343 Guilty Spark intoned. “You must surrender the construct.”

The Chief ignored the Monitor, made his way up to Level Three, and encountered a reception party comprised of Flood. He opened fire, took two combat forms and a carrier down off the top, and backed away in order to reload.

Then, with a fresh clip in place, he opened fire, cut the nearest form off at the knees, tossed a grenade into the crowd behind him. The frag detonated, and blew them to hell.

Quick bursts of automatic fire were sufficient to finish the survivors and allow the Master Chief to reach the far end of the passageway. A group of forms were waiting there to greet him, but quickly gave way to a determined assault as he made his way up the blood-slicked steel, and through the hatch at the top of the ramp.

He moved onto the Level Three catwalk and immediately started to take fire. There was total chaos as the Sentinels fired on the Flood, the Flood shot back, and everyone seemed to want a piece of him. It was important to concentrate, however, to focus on his mission, so the Spartan made a mad dash for the nearest control panel. He hit the control labeled OPEN, heard a beeper go off, followed by the sound of Cortana’s voice.

“Good! Step one complete! We have a straight shot into the fusion reactor. We need a catalytic explosion to destabilize the magnetic containment field surrounding the fusion cell.”

“Oh,” the petty officer said as he jumped down onto a thick slab of duracrete, and felt it start to move. “I thought I was supposed to throw a grenade into a hole.”

“That’s what I said.”

The Chief grinned as a brightly lit rectangular slot appeared, and he tossed a grenade in through the opening.

The ensuing explosion threw bits of charred metal around the smoke-filled compartment.

One down, and three to go, the Spartan told himself as the Sentinels fired, and the laser beams hit his chest.

Thanks to the lightning-fast and extremely well coordinated nature of the attack, the humans controlled more than eighty percent of the Truth and Reconciliation, and were preparing to lift off. Those compartments not under human control could be dealt with later on. There hadn’t been any contact with Cortana for a while – and Silva intended to play it safe. If Halo was about to blow, he wanted to be far away when the event took place.

The cruiser’s Control Room was a scene of frantic activity as Wellsley wrestled with the ship’s nonsentient nav comp, Naval personnel struggled to familiarize themselves with all manner of alien control systems, and Silva gloated over his latest coup. The attack had been so fast, so successful, that his Helljumpers had captured a being who referred to himself as a “Prophet,” and claimed to be an important member of the Covenant’s ruling class. Now, safely locked away, the alien was slated to become yet another element in Silva’s triumphant return to Earth. The officer smiled as the ship’s gravity locks were released, the hull swayed slightly in response, and the final preflight check began.

Many decks below, McKay felt someone touch her arm. “Lieutenant? Do you have a moment?”

Though not in the same chain of command, Lieutenant Commander Gail Purdy outranked the Helljumper, which was why McKay responded by saying, “Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

Purdy was an Engineering officer, and one of those sixteen individuals who rated bodyguards, both of whom had their backs to the officer and were facing out. She was middle-aged and stout, with ginger-colored hair. Her eyes were serious and locked with McKay’s.

“Step over here. I’d like to show you something.”

McKay followed the other officer over to a large tube that served to bridge the one-meter gap between one blocky-looking installation and the next. Jenkins, who had no choice but to go wherever his Marine guards went, was forced to follow.

“See that?” the Naval officer inquired, pointing at the tube.

“Yes, ma’am,” McKay answered, mystified as to what such a structure could possibly have to do with her.

“That’s an access point for the fiber-optic pathway that links the Control Room to the engines,” the Engineer explained. “If someone were to sever that connection, the power plants would run wild. There may be a bypass somewhere – but we haven’t found it. Given the fact that twenty percent of the ship remains under Covenant control I suggest that you post a guard on this piece of equipment until all of the Covenant are under lock and key.”

Purdy’s suggestion had the force of an order, and McKay said, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll take care of it.”

The Naval officer nodded as the deck tilted and forced both women to grab onto the fiber channel. Two people were thrown to the deck. Purdy grinned. “Pretty sloppy, huh? Captain Keyes would have a fit!”

Silva wasn’t worried about the finer points of ship handling as the final loads of UNSC personnel were deposited in the shuttle bay, the Pelicans were secured, the outer doors were closed, and the Truth and Reconciliation struggled to break the grip that Halo had on her hull.

No, Silva was satisfied merely to get clear of the surface, to feel the deck vibrate as the cruiser’s engines struggled to push countless tons of deadweight up through the ring world’s gravity well, to the point where the ship would break free.

Spurred into action by the vibration, or perhaps just tired of waiting, the Flood chose that moment to attack the Engine Room. A vent popped open, an avalanche of infection forms poured out and came under immediate fire.

Jenkins went berserk, and jerked on his chains, gibbering incoherently as the Marine guards struggled to bring him under control.

The battle lasted for less than a minute before all of the Flood forms were killed, the vent was sealed, and the cover welded into place. But the attack served to illustrate the concerns that McKay already had. The Flood were like an extremely deadly virus – and it was naïve to believe that they could be controlled by anything short of extermination. The Marine used her status as XO to get through to Silva, gave a report on the attack, and finished by saying, “It’s clear that the ship is still infected, sir. I suggest that we put down and sterilize every square centimeter prior to lifting again.”

“Negative, Lieutenant,” Silva replied grimly. “I have reason to believe that Halo is going to blow, and soon. Besides, I want some specimens, so see what you can do to capture some of the ugly bastards.”

“The Lieutenant is correct,” Wellsley put in dispassionately. “The risk is too great. I urge you to reconsider.”

“My decision is final,” Silva growled. “Now, return to your duties, and that’s an order.”

McKay broke the connection. The military incorporated many virtues, in her mind at least, one of the most important of which was duty. Duty not just to the Corps, but to the billions of people on Earth, to whom she was ultimately responsible. Now, faced with the conflict between military discipline, the glue that held everything together, and duty, the purpose of it all, what was she supposed to do?

The answer, strangely enough, came from Jenkins, who, having been privy to her end of the conversation, jerked at his chain. The action took one of the guards by surprise. He fell as Jenkins lunged in the direction of the fiber-optic connection, and was still trying to regain his feet when the combat form ran out of slack, and came up short. Seconds later the Marines had Jenkins back under control.

Having failed to do what he knew was right, and with his chains stretched tight, Jenkins looked imploringly into McKay’s eyes.

McKay realized that the decision lay in her hands, and that although it was horrible almost beyond comprehension, it was simple as well. So simple that even the grotesquely ravaged Jenkins knew where his duty lay.

Slowly, deliberately, the Marine crossed the deck to the point where the guard stood, told him to take a break, took one last look around, and triggered a grenade. Jenkins, still unable to speak, managed to mouth the words “thank you.”

Silva was too many decks removed to feel the explosion, or to hear the muffled thump, but was able to witness the results firsthand. Someone yelled, “The controls are gone!” The deck tilted as the Truth and Reconciliation did a nose-over, and Wellsley made one last comment.

“You taught her well, Major. Of that you can be proud.”

Then the bow struck, a series of explosions rippled the length of the hull, and the ship, as well as all of those aboard her, ceased to exist.

“You’re sure?” ’Zamamee demanded, his voice slightly distorted by both the radio and an increasing amount of static.

Yayap wasn’t sure of anything, other than the fact that the reports flowing in around him were increasingly negative, as Covenant forces came under heavy fire from both the Flood and the Sentinels. Something had caused a rock to form down in the Grunt’s abdomen – and made him feel slightly nauseated.

But it would never do to say that, not to someone like ’Zamamee, so he lied instead. “Yes, Excellency. Based on the reports, and looking at the schematics here in the Communications Center, it looks like the human will have little choice but to exit via hatch E-117, make his way to lift V-1269, and go up to a Class Seven service corridor that runs along the ship’s spine.”

“Good work, Yayap,” the Elite said. “We’re on our way.”

For reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of, and in spite of his many failings, the Grunt felt a strange sense of affection for the Elite. “Be careful, Excellency. The human is extremely dangerous.”

“Don’t worry,” ’Zamamee replied, “I have a surprise for our adversary. A little something that will even the odds. I’ll call you the moment he’s dead.”

Yayap said, “Yes, Excellency,” heard a click, and knew it was the last time he would hear the officer’s voice. Not because he believed that ’Zamamee was going to die – but because he believed all of them were about die.

That’s why the diminutive alien announced that he was going on a break, left the Communications Center, and never came back.

Shortly thereafter he loaded a day’s worth of food plus a tank of methane onto a Ghost, steered the vehicle out away from the Pillar of Autumn, and immediately found what he was searching for: a sense of peace. For the first time in many, many days Yayap was happy.

As the final grenade went off, the Master Chief felt the shaft he was standing on shake in sympathy and Cortana yelled into his ears. “That did it! The engines will go critical. We have fifteen minutes to get off the ship! We should move outside and get to the third deck elevator. It will take us to a Class Seven service corridor that runs the length of the ship. Hurry!”

The Chief jumped up onto the Level Three platform, blasted a combat form, and turned toward the hatch off to his right. It opened, he passed through, and ran the length of the passageway. A second door opened onto the area directly in front of the large service elevator.

The Chief heard machinery whir, figured he had triggered a sensor, and waited for the lift to arrive. For the first time in hours there was no immediate threat, no imminent danger, and the Spartan allowed himself to relax fractionally. It was a mistake.

“Chief!” Cortana said. “Get back!”

Thanks to the warning, he was already backing through the hatch when the lift appeared from below, and the Elite, seated in the plasma turret, opened fire.

Special Ops Officer Zuka ’Zamamee fired the Shade. The energy cannon took up most of the platform, leaving barely enough room for the Grunts who had helped the Elite wrestle the weapon aboard. The bolt flared blue, hit the hatch as it started to close, and slagged half the door.

He felt elation as the waves of energy slashed through the air toward his target. Soon, victory would be complete, and his honor could be restored. Then he’d deal with the tiresome Grunt, Yayap.

It was going to be a glorious day.

“Damn!” the Chief exclaimed. “Where did that come from?”

“It looks like someone has been tracking you,” Cortana said grimly. “Now, get ready – I’ll take control of the elevator and cause it to drop. You roll a couple of grenades into the shaft.”

’Zamamee saw the energy bolt hit the hatch, experienced a sense of exhilaration as the human hurried to escape, and felt the platform jerk to a halt.

The Elite had just fired again, just blown what remained of the human’s cover away, when he heard a clank and the lift started to descend.

“No!” he shouted, sure that one of the Grunts was responsible for the sudden movement, and desperate lest the human escape his clutches. But it was too late, and there was nothing the smaller aliens could do, as the elevator continued to fall.

Then, even as his target vanished from sight, and ’Zamamee railed at his subordinates, a couple of grenades tumbled down from above, rattled around the floor, and exploded.

The force of the blast lifted the Elite up and out of his seat, gave him one last look at his opponent, and let him fall. He hit with a thud, felt something snap, and waited for his first glimpse of paradise.

Cortana brought the lift back up. The Master Chief had little choice but to step onto the gore-splattered platform and let it carry him toward the service corridor above. Cortana took advantage of the moment to work on the escape plan.

“Cortana to Echo 419, come in Echo 419.”

“Roger, Cortana,” Foehammer said from somewhere above, “I read you five-by-five.”

The Master Chief felt a series of explosions shake the elevator, knew the ship was starting to come apart, and looked forward to the moment when he would be free of it.

“The Pillar of Autumn’s engines are going critical, Foehammer,” Cortana continued. “Request immediate extraction. Be ready to pick us up at external access junction four-C as soon as you get my signal.”

“Affirmative. Echo 419 to Cortana – things are getting noisy down there... Is everything okay?”

The elevator shook again as the AI said, “Negative, negative! We have a wildcat destabilization of the ship’s fusion core. The engines must have sustained more damage than we thought.”

Then, as the platform jerked to a halt, and a piece of debris fell from somewhere up above, the AI spoke to the Spartan. “We have six minutes before the fusion drives detonate. We need to evacuate now! The explosion will generate a temperature of almost a hundred million degrees. Don’t be here when it blows!”

That sounded like excellent advice. The Master Chief ran through a hatch into a bay full of Warthogs, each stowed in its own individual slot. He chose one that was located near the entry, jumped into the driver’s seat, and was relieved when the vehicle started up.

The countdown timer which Cortana had projected onto the inside surface of his HUD was not only running, but running fast, or so it seemed to the Chief as he drove out of the bay, hooked a left to avoid a burning ’Hog, and plowed through a mob of Covenant and Flood. An Elite went down, was sucked under the big off-road tires, and caused the vehicle to buck as it passed over him. The slope ahead was thick with roly-poly infection forms. They popped like firecrackers as the human accelerated uphill and plasma bolts raced to catch him from behind. Then, cautious lest he make a mistake and lose valuable time, he took his foot off the accelerator and paused at the top of the ramp.

A large passageway stretched before him, with walkways to either side, a pedestrian bridge in the distance, and a narrow service tunnel directly ahead. A couple of Flood forms were positioned on top of the entrance and fired down at him as he pushed the Warthog forward, and nosed into the opening ahead.

The ramp sloped down, the Spartan braked, and he was soon glad that he had as something went boom! and hurled pieces of jagged metal across the passageway in front of him. The Chief took his foot off the brake, converted a carrier form into paste, and sent the LRV up the opposite slope.

He emerged from the subsurface tunnel, and with a barrier ahead, he swung left, ran the length of a vertical wall. He saw a narrow ramp, accelerated up-slope, and jumped a pair of gaps that he never would have tackled had he been aware of them. He hit a level stretch, braked reflexively, and was thankful when the Warthog nose-dived off the end of the causeway and plunged into another service tunnel.

Now, with a group of Flood ahead, he pushed through them, crushed the monsters under his tires.

“Nice job on that last section,” Cortana said admiringly. “How did you know about the dive off the end?”

“I didn’t,” the Master Chief said as the LRV lurched up out of the tunnel and nosed into another.

“Oh.”

This passage was empty, which allowed the Spartan to pick up speed as he guided the Warthog up into a larger tunnel. The ’Hog caught some air, and he put the pedal to the metal in an effort to pick up some time.

The large passageway was smooth and clear, but took them out into a hell of flying metal, homicidal Flood, and laser-happy Sentinels, all of whom tried to cancel his ticket while he paused, spotted an elevated ramp off to the left, and steered for it even as crisscrossing energy beams sizzled across the surface of his armor and explored the interior of the vehicle.

The Spartan fought to control the ’Hog as one tire rode up onto the metal curb and threatened to pull the entire vehicle off into the chaos below. It was difficult, with fire sleeting in from every possible direction, but the Chief made the necessary correction, came down off the ramp, hooked a left, and found himself in a huge tunnel with central support pillars that marched off into the distance.

Careful to weave back and forth between the pillars in order to improve his time, he rolled through a fight between the Flood and a group of Covenant, took fire from a flock of Sentinels, and gunned the LRV out into another open area with a barrier ahead. A quick glance confirmed that another elevated ramp ran down the left side of the enormous passageway, so he steered for that.

Explosions sent gouts of flame and smoke up through the grating ahead of him, and threatened to heave the Warthog off the track.

Once off the ramp, things became a little easier as the Spartan entered a large tunnel, sped the length of it, braked into an open area, and pushed the vehicle down into a smaller service tunnel. Infection forms made loud popping sounds as the tires ate them alive. The engine growled, and the Chief nearly lost it as he came out of the tunnel too fast, realized there was another subsurface passageway ahead, and did a nose-over that caused the front wheels not only to hit hard but nearly flipped the ’Hog end-for-end. Only some last-minute braking and a measure of good luck brought the LRV down right side up and allowed the Master Chief to climb up out of the passageway and into a maze of pillars.

He swore as he was forced to wind his way between the obstacles while precious seconds came off the countdown clock and every alien, freak, and robot with a weapon took pot-shots at him while he did so. Then came a welcome stretch of straight-level pavement, a quick dip through a service tunnel, and a ramp into a sizable tunnel as Cortana called for evac.

“Cortana to Echo 419! Requesting extraction now! On the double!”

“Affirmative, Cortana,” the pilot replied, as the Master Chief accelerated out onto a causeway.

“Wait! Stop!” Cortana insisted. “This is where Foehammer is coming to pick us up. Hold position here.”

The Spartan braked, heard a snatch of garbled radio traffic, and saw a UNSC dropship approach from the left. Smoke trailed behind the Pelican and the reason was plain to see. A Banshee had slotted itself in behind the transport and was trying to hit one of the ship’s engines. There was a flash as the starboard power plant took a hit and burst into flames.

The Chief could imagine Foehammer at the controls, fighting to save her ship, eyeing the causeway ahead.

“Pull up! Pull up!” the Spartan shouted, hoping she could pancake in, but it was too late. The Pelican lost altitude, passed under the causeway, and soon disappeared from sight. The explosion came three seconds later.

Cortana said, “Echo 419!” and, receiving no response, said, “She’s gone.”

The Master Chief remembered the cheerful voice on the radio, the countless times the pilot had saved somebody’s tail, and felt a deep sense of regret.

There was a short pause while the AI tapped into what remained of the ship’s systems. “There’s a Longsword docked in launch bay seven. If we move now we can make it!”

Rubber screeched as the Chief put his foot to the floor, steered the Warthog through a hatch, down a ramp, and into a tunnel. Huge pillars marked the center of the passageway and a series of concave gratings caused the LRV to wallow before it lurched up onto smooth pavement again. Explosions sent debris flying from both sides of the tunnel and made it difficult to hear Cortana as she said something about “full speed” and some sort of a gap.

He hit the accelerator, but the rest was more a matter of luck rather than skill. The Master Chief pushed the ’Hog up a ramp, felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as the LRV flew through the air, dropped two or three levels, hit hard, slewed sideways, and came to a stop.

The Chief wrestled with the wheel, brought the front end around, and glanced at the timer. It read: 01:10:20. He stamped on the accelerator. The Warthog shot ahead, raced through a narrow tunnel, then slowed as he spotted the array of horizontally striped barrels that blocked the road ahead. Not only that – but the entire area was swarming with Covenant and Flood. The Master Chief jumped out, hit the ground running, and gunned an Elite who had the misfortune to get in the way.

The fighter was straight ahead, ramp down, waiting for him to come aboard. Plasma bolts stuttered past his head, explosions hurled debris in every direction, and then he was there, boots pounding on metal as he entered the ship.

The ramp came up just as a mob of Flood arrived, the Longsword shook in sympathy as another explosion rocked the Pillar of Autumn, and the Spartan staggered as he made his way forward. Precious seconds were consumed as he dropped into the pilot’s seat, brought the engines on-line, and took the controls.

“Here we go.”

The Chief made use of the ship’s belly jets to push the Longsword up off the deck. He turned the fighter counterclockwise, and hit the throttles. Gee forces pushed him back into his seat as the spacecraft exploded out of its bay and blasted up through the atmosphere.

Yayap, who had made it to the edge of the foothills by then, heard a series of dull thuds and turned in time to see a line of red-orange flowers bloom along the length of the Autumn’s much abused hull.

As the cruiser’s fusion drives went critical, a compact sun blossomed on the surface of Halo. Its thermonuclear sphere carved a five-kilometer crater into the superdense ring material and sent powerful pressure waves rippling throughout the structure. Both up- and down-spin of the explosion, the fireball flattened and sterilized the surface terrain. Within moments, the yellow-white core had consumed all of the available fuel, collapsed upon itself, and winked out.

Still spinning, but unable to withstand the forces exerted on this new weak point, the ring structure slowly tore itself apart. Huge chunks of debris tumbled end over end out into space, as a five-hundred-kilometer-long section of the ring world’s hull sliced through an even longer curve of brilliantly engineered metal, earth, and water, and produced a cascade of eerily silent explosions.

There was an insistent beeping sound as the words ENGINE TEMP CRITICAL flashed on the control panel, and Cortana said, “Shut them down. We’ll need them later.”

The Master Chief reached up to flick some switches, got up out of his seat, and arrived in front of the viewport in time to see the last intact piece of Halo’s hull sheared in half by the dreadful slow-motion ballet of flying metal.

For some reason he thought of Lieutenant Melissa McKay, her calm green eyes, and the fact that he had never gotten to know her. “Did anyone else make it?”

“Scanning,” the AI replied. She paused, and he could see scan data scroll across the main terminal. A moment later, she spoke again, her voice unusually quiet. “Just dust and echoes. We’re all that’s left.”

The Spartan winced. McKay, Foehammer, Keyes, and all the rest of them. Dead. Just like the children he’d been raised with – just like a part of himself.

When Cortana spoke it was as if the AI felt that she had to justify what had transpired. “We did what we had to do – for Earth. An entire Covenant armada obliterated. And the Flood – we had no choice. Halo, it’s finished.”

“No,” the Chief replied, settling in behind the Longsword’s controls. “The Covenant are still out there, and Earth is at risk. We’re just getting started.”