The Spartan drew his pistol, activated his helmet lamp, and crept up the ramp.
His caution was justified. As he reached the top, his motion sensor showed a contact—right on top of him. He ducked around the corner just in time to meet the charge of a crimson-armored Elite. The Elite growled a challenge and swung a vicious blow at the Chief’s head.
He ducked, and his shields took the brunt of the blow. He fired at point- blank range, not even bothering to aim. The Elite reared and returned fire and plasma blasts slashed through the narrow corridor.
In one fluid motion, the Chief drew, primed, and dropped a frag grenade, practically at the Elite’s feet. The alien warbled in surprise as the Spartan spun and ducked back around the corner.
He was rewarded by a flash of smoke and fire. A spray of purple-black blood splashed the metal wall. He rounded the corner, pistol at the ready, and stepped over the Elite’s smoking corpse.
The Chief continued along the corridor, which opened onto a narrow ledge.
Directly to his right, the thick metal walls stretched up and out of sight. To his left, the metal sloped away at a steep angle that led back to the main floor, that gradually gave way to the yawning abyss as he continued forward.
Ahead of him, there was a pulsing glow, like the strobe of a Pelican’s running lights.
He stopped at the source of the light: A pair of small, glowing orbs hung suspended above a roughly rectangular frame of blue matte metal. Floating within the frame were a series of pulsing, shifting displays— semitransparent, like Cortana’s holographic appearance, though there was no visible projection device. The display’s shimmering geometric patterns nagged at him, as if he should recognize them somehow. Even with his enhanced memory, he couldn’t place where he’d seen them before. They just seemed . . . familiar.
He reached a finger out to one of the symbols, a blue-green circle. The Spartan expected his finger to pass through nothing more than air. He was surprised when his finger met resistance—and the panel lights began to pulse more quickly.
“What did you do?” Cortana asked, her voice alarmed. “I’m detecting an energy spike.”
“I . . . don’t know,” the Spartan admitted. He wasn’t sure why he touched the “button” on the display. He just knew it felt right.
There was a high-pitched whine and, from his vantage point, he could see the gap in the roadway in the distance. At its edges, harsh white light sprang into view, forming a path across the break in the road, like a flashlight beam in smoke.
The light brightened, and there was a tremendous ripping sound. “I’m showing a lot of photonic activity,” Cortana said. “The excited photons have displaced the air around the light path.”
“Which means?”
“Which means,” she continued, “that the light has become coherent. Solid.”
She paused, then added, “How did you know what control to push?”
“I didn’t. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The ride across the light bridge was harrowing. He had tested the phenomenon with his foot, and discovered that it was as solid and unyielding as rock. Then he’d shrugged, told Fitzgerald to hang on, and sped the Warthog directly at the beam of illumination. He could hear Fitzgerald alternate between cursing and praying as they drove over the seemingly bottomless chasm on nothing more than a beam of light.
Once on the other side, they followed the tunnel out into the valley beyond, where the Master Chief guided the ’Hog up through a scattering of rocks and trees, to the top of a grassy rise. A sheer cliff threatened to block progress to the right, forcing them to stay to the left, as they headed toward a gap to the south.
The vehicle splashed through a shallow river. They saw the mouth of a passageway off to the right, decided that it would be best to investigate, and guided the all-terrain vehicle up through a rocky pass.
It was only a matter of minutes before the Warthog arrived on a ledge that looked out over a valley below. The Master Chief could see a UNSC lifeboat and a scattering of Covenant troops, but no Marines. Not a good sign.
A vaguely pyramidal structure rose to dominate the very center of the valley.
The Master Chief saw a pulse of light race toward the sky, and knew that the structure had to be similar to whatever caused the flash he’d seen earlier.
There was only a moment to take in the situation before the aliens opened fire and the gunner replied in kind. It was time to put the ’Hog into motion.
The Master Chief drove as the M41 LAAG whirred and rattled behind him.
Marine Fitzgerald shouted, “You like that? Here, have some more!” and fired another sustained burst. A pair of Grunts rolled in opposite directions, as a squat, long-armed Jackal was cut in half, and the heavy-caliber slugs blew divots out of the ground beyond.
As the LRV swung past the pyramid, Cortana said, “There are some Marines hiding up on the hill. Let’s give them a hand.”
The Spartan aimed for a gap between two trees and saw a tall, angular Elite step out from cover. The Elite raised a weapon but was quickly transformed into a speed bump as the Warthog knocked him down and the huge tires crushed his body.
The Marines appeared soon after that, holding their assault weapons in the air, and calling greetings. A sergeant nodded. “It’s good to see you, Chief. It was starting to get a little bit warm around here.”
Covenant forces made a run at the hill after that, but the 12.7X99 mm rounds made short work of them, and the slope was soon littered with their bodies.
The Master Chief heard a burst of static, followed by Foehammer’s voice. “Echo 419 to Cortana . . . come in.”
“We read you, 419. We have survivors and need immediate dust-off.”
“Roger, Cortana. On my way. I spotted additional lifeboats in your area.”
“Acknowledged,” Cortana answered. “We’re on our way.”
It took the better part of the afternoon to check the interlocking valleys, locate the rest of the survivors, and deal with the Covenant forces who attempted to interfere. But finally, having rounded up a total of sixty-three Marines and naval personnel, the Spartan watched Echo 419 land for the last time, and jumped aboard. Foehammer looked back over her shoulder. “You put in a long day, Chief. Nice job. Our ETA at Alpha Base is thirty minutes.”
“Acknowledged,” the Spartan said. He exhaled, then softened his clipped tone. He allowed himself to lean back against the bulkhead and added, “Thanks for the ride.”
Thirty seconds later he was asleep.
Captain Jacob Keyes stood, hands on knees, panting in front of a vertical cliff face. He and the rest of the command party had been running off and on for three hours. Even the Marines were exhausted, as the shadow cast by the Covenant dropship drifted over them and blocked the sun.
Keyes considered making use of Dowski’s pistol to fire at the aircraft but couldn’t summon the energy. The voice that boomed through the externally mounted speakers was all too familiar. “Captain Keyes? This is Ellen Dowski. This is a box canyon. There’s no place for you to run. You might as well pack it in.”
The darkness cast by the ship shifted as the aircraft lowered itself onto the bottom of the canyon. The engines howled and blew dust in all directions before eventually spooling down. A hatch opened and Dowski jumped to the ground. She appeared to be unharmed and wore what could only be described as a self-satisfied smirk. “You see? It’s just like I told you it would be.”
A half dozen veteran Elites dropped to the ground, followed by a brace of Grunts. All were heavily armed. Gravel crunched as they approached the cliff face. One of the aliens spoke, his booming voice warbling the human speech with detectable discomfort. “You will drop your weapons. Now. ”
The command crew looked at Keyes. He shrugged, bent over, and laid the M6D on the ground. The others did likewise.
The Grunts scurried about and collected the weapons. One of them chortled in his own language, as he collected all three of the Marines’ assault weapons, and carried them away.
“Which?” the Elite with the translator demanded, and looked at Dowski.
“That one!” the renegade officer proclaimed, and pointed at Keyes.
Hikowa started forward. “You little bitch! I’ll—”
No one ever learned what Hikowa would do, because the Elite shot her dead.
Keyes lunged forward and attempted to tackle the Elite, to no avail. A lightning-fast blow clipped the side of his head, hard enough that his vision grayed out. He fell to the dirt.
The Elite was methodical. Starting with the Marines, he shot each captured human in the head. Wang attempted to run but a plasma bolt hit him between the shoulder blades. Lovell made a grab for the pistol, and took a blast to the face.
Keyes struggled to his feet again, dizzy and disoriented, and attempted to rush the Elite. He was clubbed to the ground a second time. Hikowa’s dead eyes stared vacantly back at him.
Finally, after the last plasma bolt had been fired and while the odor of burned flesh still hung in the air, only two members of the command crew were still alive: Keyes and Dowski. The Ensign was pale. She shook her head and wrung her hands. “I didn’t know, sir, honest I didn’t. They told me—”
The Elite snapped up a fallen M6D pistol and shot Dowski. The bullet hit her in the center of her forehead. The pistol’s report echoed down the canyon. The Ensign’s eyes rolled back in her head, her knees gave way, and she collapsed in a heap.
The Elite turned the M6D over in his hand. The weapon was small compared to his pistol—and his finger didn’t fit easily inside the trigger guard.
“Projectiles. Very primitive. Take him away.”
Keyes felt the other Elites grab him by the arms and drag him up a ramp into the dropship’s murky interior. It seemed that the Covenant’s rules had changed again. Now they did take prisoners—just not very many. The ship lifted, and the only human to survive sincerely wished that he hadn’t.
Alpha Base didn’t offer a whole lot of amenities, but the Spartan took full advantage of what few there were. First came a full ten hours of completely uninterrupted sleep, followed by components selected from two MREs, or Meals Ready to Eat, and a two-minute hot shower.
The water was provided by the ring itself, the heat was courtesy of a Covenant power plant, and the showerhead had been fabricated by one of the techs from the Pillar of Autumn . Though brief, the shower felt good, very good, and the Spartan enjoyed every second of it.
The Master Chief had dried off, scrounged a fresh set of utilities, and was just about to run a routine maintenance check on his armor when a private stuck his head into the Spartan’s quarters, a prefab memory-plastic cubicle that had replaced the archaic concept of tents.
“Sorry to bother you, Chief, but Major Silva would like to see you in the Command Post . . . on the double.”
The Spartan wiped his hands with a rag. “I’ll be right there.”
The Master Chief was just about to take the armor off standby when the Marine reappeared. “One more thing . . . The Major said to leave your armor here.”
The Spartan frowned. He didn’t like to be separated from his armor, especially in a combat zone. But an order was an order, and until he determined what had happened to Keyes, Silva was in command.
He nodded. “Thank you, Private.” He checked to ensure that his gear was squared away, activated the armor’s security system, and buckled an M6D around his waist.
The Major’s office was located in Alpha Base’s CP, the centermost of the alien structures at the top of the butte. He made his way through the halls, and down a bloodstained corridor. A pair of manacled Grunt POWs were hard at work scrubbing the floor under the watchful gaze of a Navy guard.
Two Helljumpers stood guard outside of Silva’s door. Both looked extremely sharp for troopers who had been in combat the day before. They favored the Spartan with the casually hostile look that members of the ODST reserved for anyone or anything that wasn’t part of their elite organization. The larger of the pair eyed the noncom’s collar insignia.
“Yeah, Chief, what can we do for you?”
“Master Chief SPARTAN-117, reporting to Major Silva.”
“SPARTAN-117” was the only official designation he had in the eyes of the military. It occurred to him that, after Reach fell, there was no one left who knew his name was John.
“SPARTAN-117?” the smaller of the two Marines inquired. “What the hell kind of name is that?”
“Look who’s talking,” McKay interrupted, as she approached the Master Chief from behind. “That’s a pretty strange question coming from a guy named Yutrzenika.”
Both of the Helljumpers laughed, and McKay waved the Spartan through the door. “Never mind those two, Chief. They’re jump happy. My name is McKay. Go on in.”
The Spartan said “Thank you, ma’am,” took three steps forward, and found himself standing in front of a makeshift desk. Major Silva looked up from what he was doing and met the Master Chief’s eyes. The Chief snapped to attention. “Sir! Master Chief SPARTAN-117, reporting as ordered, sir!”
The chair had been salvaged from a UNSC lifeboat. It made a gentle hissing noise as Silva leaned backward. He held a stylus which he used to tap his lips. That was the moment when most officers would have said, “At ease,”
and the fact that he didn’t was a clear indication that something was wrong.
But what?
McKay circled around to Silva’s left, where she leaned on the wall and watched the scene through hooded eyes. She wore her hair Helljumper style, short on the sides so that the tattoos on her scalp could be seen, and flat on top. She had green eyes, a slightly flattened nose, and full lips. It managed to be both a soldier’s face and a woman’s face at the same time.
When Silva spoke, it was as if he could read the Spartan’s mind. “So, you’re wondering who I am, and what this is all about. That’s understandable, especially given your elite status, your close relationship with Captain Keyes, and the fact that we now know he has been captured. Loyalty is a fine thing, one of the many virtues for which the military is known, and a quality I admire.”
Silva stood and started to pace back and forth behind his chair. “However, there is a chain of command, which means that you report to me . Not to Keyes, not to Cortana, and not to yourself.”
The Marine stopped, turned, and looked the Master Chief square in the eye.
“I thought it would be a good idea for you and I to pull a com check. So, here’s the deal. I’m short a Captain, so Lieutenant McKay is serving as my Executive Officer. If either one of us says ‘crap,’ then I expect you to ask ‘what color, how much, and where do you want it?’ Do you read me?”
The Chief stared for a moment and clenched his jaw. “Perfectly, sir.”
“Good. Now one more thing. I’m familiar with your record and I admire it.
You are one helluva soldier. That said, you are also a freak , the last remaining subject in a terribly flawed experiment, and one which should never be repeated.”
McKay watched the Master Chief’s face. His hair was worn short, not as short as hers, but short. He had serious eyes, a firm mouth, and a strong jaw.
His skin hadn’t been exposed to the sun for a long time and it was white, too white, like something that lived in the deep recesses of a cave. From what she had heard he had been a professional soldier since the age of six, which meant he was an expert at controlling what showed on his face, but she could see the words hit like bullets striking a target. Nothing overt, just a slight narrowing of the eyes, and a tightness around his mouth. She looked at Silva, but if the Major was aware of the changes, he didn’t seem to care.
“The whole notion of selecting people at birth, screwing with their minds, and modifying their bodies is wrong. First, because the candidates have no choice, second, because the subjects of the program are transformed into human aliens, and third, because the Spartan program failed.
“Are you familiar with a man named Charles Darwin? No, probably not, because he never went to war. Darwin was a naturalist who proposed a theory called ‘natural selection.’ Simply put, he believed that those species best equipped to survive would do so—while other, less effective organisms would eventually die out.
“That’s what happened to the Spartans, Chief: They died out. Or will, once you’re gone. And that’s where the ODST comes in. It was the Helljumpers who took this butte, son—not a bunch of augmented freaks dressed in fancy armor.
“When we push the Covenant back, which I sincerely believe we will, that victory will be the result of work by men and women like Lieutenant McKay. Human beings who are razor-sharp, metal tough, and green to the core. Do you read me?”
The Master Chief remembered Linda, James, and all the rest of the seventy- three boys and girls with whom he learned to fight. All dead, all labeled as “freaks,” all dismissed as having been part of a failed experiment. He took a deep breath.
“Sir, no sir!”
There was a long moment of silence as the two men stared into each other’s eyes. Finally, after a good five seconds had elapsed, the Major nodded. “I understand. ODSTs are loyal to our dead, as well. But that doesn’t change the facts. The Spartan program is over . Human beings will win this war . . .
so you might as well get used to it. In the meantime, we need every warrior we have—especially those who have more medals than the entire general staff put together.”
Then, as if some sort of switch had been thrown, the ODST officer’s entire demeanor changed. He said, “At ease,” invited both of his guests to sit down, and proceeded to brief the Master Chief on his upcoming mission.
The Covenant had Captain Keyes, recon had confirmed it, and Silva was determined to get him back.
Though their ship had been damaged by the Pillar of Autumn during her brief rampage through the system, the Covenant’s Engineers were hard at work making repairs to the Truth and Reconciliation . Now, hovering only a few hundred units off Halo’s surface, the ship had become a sort of de facto headquarters for those assigned to “harvest” the ring world’s technology.
The warship was at the very center of the command structure’s activities.
The corridors were thick with officer Elites, major Jackals, and veteran Grunts. There was also a scattering of Engineers, amorphous-looking creatures held aloft by gas bladders, who had a savantlike ability to dismantle, repair, and reassemble any complex technology.
But all of them, regardless of how senior they might be, hurried to get out of the way as Zuka ’Zamamee marched through the halls, closely followed by a reluctant Yayap. Not because of his rank, but because of his appearance and the message it sent. The arrogant tilt of his head, the space-black armor, and the steady click-clack of his heels all seemed to radiate confidence and authority.
Still, formidable as ’Zamamee was, no one was allowed onto the command deck without being screened, and no less than six black-clad Elites were waiting when he and his aide stepped off the gravity lift. If these Elites were intimidated by their fellow’s demeanor they gave no sign of it.
“Identification,” one of them said brusquely, and extended his hand.
’Zamamee dropped his disk into the other warrior’s hand with the air of someone who was conferring a favor on a lesser being.
The security officer accepted ’Zamamee’s identity disk and dropped it into a handheld reader. Data appeared and scrolled from right to left. “Place your hand in the slot.”
The second machine took the form of a rectangular black box which stood about five units high. Green light sprayed out of a slot located in the structure’s side.
’Zamamee did as instructed, felt a sudden stab of pain as the machine sampled his tissue, and knew that a computer was busy comparing his DNA with that on file. Not because he might be human, but because politics were rife within the Covenant, and there had been a few assassinations of late.
“Confirmed,” the Elite said. “It appears as though you are the same Zuka ’Zamamee that’s scheduled to meet with the Council of Masters fifteen units from now. The Council is running behind schedule, however, so you’ll have to wait. Please hand all personal weapons to me. There’s a waiting room over there—but the Grunt will have to remain outside. You will be called when the Council is ready.”
Though not burdened by his energy rifle, which he had given to Yayap to carry, the Elite did have a plasma pistol, which he surrendered butt first.
’Zamamee made his way into the makeshift holding area and discovered that a number of other beings had been forced to wait as well. Most sat hunched over, kept to themselves, and stared at the deck.
Making matters even worse was the fact that, rather than first come, first served, it seemed as though rank definitely had its privileges, and the most senior penitents were seen first.
Not that the Elite could complain. Had it not been for his rank the Council would never have agreed to see him at all . But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, ’Zamamee was ushered into the chamber where the Command Council had convened.
A minor Prophet sat, legs folded, at the center of a table which curved around a podium at which the Elite was clearly expected to stand. Whenever a gust of air hit the exalted one he seemed to bob slightly, suggesting that rather than sit on a chair, he preferred to let his antigrav belt support him, either as a matter of habit, or as a stratagem designed to remind others of who and what he was. Something ’Zamamee not only understood, but admired.
The Prophet wore a complex headpiece. It was set with gemstones and wired for communications. A silver mantle rested on his shoulders and supported a fancifully woven cluster of gold wires which extended forward to place a microphone in front of his bony lips. Richly embroidered red robes cascaded down over his lap and fell to the deck. Obsidian black eyes tracked the Elite all the way to the podium while an assistant whispered in his ear.
The other Elite, an aristocrat named Soha ’Rolamee, raised a hand palm outward. “I greet you ’Zamamee. How is your wound? Healing nicely, I hope.”
’Rolamee outranked ’Zamamee by two full levels. The junior officer gloried in the respectful manner with which the other Elite had greeted him. “Thank you, Excellency. I will heal.”
“Enough,” the Prophet said officiously, “we’re running late, so let’s get on with it. Zuka ’Zamamee comes before the Council seeking special dispensation to take leave of the unit he commands, in order to locate and kill one particular human. A rather strange notion, since all of them look alike and are equally annoying. However, according to our records, this particular human is responsible for hundreds of Covenant casualties.
“The Council notes that Officer ’Zamamee was wounded during an encounter with this human, and reminds Officer ’Zamamee that the Covenant has no tolerance for personal vendettas. Please keep that in mind as you make your case, and be mindful of the time. A measure of brevity will serve you well.”
’Zamamee lowered his eyes as a signal of respect. “Thank you, Excellency.
Our spies suspect that the individual in question was raised to be a warrior from a very young age, surgically altered to enhance his abilities, and furnished with armor which may be superior to our own.”
“Better than our own?” the Prophet inquired, his tone making it clear that he considered such a possibility extremely unlikely. “Mind your words, Officer ’Zamamee. The technology underlying the armor you wear came straight from the Forerunners. To say that it is in any way inferior verges on sacrilege.”
“Still, what ’Zamamee says is true,” ’Rolamee put in. “The files are full of reports which, though contradictory in some cases, all make mention of one or more humans clad in reactive special armor. Assuming that the eyewitness accounts are accurate, it appears that this individual or group of individuals can absorb a great deal of punishment without suffering personal injury, have exceptional combat skills, and demonstrate superior leadership capabilities. Wherever he or they appear, other humans rally and fight with renewed vigor.”
“Exactly,” ’Zamamee said gratefully. “Which is why I recommend that a special Hunter-Killer team be commissioned to find the human and retrieve his armor for analysis.”
“Noted,” the Prophet said gravely. “Withdraw while the Council confers.”
’Zamamee had little choice but to lower his eyes, back away from the podium, and turn to the door. Once out in the hallway, the Elite was required to wait for only a few units before his name again was called, and he was ushered back into the room. ’Zamamee saw that both the Prophet and the second Elite had disappeared, leaving ’Rolamee to deliver the news.
The other officer stood as if to reduce the width of the social gap that separated them. “I regret, ’Zamamee, that the Prophet places little weight on the reports, labeling them ‘combat-induced hysteria.’ More than that, we all agreed that you are far too valuable an asset to expend on a single target.
Your request has been denied.”
’Zamamee knew that ’Rolamee had invented the “far too valuable” aspect of his report in order to cushion the blow, but appreciated the intent behind the words. Though severely disappointed, he was a soldier, and that meant following orders. He lowered his eyes. “Yes, Excellency. Thank you, Excellency.”
Yayap saw the Elite emerge, read the slight droop of his shoulders, and knew his prayers had been answered. The Council had denied the Elite’s insane request, he would be allowed to return to his unit, and life would return to normal.
If ’Zamamee had been intimidating on his way to see the Council, he was a good deal less so on his way out. He walked even faster, however, forcing Yayap to break into a run. The Grunt weaved his way through the foot traffic arrayed in front of him and struggled to keep pace with ’Zamamee.
Yayap squealed in surprise when he slammed into the back of ’Zamamee’s armored legs; the Elite had come to a sudden halt. The Grunt noticed with unease that his new master’s hands were clenched. He followed ’Zamamee’s gaze and spotted a group of four Jackals.
They dragged a uniformed human between them.
Keyes had just been interrogated for the third time. Some sort of neural shock treatment had been administered to make him talk, and his nerve endings continued to buzz as the aliens prodded his back, yelled incomprehensible gibberish into his ears, and laughed at his discomfort. He tasted his own blood.
The procession came to a sudden stop as an Elite in black combat armor blocked the way, pointed a long slender finger at the human, and said “You!
Tell me where the I can find the human who wears the special armor.”
Keyes looked up, struggled to focus his eyes, and faced the alien. He saw the dressing and guessed the rest. “I don’t have the foggiest idea,” he said. He managed a weak smile. “But the next time you run into him, you might consider ducking.”
’Zamamee took a full step forward and backhanded the human across the face. Keyes staggered, recovered his balance, and wiped a trace of blood away from the corner of his mouth. He locked eyes with the alien for the second time. “Go ahead—shoot me.”
Yayap saw the Elite consider doing just that, as his right hand went to the pistol, touched the butt, and fell away. Then, without another word, ’Zamamee walked away. The Grunt followed. Somehow, by means Yayap wasn’t quite sure of, the human had won.
