by Kelly Gay
Finally Lessa spoke up, which surprised Rion, because Less was usually the more cautious one in her crew. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt if we went out there and took a look around. . . . I mean, we are salvagers.”
“Universal law says we’re legally bound to offer assistance to distress calls,” Ram added, thoughtfully tapping a finger to his lips. “We’d simply be responding to a ship’s distress call, and helping any survivors. We could render aid—and, while we’re there, liberate their high-value asset.”
“Call it an exploratory mission,” Niko said.
While the risk weighed on Rion’s mind, she also knew that if they played this right, it might work in their favor.
The crew was in accord and waiting for an answer.
Beyond sticking it to ONI, there might be more than that valuable asset to be found. She’d just be playing the hand ONI had dealt her, after all. Plus it would be immensely satisfying to give ONI a taste of what they’d been dishing out to salvagers for years. At the very least, Rion couldn’t deny that wiping that smug look off of Agent Hahn’s face would be extremely satisfying.
“We’ll need a jump plan and a complete chart of the planet and the system,” Rion said.
Lessa’s lips drew into a smile and Ram gave an approving nod. Niko clapped his hands as Rion pushed up from the table, glanced around at the Ace crew, and grinned. “Let’s get back to doing what we do best.”
CHAPTER 12
* * *
Three of this planet’s years have now passed.
The cataloging and parsing of my human personality and body pattern is nearly complete. Memories have settled into place, and much of the past now resides in appropriate sectors to be examined at will:
My life on Erde-Tyrene.
My time with the Forerunners, with Bornstellar and the Librarian. With my human friends, Riser, Vinnevra, and Gamelpar.
The long responsibility as monitor of Installation 04.
And the rather disastrous meeting with modern humans after millennia of separation.
There are gaps, of course. More recent than not. Damage done. Things lost.
And things that remain whether I wish them to or not.
I reflect often on the past. I ponder who and what I am, and what I will become.
The lines between good decisions and bad ones are blurred. They meet and diverge like star roads, in constant motion, stretching and tangling and affecting things seen and unseen.
I travel these roads through the detached lens of a visitor to an ancient history. But the lens does not diminish the regret, the pride, the loss, and the horror of those final days of the great war that took place between the Forerunners and the Flood, and my part in it.
Part savior—I did exemplary work in my short time aiding the Librarian.
Part destroyer—as monitor, I performed my functions well.
I was Chakas.
I was 343 Guilty Spark.
What am I now?
Neither identity is satisfactory any longer, for I am changed.
I am less. And I am more.
I tuck my alloy hands beneath my metal head and lie back against the giant leaning shard of the Rubicon’s aft exterior, which juts up from the sand. It is a good place to study the stars or simply enjoy the sight of them in the sky. There is no moon or light pollution, so the nights here allow me to see far and deep into space.
I raise one knee up—digging my undamaged heel into the sand to brace me—and I spend this night, like many others, staring up and letting memories wash over me.
Still a few rogue pieces to put together, compartments to merge.
The order of things, at times, confounds me, but I find when I don’t try so hard, my memory patterns seem to fall instinctually into the right place.
This has taken much practice—letting go, slowing down my thought processes.
Allowing my mind to wander.
I have not experienced such a thing since I was Chakas, since I had a physical body and mind, and my days were spent in idle, unfocused, and reckless pursuits.
But now, as I gaze up at the stars, letting patterns drift and settle, I have begun to embrace this forgotten part of being human, this reminiscing, roaming, and sensing. My armiger body feels nothing, of course. Unless I simulate what I believe to be the correct response to external stimuli.
And I do. Quite often.
I laugh. I sing. I hurt. I cry. I let sadness wash over me the way my human personality pattern remembers it.
A hundred thousand years is a long time to yearn, to miss old friends.
What am I becoming?
Something . . . someone free.
Free to choose.
Is it a luxury, a fundamental right, or is it a burden, this freedom?
I hum.
I enjoy this function most of all. Vibration spreads through my updated vocal cords and my being fills with melody.
I remember how much I desired, at one point in my existence, to be human again. Now, however, I am beginning to conclude that humanity can mean more than simple biology, more than cells and sinew and bone. It is the consciousness, as well. And that aspect is something I still—in a manner of speaking—possess.
I have no wish for a physical existence. At least, not yet.
This form will do until I have fulfilled my purpose.
A meteor flares and then trails across the blackness of space, flickering out as though it was never there to begin with. Gone. That is the span of a human life, a bright burning silent burst, a flicker, a gasp. Then nothing more.
But other things persist, from one age to the next, defying the laws of nature, refusing to forget.
In this, I am not alone.
CHAPTER 13
* * *
Facility at Voi, Kenya, Africa, Earth, June 2557
Annabelle Richards, former head of ONI Special Operations and current director of Project: BOOKWORM, walked quickly down a man-made corridor. Behind the glossy white walls, floor, and ceiling were kilometers of fiber optics, cables, and reverse-engineered Forerunner technology—an elaborate and sophisticated labyrinth designed to trap, confound, and essentially cut off an artificial intelligence from the rest of the galaxy.
But not just any AI.
This place had been designed and built to hold one very dangerous and elusive intelligence.
Should they ever find him.
If there was anything to find.
When Annabelle had received word that the ONI-commissioned research vessel UNSC Rubicon was broadcasting a distress signal from an uninhabited planet in the Ibycus system after three years lost, she’d sat back in her chair and stared at the top secret missive in shock—so surprised in fact that the facility AI, Ferguson, had appeared on her desk with a medical alert, noting her sharp rise in blood pressure.
A cargo ship had picked up the faint signal a few weeks earlier and, because the signal indicated a military vessel, the captain had passed along the information to the authorities. Once the intel reached her, Annabelle had taken over. Unfortunately, the timing couldn’t have been worse, as her team had been out on maneuvers. But she’d found the closest ONI vessel in the sector, the Taurokado, and ordered them to secure the site for her team once their current mission was complete.
Once the Taurokado made it to Geranos-a, they would stay in orbit, with strict orders to avoid contact or engagement of any kind with the surface. If Guilty Spark, by some miracle, was still with the Rubicon, care must be taken.
Now that her team had returned from maneuvers on Titan, Annabelle felt a small measure of calm.
As she stopped at the end of the corridor and scanned her security clearance to open the elevator door, her nerves were firing in a million different directions. They’d been waiting and hoping for a break like this, and there were many times during her short tenure when she had wondered if all the preparation and effort of the last year and a half would be for nothing.
Project: BOOKWORM might finally be able to do the
work for which it was created—interview, interrogate, and study the ancient Forerunner monitor 343 Guilty Spark.
At the heart of BOOKWORM were two of the most highly classified and important pieces of data ONI had ever recovered. One was found on the shield world Onyx by Hugo Barton and his research team in the spring of 2554. Known as the Bornstellar Relation, it was an ancient Forerunner testimony detailing the key players in the Forerunner-Flood War and the galaxy-wide firing of the Halo Array. The other was a data drop recovered from deep space in late 2555. While the exact date of the drop was unknown, it had been ejected by someone or something on the Rubicon. The data contained an autobiographical account given by 343 Guilty Spark to the Rubicon crew, which mirrored events in the Bornstellar Relation.
It was shortly after this discovery that BOOKWORM came into being.
These combined accounts had provided incredible insight into Forerunner civilization—their customs, biology, rates, technology, and history—as well as their final days fighting the Flood, ruthless and invasive parasitic organisms whose sole purpose was the consumption of all sentient life in the galaxy.
Nearly one hundred thousand years ago, in a last-ditch effort to defeat the Flood, the Forerunners had created Halo—massive ring-shaped weapons designed to fire simultaneously and purge all sentient life from the Milky Way galaxy, in essence starving the Flood of its food source and wiping the slate clean. Meanwhile, the Ark stood outside the galaxy, ready and waiting to reseed life once the Flood was finally dead and gone.
Annabelle’s job as director was to compartmentalize information between divisions so that no one knew the full scope of the project, while coordinating the effort to find Guilty Spark, to study him, and ultimately determine whether the shocking claims in his account were true.
And while his testimony had gone through dozens of translations, which were then continually run through ONI’s advanced statistical AIs—“stat bots” whose sole function was to analyze and predict probabilities and causalities based on the text—there were questions left unanswered, things that didn’t add up, and eventualities they had to prepare for.
They’d learned many things from the Forerunners and their incredible technology. There were personnel here chomping at the bit to study the monitor, to see how it had survived as long as it had without devolving into complete rampancy. Finding that answer might increase the longevity of humanity’s own smart AIs.
But Annabelle felt somewhat differently. Every monitor, every ship, every bit of ancient technology was inherently dangerous. They were weapons that had to be contained. The numbers of lives lost on the Halo rings, on the Ark, and, of course, during and after the Covenant War were astronomical.
Two years had passed since Operation: FAR STORM. She’d been part of that mission and had seen firsthand the devastation and destruction wreaked by rogue and rampant AIs. Even the ancient Forerunner tales themselves, in the wrong hands, could lead to disaster.
As the elevator neared the surface, where the facility boasted its own airfield, two hangars, a comm tower, and personnel quarters, Annabelle drew in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, tugged her jacket straight, and then shoved an errant strand of red hair behind her ear where it belonged.
The elevator stopped, the door slid open, and the quiet hum of her small space evaporated. The tarmac was full of life and noise. The scent of clay and dry grass, mixed with jet fuel and exhaust, met her as she stepped outside. A hefty dose of hot savanna wind blew her sleek hair into a frenzy. “Damn it,” she muttered at her forgetfulness, pulling a small band from her uniform pocket and tying her hair back quickly before heading across the tarmac to the large, angular shape of the Eclipse-class prowler Bad Moon Rising.
A fit figure in a black flight suit emerged from beneath the enormous black wing. There was no mistaking the captain of the Bad Moon Rising. He was a formidable presence, a lifelong military man, a veteran with a list of war medals a hundred meters long, and a classified file even longer. His hair was as black as the ship he commanded, but graying at his temples, which Annabelle thought gave him a very distinguished air.
“Captain Hollier, how were maneuvers?”
The captain held out a hand to escort her away from the ship and the loud whirring of its powerful engines. Behind him, the hangar bay was being loaded with supplies for their journey to the Ibycus system.
Once they could speak without shouting, he gave her a perfunctory smile. “Maneuvers were excellent, Director.”
Annabelle should’ve been used to that title by now. Her military rank was that of captain, but for the tenure of this project she was referred to as “Director,” and it sounded odd every time she heard it.
“Gear is already on board,” Hollier continued. “We’re just loading up supplies and then we’ll be ready to go.”
“You’ve been briefed?”
“Yes, ma’am. Ferg briefed us on the way in.”
While knowledge of the project was heavily compartmentalized, Hollier knew enough details to allow him to thoroughly complete his mission—to investigate the source of the signal and contain any remains of a Forerunner AI, thought to be on board, for study. “The containment chamber?”
“In working order.”
“Good. I don’t need to explain how important this is.”
They’d had many discussions about the mission, many trials and maneuvers and simulations to prepare them for an eventuality that might never come. And while Annabelle had complete belief in Captain Hollier and his team, she still needed 100 percent reassurance.
“No, ma’am, you do not,” he replied evenly, and she appreciated his calm demeanor and understanding more than ever. “We’re ready. We’ll bring back your asset and we’ll bring it back contained.”
“See that you do.”
He gave her a crisp nod and then turned to go.
“Captain?” she called. He paused, turning back around. “Be careful out there.”
He dipped his head and then walked toward his ship as a large helping of guilt settled into her stomach, curling into a tight little knot, which would certainly stay there until they returned.
The six-member asset recovery team, or AR team as Annabelle called it, of the Bad Moon Rising strode across the tarmac and met up with Hollier, falling in line, duffels on their backs, and looking ready for anything. A black patch with a white wolf in midhowl was sewn onto the shoulder of each flight suit. No name tags, no military designations; just the “howler” in honor of the ship and captain they served.
Annabelle had selected the personnel carefully, finding the perfect candidates in Hollier’s team. They’d been pulled years ago from elite special-ops forces across the UNSC and within ONI’s Delta-6 candidate pool. Each member was highly skilled in the art of asset and artifact retrieval, which covered a wide range of skill sets—reconnaissance, direct action, unconventional warfare, counterintelligence, and more. They’d received training by specialists from REAP-X and XEG to identify, decipher, and handle Forerunner technology and artifacts, as well as the latest tech in reverse-engineering and xenoarchaeology.
In short, they were highly trained combat specialists who could function effectively as Forerunner artifact hunters, able to navigate any number of hostile worlds and environments. They were also a tight-knit group who had cut their teeth as a squad on previous projects, facing high-risk scenarios and impossible situations in the harshest of places.
In addition to the six ARs and the captain, there were two supporting staff members: a trauma medic, and Thea, a smart AI with complete knowledge of BOOKWORM’s purpose.
The ramp began to close, and Annabelle sent a silent prayer for success. Failure wasn’t an option. If Guilty Spark was found intact and operational, and her team’s attempt at containment failed . . . if he tried to take over the Bad Moon Rising the way he had the Rubicon, the prowler would begin a hard self-destruct sequence. ONI couldn’t risk this particular rogue intelligence running rampant across the galaxy with a pro
wler at his disposal.
The team knew the risks. But these weren’t ordinary people; they weren’t even ordinary soldiers. They believed in their training and their capabilities. They might be from all different backgrounds, but they had one key thing in common. They had no ties, no family, no one to miss them if they didn’t return, and, most importantly, no one who could compromise their judgment and prevent them from completing the task at hand. Their only bond was to the mission, to one another, and to Annabelle. That was it.
It might have been a terrible way to choose a team, but Operation: FAR STORM—those lost on the Ark and the numerous casualties here in Kenya as Home Fleet defended against the Ark’s Retriever Sentinels—still weighed heavily on Annabelle’s mind and heart. She’d never forget returning home from the Ark to find such destruction and casualties strewn across the savanna.
Being in charge, holding others’ fates in her hands, hadn’t been easy then, nor was it now. With a heavy sigh, she headed across the tarmac to where BOOKWORM’s head of xenoarchaeology, Dr. William Iqbal, waited for her. “Doctor,” she greeted him. “Come to see them off?”
The wind ruffled his graying hair as Bad Moon Rising prepared for lift, its thrusters maneuvering for the push off the tarmac. The dark ship ascended, rising steadily into the air.
“Godspeed to them,” the doctor said, hands tucked into his tan trousers, staring up through thick glasses as the prowler increased its acceleration and shot up into the sky. He didn’t need the glasses—not with today’s advances—but like many scholars, he held on to old traditions.
She opened her mouth to inquire about preparedness, but he was expecting it. “Don’t worry, Annabelle. We’re ready for this. All the teams are standing by.”
Annabelle regarded the darkening sky. With only the distress call containing the Rubicon’s transponder codes and location, they didn’t have much to go on. There was no way to tell if the ship had crashed, if there were survivors, if Guilty Spark was still with them or damaged or long gone.
