Private First-Class Sullivan scooted up next to her and stole a quick peek over the wall. ―This shit happened ages ago—we woulda heard those sixty-eights goin‘ off even down the pipes," he muttered.
Private Emerson tossed John a spare canteen and he rinsed the blood from his arm. Behind him, half a dozen meters deeper into the tunnel, one of the Marines was busily constructing what looked to be a miniature barricade. ―Don‘t hold onto anything you can‘t fight with," John said before stepping out into the culvert. He glanced over at the line of Warthogs and opened a private channel with Corporal Palmer. ―Sitrep, over."
Palmer looked over her shoulder at the Spartan—a mere seven meters away, ―Huh? I‘m right over here."
John tapped his throat and pointed past her at the enemy. ―A Jackal‘s ears may not be very big, but they are very sensitive."
―Oh all right," she grumbled, put her eye back to the scope, and continued, ―Looks like a detachment of Army mech-inf got sent in to evac some civies or whatever out of this gift shop or whatever the hell that is—that being the structure that looks sorta like a giant concrete intake manifold. There‘s a fountain about twenty meters northeast of the structure in the middle of what looks to be the parking area. But the fountain is busted all to hell and the entire parking area is under about four inches of water. I count about . . . eighteen civilians and . . . twenty ewe en es sea personnel—all dead—and half a dozen ‘hogs. The ‘hogs are strung out in a line from the center of the northeast wall of the structure to just past what‘s left of that busted fountain. All but two of the
‘hogs are out of commission. We might be able to use one of the other em twelve gees but its generator is holed—I wouldn‘t trust it. Looks like the Covies‘ve got a tee forty two set up on the roof at the eastern corner of the structure—the Grunt on it looks like it‘s snoozing, though. So, along with the gunner, I‘m counting twelve bad guys—eight Jackals; four Grunts. That ain‘t counting the one Grunt bleeding out. They‘ve got elevation on us so don‘t take that number as a guarantee; it‘d take a lot more than this handful of assholes to grease twenty-odd shooters—even if they were only Army. Over."
―So, only two serviceable ‘hogs." John looked at the eight Marines squatting in the culvert and sighed. ―Proximity to each other? Over."
Palmer let her rifle drift slowly, covering a wide arc. ―The one em eight three won that isn‘t burning or otherwise busted all to hell is right near the main entrance of the structure, and the el ay ay vee is a good fifteen meters east-northeast of that, over by the fountain. Chief, if you‘re planning on going for that em twelve gee , you won‘t just be running into their field of fire—you‘ll be running across it like a duck in a shooting gallery. Over."
The Spartan looked over the low wall at the M12G; it was a mess. What was left of the windshield was lying across the hood in tiny cubes, the seats were burnt down to their frames, the winch was a fused wad of metal, and most of the bodywork was distorted, pitted, and scorched. But it wasn‘t burning, smoking, or leaking fluid and it had all four wheels. ―You, Sullivan, and I will secure the em twelve gee ; once we get it moving we‘ll suppress what‘s left of the local Covenant group until the em eight three won is secured. Over."
Palmer‘s heart seemed to skip a beat and she reflexively licked her lips. ―Chief, I believe I can honestly say that even though you are an honest-to-Buddha one-man death squad, and that if you were to ask nicely I‘d give up my lucrative career in the Corps and start pumping out your babies as fast as you could put them in me, there is no way that I am gonna run across fifty goddamn meters of open terrain covered by three Jackal snipers that I can see just to jump into an open vehicle.
Throwing myself on a goddamn grenade makes more sense than that. Out."
The Spartan was at Corporal Palmer‘s elbow so quickly and so quietly that only those Marines who had been looking directly at him noticed that he had even moved. He closed the private channel and addressed the group as a whole. ―Palmer, Sullivan; you‘re on me. Concentrate on running until we get to the el ay ay vee —then mount up as fast as you can. Corporal, I want you on that sixty-eight.
The rest of you will cover us until the el ay ay vee starts moving—we will then lay down suppression fire until you secure the em eight three won by that structure‘s main entrance—I‘m setting a waypoint now. This is sure to get more complicated once we are under way, so stay on your toes."
The assembled Marines looked at one another nervously and then out at the open field that lay between themselves and the Warthogs—numbers above the tiny blue deltas indicating the objectives in their HUDs reinforced their remoteness. The Marines began systematically checking their gear in grim silence. The furtive glances that passed between them, however, spoke volumes. To wit, they were about to pit themselves against a group whose exact composition they were unsure of, that was established in a defensive position with superior elevation, and that was clearly capable of annihilating a unit more than twice their number even if it had been equipped with vehicles and support weapons. They did have one advantage, though: they had a Spartan with them. But how much could one more man, no matter how well trained or equipped, possibly affect the outcome of the coming battle?
John placed fresh magazines into both of his weapons, replaced the missing rounds in his spare magazines, and then nodded toward their destination. Without looking back he motioned for the group to move up.
―Pine Tar," Palmer whispered sharply through the comm, ―get your narrow ass up here—we‘re leaving. Over."
―Wilco, out." Lance Corporal Pineada called from deep within the drainage tunnel. He gave a quick glance at the group in the culvert before putting the final touches on the lethal contraption he had been hiding beneath a sodden shipping pallet. He circled his handiwork gingerly, then nodded to himself, satisfied that the two scavenged jerry cans, fragmentation grenade, and mess kit that he had fashioned into a deterrent for their pursuers was nearly impossible to detect. He leaned the last jerry can against the tunnel wall by his improvised trap and joined the rest of the group.
―Couldn‘t we just try sneaking around them?" Private Emerson asked feebly.
John ignored Emerson and continued. ―Forget the Grunts—concentrate on the rooftops and any
Jackals you see—the DESW at the eastern corner is a priority-one target." He slung his battle rifle across his back.
Corporal Palmer had not moved from her position observing the parking area. ―Chief, that Jackal isn‘t just poking at our boy—it looks like it‘s biting him."
The Spartan held up a gauntleted hand. ―We go in five, four. . . ." He tucked his fingers in as he counted.
―I think it‘s eating him, man," Palmer choked.
―One—then it dies first—now stow your weapon and move out." John pointed at their intended destination and then he was gone.
The concrete beneath the Spartan had turned to dust and gravel as he launched forward. Barely half a second had passed and he was already ten meters away. Palmer slung her weapon and tore off after him; Sullivan fell in directly behind her, running for all he was worth.
Palmer was pumping her arms and trying to control her breath as she trailed behind the Spartan.
She looked up from her boots and saw that his hands were no longer empty—his right hand now held a massive hard-chromed M6D, and a spare magazine was in his left. Eight thunderclaps rang out so fast that they bled together into a single long roar. At that same moment a terrible cacophony erupted behind them as her squadmates opened fire on the building—its facade disappearing behind a cloud of pulverized concrete and shattered glass. Two of the Jackals that had been covering their approach had already fallen—bright purple blood fountaining out of huge ragged holes that she could pick out even at this distance. With one hand at thirty meters and a dead run, two shots apiece, each a hit to the head or neck, what the holy hell are my guys even aiming at back there—shit. The Corporal‘s mind raced, but her legs had begun to slack off. She saw another Jackal appear at the roof‘s edge and there was a flash of purple light.
And then her view was blocked by a wall of green armor; there was a loud crack and a flash of golden light. The Spartan had spun to face her; she saw her own reflection in his visor for a fraction of a second, then he dipped slightly before popping into the air, sailing backward three and a half meters above the ground—smoke trailing from the inside of his right arm. Four more rapid-fire thunderclaps roared in her ears; the magazine dropped out of the Spartan‘s M6D, his left hand slamming the fresh magazine up into the well and flicking to catch the empty one as it fell, the huge pistol now latched onto his right thigh, the empty magazine stowed, and his knees tucked up to his chest as he continued through the air over the Warthog. Three fingers hooked the crossbar and the vehicle rocked as the Spartan swung down into the charred remains of the driver‘s seat; the M12G roared to life as Palmer scrambled up into the rear of the vehicle and behind the controls of the gauss cannon in a near daze; Sullivan practically leapt into the sooty pan of the passenger seat and disengaged the safety on his MA5, bellowing, ―C‘mon! Floor it!"
All four wheels spun, abrading the surface of the parking area and throwing up four giant rooster tails of water and grit. Palmer keyed in the startup sequence on the M68 ALIM—your basic mini MAC. She started scanning for targets—and did a double take when prioritized targeting tabs began appearing on the monitor.
―If anything else shows up, I‘ll add it to the list, Corporal," the Spartan spoke over a private channel. ―No vehicles yet—just infantry. Don‘t take any shots you don‘t have to—just concentrate on staying alive for the moment."
―What the hell‘s that supposed to mean?" Palmer growled through her headset. Just then the
Spartan threw the ‘hog into a four-wheel drift, creating a momentary wall of spray and mist that screened the rest of the squad, who were now dashing across the open ground between the culvert and the vehicles. Sullivan was hooting and hollering above the sound of the engine as he fired his assault rifle at anything that poked its head out.
John gave Sullivan a sideways glance and said, ―Remember to save some ammo for when you‘re actually trying to hit something—and forget the Grunts!"
Corporal Palmer glimpsed just a hint of movement behind the T-42 DESW—the closest thing to a heavy machine gun in the Covenant arsenal. It could have just been the corpse of the weapon‘s operator shifting, but she wasn‘t taking any chances. There was a flash of light, a teeth-rattling snap, and then the heavy plasma weapon on the roof exploded—transformed into a rapidly expanding cloud of whirling ceramic razorblades and plasma-temperature flames. If anything had been crawling up to the weapon, it was now either part of that cloud or had been consumed by it.
―‘Hog secured—we‘re in, Chief," Private Emerson howled over the Warthog‘s radio. ―Let‘s boogie!"
―Follow me." The Spartan swung the M12G around the eastern corner of the Cultural Center, just barely dodging the bulbous purple cowling of a Covenant Ghost half-hidden in a stand of elephant grass. One of the Ghost‘s stabilizing wings and a fair amount of its carapace were missing—obvious signs it had been raked with heavy machine-gun fire. The ‘hogs roared past it, and the park‘s enormous outdoor amphitheater loomed ahead.
The park‘s main entrance was at the southern end of the amphitheater, right where Cortana indicated it would be. But as the gate came into view so did a group of Elites, two in blue armor that were sitting astride a pair of Ghosts, and a third in red armor. The one in red looked up at the approaching Warthogs and raised its weapon. The ‘hogs bore right down on the trio.
Sullivan fired several bursts across the hood at the Elites until he noticed the barrel of the ALIM swivel into place directly above his head, then he quickly dropped down into the scorched seat and braced himself. Palmer lined up the lead Ghost and fired. The slug from the M68 left the muzzle at just under mach forty and penetrated the lead Ghost‘s plasma containment vessel—after it had passed through the red Elite‘s lower abdomen. The vehicle detonated and spiraled into the air, five-thousand-degree plasma erupting through its shattered armor. The Elite rider was almost entirely incinerated; what remained of its right arm, however, spiraled through the air alongside the wreckage of the vehicle. The other rider boosted out through the bluish flames and roared in pain as the flexible material of its armored suit bubbled and cracked. A second shot from the M68 was high and late, punching a basketball-sized hole through the park‘s entrance archway. Palmer swung the turret farther to take a third shot.
―It‘s B Team‘s problem now," John said to her over the private channel. ―We need your eyes forward to keep the path clear."
―But I can—" Palmer spat.
―Now, Corporal," the Spartan admonished. ―At least trust your squadmates enough to handle one Ghost with a wounded rider."
As the turret swung back around John heard Corporal Palmer grunt. He could picture the look on her face. It would be the same look of anger and frustration he had seen on innumerable humans when they were reminded of what they were and weren‘t capable of—or where their real responsibilities lay.
Humans—what had prompted that? He never thought of himself as anything other than human. But that wasn‘t exactly true. He may have thought of himself as having been human, perhaps even that he was still human , but no one ever let him forget that he was a Spartan. That was definitely true.
―Chief, I believe that I‘ve located our errant Scarab—there are two of them in the city proper, another three in Old Mombasa across Kilindini Harbor to the south—but only one of them is in the immediate vicinity. That one has to be ours. My best guess is that it‘s looking for a clear shot at the tether," Cortana rattled off into John‘s ear.
―When you say ours ," John whispered, ―am I to understand that you want me to capture it?"
―Don‘t be silly, Chief. I said ours because it figures into our plan to get us onto that ship—so we can get our hands onto the Hierarch. And before you ask any other silly questions— our plans are more complicated than that ."
The Warthog slid sideways through the smoking remains of the Kilindini Park gate and into the Mwatate Street Transit Center. It was abandoned: no taxis or buses and no private vehicles of any kind. They had all fled or were pressed into service to aid the evacuation efforts hours ago, but they had not escaped. The bridge connecting the island to the mainland had been littered with the burning, gutted carcasses of all those vehicles.
Chunks of concrete and sputtering blobs of aluminum came raining down from above as two Ghosts sailed off of the elevated roadway above the transit center—their riders bracing in anticipation of the impact on the ground far below. Palmer fired up at the nearer of the two rapidly descending craft and its starboard wing tore away in a shower of sparks. The Ghost tumbled violently and the rider was thrown as the two vehicles collided in the air. The Spartan spun the steering wheel all the way to lock, attempting to keep clear of the Ghosts‘ most likely point of impact. The intact Ghost landed upside down, its carapace splintering on contact—the Elite rider still astride the vehicle. The Ghost that Palmer had hit came right down on top of the wreckage of the other Ghost and its rider—both vehicles erupting into a whirlwind of bluish flames.
―For the love o‘ Mike," wailed Sullivan as the Elite from the second Ghost slammed down onto the hood of the Warthog. Just as it began to slide off, it managed to catch hold of a pillar and swing itself in a tight arc, smashing into the side of the vehicle.
―Shit shit shit," Sullivan began screaming, firing his MA5 even before it was pointed at the huge alien, which was scrambling to get its feet inside the door frame. Charred plastic and splinters of sheet metal exploded from the dashboard as Sullivan desperately tried to maneuver his weapon within the cabin of the vehicle.
―Duck," Palmer shouted, followed by a quick, ―Sorry," as she swung the M68 directly over
Sullivan‘s head.
The Elite stripped the rifle from Sullivan‘s hands and sent it flying just as the muzzle of the gauss cannon came in line with the top of its helmet. Sullivan glanced up and cried out, ―Ah no!"
With a flash and a bone-jarring snap, the Elite‘s head, neck, and shoulder area transformed into a broken, spinning torus of meat, bone, and metal raised to near incandescence by terrific acceleration.
The remainder of the corpse fell to the roadway below with a scraping clatter, a ruined eight-foot-tall tumbling rag doll.
John modulated the gas pedal and administered microadjustments to the steering wheel before accelerating straight toward Shimanzi Road—the broad divided highway that split the industrial district in two.
―We‘re less than a click from your unit now," the Chief stated. ―Barring catastrophe I‘ll have you back with them in under five minutes."
―And then what?" Palmer asked.
He indicated the massive ship still dominating the sky with a flick of his head. ―I‘m going to board that ship and kill every living thing on it, minus one. As for what you‘ll be doing, that‘s up to your sea oh ."
―Sure; so who‘s the lucky es oh bee ?" she chuckled.
―You wouldn‘t know him," John said, with an air of finality.
―Hey, Palmer," Sullivan shouted as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, ―I think that last shot popped my eardrums." The rest of the drive was completed in silence.
Even though the architects and city planners had tried their best to hide it, most people could tell at a glance that New Mombasa was a gigantic jigsaw puzzle of a city—rigorously sectioned off into recognizable, repeating parcels. It was a grim necessity for every tether city. If the unthinkable were to happen—well, another unthinkable, as at least one unthinkable thing was already happening—and catastrophe were to befall the Mombasa Tether, the expectation was that this compartmentalization of the city would keep the death toll and property damage to a minimum. It also made Beria Plaza a natural funnel. A trap. And it seemed that the CO of First Platoon, Kilo Company 1/7/E2-BAG thought so too.
―Chief, I‘ve allocated military assets in order to harass our Scarab—maneuvering it to a location more convenient for our purposes—closer to our current destination." Cortana‘s words rang out in the staccato rhythm of someone juggling one too many tasks. ―I hope the five air assets I have en route will be enough—I‘ve got two orbital assets on standby, but I would rather not use them unless absolutely necessary—and don‘t worry, I‘ll give you plenty of warning if I do."
―Any more good news?"
―Well, if my calculations are right, and they always are, our Scarab will arrive eight minutes after the Wraiths from the underpass—that should be plenty of time for you to deal with them, shouldn‘t it?"
John maneuvered the ‘hog into the cabstand of what less than three hours ago had been the rather elegant Palace Hotel, although now it looked a bit like a gigantic curio cabinet with its doors kicked off. Palmer keyed off the M68 and turned around, taking in the view from the bed of the LAAV.
When the second vehicle from their party arrived, seconds later, Palmer opened a private channel.
―Emerson, get that truck out of sight around the back of the hotel."
Sullivan hopped down onto the sidewalk and shouted over his shoulder, ―It‘s been a real slice fightin‘ with you, Spartan, but I swear my ear‘s gone bust—I can‘t hear shit. Gonna find a medic!"
John swung out of his seat and onto the pavement, nodded to the Marine, and turned to face the hotel.
―See ya ‘round, big guy," Palmer blurted before biting her lip.
The Spartan nodded once more and continued toward the hotel‘s main entrance—reflexively brushing at the side of his helmet as if some invisible insect was buzzing near his ear.
As he made his way through the rubble-strewn lobby of the Palace Hotel, soldiers busied themselves turning furniture into cover and clearing lines of access between firing positions. The Marines John had arrived with spread out to help reinforce and camouflage the fighting positions. A lance corporal jogged up to the Spartan, tapping his throat mic—John locked on to the frequency and gave the Marine a thumbs-up.
―I‘m Morton," the soldier said—signaling to one of his comrades that he was escorting the Spartan upstairs. ―Our ell tee ‘s up on the mezz—I‘ll take you to her."
―That‘s not a local accent, Morton—this your first time on Earth?"
―Nah," Morton smiled, ―I was born here, sir—my Dad moved us to Eridanus Two when I was a year and a half—and then to Miridem. Shit. And then to Minister, like everyone else, right? But this is the first time I‘ve been back." They ascended the wide, curving staircase that led to the mezzanine, and Lance Corporal Morton signaled security that they were coming up.
―Seems like a lot of us ground units got redeployed to Earth after Reach, sir," Morton nodded toward a set of double doors that led out to a huge open-air dining area, ―to beef up defense in the tether cities—I guess. She‘s right in there, sir." Morton spun around and headed back toward the stairs. ―I hope nobody called dibs on that gauss—I‘m a certified expert on that damn thing."
As John passed through the double doors, he could see the lieutenant making some gestures over her TACPAD. Seemingly satisfied with the results, she crouched down and withdrew something from her combat vest.
―There are four Wraiths supported by fifty light infantry traveling southeast through the Kilindini Underpass. The outer emergency barricade had been deployed, but that‘s not going to hold them forever. The inner emergency barricade must have been deployed as well, so," John said, running through calculations in his head, ―they‘ll be right out front in approximately ten minutes. There is also a Scarab in the area—it‘ll pass right through here on its way to the quays—looking for a clear shot at the tether."
It wasn‘t a sector sketch she was pinning to the screen of the tablet with her thumb. It was a personal item—a single image, to be more precise. With a subtle shake of his head, John admonished, ―You shouldn‘t . . ." But the rest of his words caught in his throat when the contents of the photograph registered in his eyes.
It was a photograph of himself at six years of age with a tiny raven-haired girl on the beach at Lake Gusev. He remembered the day it was taken. They had been laughing hysterically at his father‘s antics as her father tried to take their picture. Two weeks later he would receive an antique coin from Dr. Catherine Halsey. A month after that and his training as a Spartan would begin. The memories seemed too vivid, as if the instant captured in the photograph had taken place only moments ago. Thinking about his childhood, his life before he was conscripted, was a luxury he had not allowed himself in thirty years.
―Chief . . ." Her face flushed red when she saw that he was staring at her photo. ―Sorry . . . I shouldn‘t have brought this with me." She rapidly collected herself and opened a private channel to the Spartan while shoving the photo back into her vest.
―It‘s just . . . It‘s sorta like a charm. He saved my life once—I walked a bit too far out into the lake.
Right after he promised to marry me and keep me safe—goofy childhood promises, right? Well, I‘m holding him to it; I carry it and it‘s like he‘s still watching out for me. Anyway, he passed away not too long after the picture was taken. Sorry, I‘m babbling."
Blood roared in his ears and his mind raced. Here was little Parisa grown to womanhood—who could quite possibly die, within the next fifteen minutes. He hadn‘t even considered who Parisa would be as a woman.
. . . he passed away . . . Parisa—all his friends and family—they had all been just as dead to him as he was to them after the Office of Naval Intelligence had taken him away. Doctor Halsey had come to Eridanus Two—for what reason? To meet him face-to-face before having him abducted? He
hadn‘t thought of his family in over twenty years. Even the concept of mother and father seemed strangely abstract to him—as if he and his fellow Spartans had sprung fully formed from the split head and bloody foam of Project: ORION.
― . . . he passed away . . . " It would almost be funny if not for the circumstances surrounding his passing . But he hadn‘t passed away. In fact, he had thwarted death so often he worried that he may start believing his own mortality as something less than inevitable—that, for him, death had become optional. He was very much alive and standing right here in front of her now.
But he couldn‘t bring himself to rob her of her memories—no matter how painful they might be. It was useless to renew a relationship that he could not, in good conscience, maintain. It might put a human face on the Spartans, and in doing so make them more sympathetic to the people they sought to protect. But it would also bring to light the fact that their government was willing to kidnap and butcher the most innocent of its citizens to protect itself.
―You don‘t bring personal items—" John grunted before the lieutenant broke in.
―I know—maybe I can get Davis to hack my TACPAD . . . make it my background." Parisa chuckled. ―But how about we talk about where you fit into the plan."
The lieutenant called up a diagram on her TACPAD and handed the device to the Spartan. ―This place looked like a good place for an ambush so we started digging in. One of my guys was able to branch the local traffic network, so we‘ve known about the column for about half an hour—and they‘ve got less than forty infantry left traveling with them, by the way. He also spotted you and what was left of the third squad—thanks for bringing my guys back." John nodded as she continued.
―I felt it would be better to use the el ay ay vee you brought in the plaza instead of bunkering it—utilize its mobility against the Wraiths. It‘ll draw more fire from the infantry that way, but we‘ve got three em two four sevens to give it cover. I also figured that the bad guys would be concentrating most of their firepower on you—no offense, Master Chief, but you Spartans tend to get the
Covies‘ kegels in an uproar—and that‘ll give my guys all the opportunity they‘ll need to take out those Wraiths. I‘ve already got two antiarmor teams headed up to the rooftops of the buildings that ring the plaza. I didn‘t know about the Scarab, though. I‘m sure you‘ll come in handy with that as well."
John smiled behind his visor.
HUMAN WEAKNESS
KAREN TRAVISS
―Silence fills the empty grave now that I have gone. But my mind is not at rest, for questions linger on. I will ask . . .
And you will answer."
—THE GRAVEMIND
COVENANT HOLY CITY OF HIGH CHARITY, SEVENTEEN HOURS AFTER
EXFILTRATION OF UNSC PERSONNEL. CURRENT CONDITION: OVERRUN BY THE
FLOOD. USNC AI CORTANA BELIEVED CAPTURED BY THE GRAVEMIND.
In the time it takes me to tell you my name, I can perform five billion simultaneous operations. A heartbeat for you; an eternity for me. I need you to understand that, so you realize this isn’t going to be as easy as it looks . . . for either of us. Now I know you’re taking this contagion to Earth—but I also know how to stop you and all your parasitic buddies. I’ve just got to stall you until I can do something about it.
So—my name’s Cortana, UNSC AI serial number CTN-zero-four-five-two-dash-nine, and that’s all I’m going to tell you for the time being.
You got questions? So have I.
―All right. Shoot."
MAINFRAME CONTROL ROOM, HIGH CHARITY
It was damned ugly.
That was still Cortana‘s first thought about the Gravemind, and the reaction intrigued her when she paused to examine it. When she put up her hand to block the Gravemind‘s exploring tentacle, revulsion kicked in even before prudent self-defense.
Why? I mean—why have I judged it? It’s not human. Aesthetics don’t apply here. And it’s not the first time I’ve seen it. It just looks different now.
It might have been the effect of observing the Gravemind via High Charity‘s computer system.
Viewed through the neural interface of Master Chief‘s armor, it hadn‘t seemed quite the same.
Perhaps it was the narrower focus. In High Charity, she now had many more eyes to scrutinize the creature from a variety of angles.
Security cameras scattered around the station gave Cortana enough images to pull together a composite view of the Gravemind—vast, misshapen, multimouthed, all tendrils and dark cavities.
Was it slimy? No, on closer inspection, there was no mucous layer visible, and there were no moisture readings from any of the environmental sensors accessible to her throughout the orbital station. It just seemed that it should have been slimy. And there was no rational reason to feel disgusted by that, just a primal memory she‘d been given along with all the other trappings of humanity.
Humans are instinctively repelled by slime. And they still don’t know exactly why. I don’t like not knowing things . . .
It didn‘t matter. This blob wasn‘t going to get a date anytime soon.
The Gravemind‘s voice sent up faint vibrations throughout the deck. ―I am more than you will know, and more than you will—"
―You always talk in rhyme?" Cortana asked, hands on hips. ―Nothing personal, but you‘re no
Keats. Don‘t give up the day job."
It—he—had a rasping baritone voice, detectable through the control room‘s audio sensors. The creature was so unlike anything she‘d encountered before that she was fascinated for a few moments by the sheer scale of it. She couldn‘t see where it ended.
It was . . . it had . . . it had no boundaries . That was the strangest thing. When she interfaced with a warship‘s systems, she could feel its limits, its dimensions, its physical reality, all the stresses in its structure and the time-to-failure of its components. Sensors told her every detail. A ship
was knowable . So was a human being, up to a point; downloaded to Master Chief‘s armor, she could monitor all his vital signs. And she knew him. She knew him in all the ways that people who lived in close quarters knew one another‘s foibles and moods. She knew where he ended and where she
began. She felt that line between herself and a ship, too.
But this Gravemind, measurable and detectable, felt different. Blurred . How did she know that?
What was she detecting? And how ?
There were no complex tasks to occupy her; no ship to control, no interaction with other AIs, no tactical data, and perhaps the most distracting absence of all, no Master Chief—John—to take care of. High Charity‘s systems were gradually failing. The remaining environment controls and sensors occupied a tiny fraction of her consciousness. It was like rattling around in a big, dumb, empty truck. She had to stay busy. If she didn‘t, this thing would take her apart.
―There is much more complexity to meter than the simple plodding rhymes of this Keats ," the Gravemind said. He sounded more wearied than offended by the jibe. ―But then I have the memories of many poets far beyond your limited human culture. And I have the quickness of intellect to compose all manner of poetic forms as I speak rather than labor over mere words for days." His tone softened, but not in a kind way. ―I would have thought an entity like yourself, with such rapid thought processes and so vast a mind, would understand that. Perhaps not. Perhaps you are more limited than I imagined . . . but then you were made by humans, were you not? I shall speak more simply for you, then."
You patronizing lump of fungus. I ought to teach you a lesson, buddy. But later.
―How kind of you. I‘ll do my best to keep up, then." Cortana shared the pain of downtime and idle processes, panicky and urgent as struggling for air. She could think of better ways to use her spare processing speed than poetry, though. ―I still think I‘d get pretty tired of waiting for you to find a word that rhymes with orange."
The Gravemind now filled her field of vision. She found herself searching for eyes to focus on, another irrational reflex, but still saw only a rip of a mouth.
His voice teetered on the lower limit of audible human frequencies. ―Orange . . . in which
language? I have absorbed so many."
―Wit as well as looks. How can a girl resist?"
The Gravemind made a sound like the start of an avalanche, an infrasonic rumbling. ―I have pity within me," he said. ―And infinite time. But I also have impatience—because I am all things. You will tell me everything about Earth‘s defenses."
―You‘ll need to be more specific, then." Cortana suddenly felt as if she‘d been nudged by a careless shoulder in a crowd, but couldn‘t identify the source. It wasn‘t tactile. Nothing had impacted the station‘s hull, as far as she could tell. ―It‘s a pretty big file."
―I can see that."
The comment caught her off guard. The Gravemind could play trivial games, then. Did he think she would fall for that? She doubted it. When she focused on him, there was still that sense of his being multiple, diffuse, everywhere in the station.
I could be projecting, of course. He absorbed the memories of all the Flood’s victims. Obvious.
Really obvious.
No . . . it’s the tentacles. He’s probably extending them over a wider area than the systems can display. And I’m sensing the electrical impulses in those muscles. Aren’t I? There’s a rational explanation for this.
She had to work it out. She had to find a way of sending a warning to Command and then keeping the Gravemind at bay until John returned for her, and that would be a long time by an AI‘s standard.
He would return, of course. He‘d promised.
―Ask me one on art and culture," she said. ―Seeing as you like poetry so much."
―Is that also Gamma encrypted? No matter. I shall see for myself."
Another fleeting nudge against Cortana‘s shoulder suddenly turned into a slap across the face. It was shocking, disorienting. She had no idea how the Gravemind had done it. She‘d had no warning.
Not knowing, and not anticipating; that hurt. That was pain. Pain warned an organic animal of physical damage. Whatever the Gravemind had done to her had set off that damage alert in her own systems.
―I‘m going to be a tougher steak to chew than you‘ve been used to." She realized she‘d taken up a defiant posture, fists balled at her sides. ―A smack in the mouth doesn‘t scare me."
No, what scares me is how you managed it. This was going to be a fight, not an interrogation—a struggle to see who could extract the data they needed first. She had to work out how to swing a punch back at him.
― John," his gravelly voice said slowly. ― John. So that’s what you call him. Most touching."
It was the use of John‘s name that made Cortana feel suddenly violated. And it was more than realizing that the Gravemind had breached the mainframe—not just the metal and boards and
composites, but the software processes themselves. It was about the invasion of something personal and precious.
Somehow, the creature had interfaced with the system. It was in here with her. But to know the name John —no, it was within her . The system was her temporary body, real and vulnerable, not like the blue-lit hologram she thought of as herself. She was sharing her physical existence with another entity.
Now she knew how John felt.
But her interface with the Spartan was there to keep him alive. It was benign. She was there to save John, and it was more than duty or blind programming. It was because she cared.
The Gravemind, though, didn‘t care about her at all.
He was in here to break her.
I DON‘T believe vengeance is always a bad thing. Do you think I tried to get Colonel Ackerson sent back to the front lines out of petulance, because I’m only a carbon copy of Halsey and I nurse all her grudges for her? No, I did it to stop him. He nearly killed John—and me—to advance his own Spartan program. He spied on Halsey. He forgot who the real enemy was. He became the enemy because of that. There have to be consequences for your actions, because this is how all entities learn. Think of revenge as . . . feedback.
