Evolutions: Essential Tales of the Halo Universe

by Various

  I’m breaking regs and telling you this because I don’t believe for a hot second you would have gotten yourself deliberately involved in this—or that you’d be stupid enough to divulge ship locations or technical secrets to some pretty girl.

  You’ve got three hours. Find Lyrenne before ONI gets her. Bring her in yourself. That’ll go a long way toward clearing your name and ending this.

  Good luck.

  Harold

  Personal letter from Captain Preston Cole to his brother, Michael James Cole, July 6, 2503 (Military Calendar)

  . . . to follow up on that last quick note, Michael. I need to let you know, in case things end up going badly.

  Everything Stanforth said was true.

  I got to the bar on Roost and Lyra was gone. Everything she owned in our room had been taken—except one paper she left. It was a printout from a text-only exchange between the Gorgon and the captain of the Bellicose—something that happened two years ago. Lyra should have never known about it.

  One part of that exchange she circled in red: “We’re a good match. If you ever retire from the UNSC, you might consider working for the good guys.”

  It was a souvenir. She was the captain of the Bellicose, Michael.

  All this time. Right under my nose.

  Was she using me for information? That doesn’t make sense. I never leaked any classified data. And the more I think of it—the insurgent fighting almost died out in the sector since we met.

  So is Lyra a spy? Or someone like me? A ship captain who fell in love and wanted more than a life of fighting?

  I have to find out, Michael. I have to find her.

  —P

  {Excerpt} UNSC After-Action Report: Battle Group Tango

  AI-enhanced battle summation and casuality reports attached

  PRELIMINARY: Battle Group Tango, comprising four heavy UNSC destroyers, engaged one insurgent-controlled frigate in the Theta Ursae Majoris system January 2, 2504 (Military Calendar). Two UNSC destroyers heavily damaged. Insurgent vessel known as the Bellicose (aka the UNSC Bellerophon) lost control, was caught in a gravitational pull of the gas giant (ref ID: XDU-OI-(1)), and lost with all hands.

  ANALYSIS

  * * *

  History looks upon this time as an unfortunate (and perhaps inevitable?) misunderstanding between Earth and her colonies, but those of us fighting for the last decade also realize that it was the most amazing piece of blind fortune the human race has ever stumbled upon. Had we not been armed and learning how to fight in space . . . what would have happened in the years that followed, when we faced an enemy a hundred times worse?

  Oblivion, no doubt.

  For Preston Cole it was a time when he tempered his brilliance and flexibility into an implacable “do whatever it takes” fighting style, a time of ascendancy when his deeds propelled him (with the help of ONI’s glorification campaign) into one of the most beloved public figures of our generation.

  On a personal level, however, Cole lost the woman he loved, suffered, found a second chance at love—and lost it all again.

  At the debriefing ONI officers read him the After-Action Report concerning the Bellicose. I can only believe they thought Cole actually colluded with her and this tactic was designed to break his spirit.

  (Note to self: find these fool interrogators and transfer them to Kelvin Research Station on Pluto.)

  And it did break Cole, but not in the way the debriefing officers expected. For any other man would’ve given up everything because the lady in question was dead. For Cole, however, Lyra’s honor had to now be preserved at all costs. Cole remained stoic and silent and utterly stubborn, just as he had when he was a cadet at the Academy at Mare Nubium. Even though he faced a court-martial for treason—even execution—he did the noble thing and kept his mouth shut.

  Because of immense pressure from Admiral Stanforth and from Cole’s admiring public, he was released (no charges filed), but given strict orders that the entire affair was classified.

  So, the greatest hero of the age was sent back to Earth—to sit at a desk.

  Cole would have stayed there for the rest of his life if the burgeoning civil war between Earth and her colonies had not been rendered irrelevant by the appearance of the Covenant.

  SECTION SIX: THE COVENANT WAR: THE COLE CAMPAIGNS (2525–2532 CE)

  * * *

  Cole was promoted to rear admiral. He agitated for a reassignment that got him back to space (all requests were denied). He proposed new policies to make the UNSC fighting forces more effective against the insurgency (all ignored). After eight months at his desk job, he was quietly offered early retirement with an honorary skip promotion to vice admiral (which he accepted).

  In the years that followed, Cole’s star dimmed in the public eye, resurfacing for his highly publicized marriages to much younger women (each of which ended in even more spectacularly publicized divorces).

  Cole’s liver failed from cirrhosis on May 11, 2525, and was subsequently replaced—as were his damaged heart and worn endocrine system—by flash-cloned transplants.

  Shortly thereafter the Covenant encountered the human colony world Harvest. Only a handful of farmers managed to escape to warn the authorities. The Colonial Military Administration (CMA) sent a battle group to respond to the alien threat. They survived less than fourteen seconds before two of the three destroyers in the group were obliterated, and the remaining destroyer, the Heracles, was forced to retreat.

  The Heracles sensor logs showed an enemy with an overwhelming technological superiority. The CMA was placed under NavCOM for the duration of the conflict and effectively absorbed into the UNSC. Central Command scrambled a fleet of more than forty ships of the line to respond . . . but they needed someone to lead that force.

  Why did they pick Cole?

  In hindsight, this was a masterful choice. Preston Cole was a hero and a tactical genius and would be the only person to ever consistently win against Covenant during the long war that followed.

  Many claim that without Cole, the Covenant would have carved a path through the Outer Colonies and conquered Earth within three years, and humanity would be a memory today. Others say that any person with the same military assets at their disposal had could have done the job, and perhaps done it better.

  Cole was one thing our collection of “brilliant” admirals were not, however—a fallen hero who womanized and drank too much. If CENTCOM’s plan to repel the aliens failed, he would have made an easy scapegoat.

  I believe this last point is too convenient an explanation, however.

  We had to win at Harvest. We were not going to pick someone solely for the sake of convenient explanations later.

  No, there was something dark about Cole that appealed to our leaders. He had a proven stomach for carnage. Suicidal? Nothing so dramatic—but he did have a willingness to stare into the face of death, to sacrifice himself and any number of men and women and ships—and do so without flinching.

  And that was precisely what we needed.

  {Excerpt} Field Report ZZ-DE-009-856-841 Office of Naval Intelligence Reporting Agent: Lieutenant Commander Jack Hopper (UNSC Service Number: 01283-94321-KQ) November 2, 2525 (Military Calendar)

  AS ORDERED, Lieutenant Demos and I went to offer Vice Admiral Cole reinstatement to active duty and the job command of the fleet to retake Harvest.

  The admiral’s general state when we arrived on his doorstep was one of indifference. He answered the doorbell in his bathrobe and did not bother to return our salutes. He looked much older than I thought he would. His hair was silver and gray, as was his complexion. Gone was the spark in his eyes that I had seen in videos of this legendary man when I was a child. It was as if I’d found the ghost of Admiral Cole, and not the man.

  He did, however, read the situation report with interest, not flinching when he got to the part about the Heracles and how easily the enemy destroyed her counterparts.

  Demos suspects he was drunk—a supposition supported by
several empty bottles of Finnish black vodka in his living room.

  I believe Cole’s mind is as sharp as ever, though. Everywhere on the premises there were stacks of books (real paper books) on military histories and naval battles and the biographies of Xerxes, Grant, and Patton—and theoretical mathematical monographs on slipstream space and other mathematical esoterica that frankly I had a difficult time even understanding the titles of (like Reunification Matrices of Hilbert Fields Within Spiral Unbounded Singularities).

  After reading the situation report twice, the admiral poured himself a drink, and offered one to Demos and myself. For politeness’s sake we took them.

  Cole then said, “Three divorces, a cloned liver, two heart attacks—not much left of me, boys . . . Like anyone can help with this slice of Armageddon. But okay. I’m in.”

  He set aside his drink, untouched, and added, “I think you need me as much as I need this.” He got up to get dressed.

  When he emerged from his bedroom he was in uniform and clean shaven—transformed from the shade of a man we had seen before. He seemed taller somehow, and tougher.

  By reflex, I suppose, Demos and I stood at attention and saluted.

  Cole took command—issuing orders, asking what capital ships were available, rattling off the specifics of the staff he wanted, AIs that he would need, and then requested all the intelligence reports ONI was holding back.

  Just like you said he would.

  Vice Admiral’s Log (written) 1215 Hours November 15, 2525 (Military Calendar) UNSC cruiser Everest in slipstream space en route to REACH

  I’VE DIGESTED the data from Heracles and the Chi Ceti Incident report.

  The enemy has directed plasma weapons and a dissipative energy shield technology, the theoretical underpinnings of which our brightest can only guess at. The MAC rounds fired from destroyers Arabia and Vostok at Harvest had no effect. They didn’t have time to launch nukes . . . so their use against these energy shields remains unknown.

  My assessment: trouble.

  I see the situation as if we are a horde of Homo neanderthalensis rushing toward a medieval castle. We will throw our sticks and stones against their unassailable fortifications—and they will rain hot death upon us with crossbow and boiling oil.

  Will that analogy hold? Can I find a way to tunnel under those walls? Get inside and slaughter the enemy at close quarters?

  I have to.

  This first encounter with the aliens is a test—for them and us. So far we have failed that test. We have to show them that we cannot be so easily defeated. We have to win no matter the cost.

  The super-heavy cruiser they have given me, Everest, is a supremely fine ship (although I already see a dozen modifications I wish to make to her). The crew is battle tested and razor sharp.

  They believe in me.

  God—I can see it in their eyes. They believe that the Admiral Cole is leading them into victory.

  Maybe . . . but regardless, the truth of the matter is I will also be leading them straight into hell.

  0120 HOURS MARCH 1, 2526 (MILITARY CALENDAR) UNSC CRUISER EVEREST FLAGSHIP BATTLE GROUP X-RAY EPSILON INDI SYSTEM BRIDGE LOG (PRIMARY, VIDEO, SPATIAL ENHANCEMENTS=TRUE)

  VICE ADMIRAL Cole paced the bridge of the Everest, followed by two adjutant commanders. The two dozen bridge stations were manned by officers and their assistants—all to coordinate the activities of the flagship and the thirty-nine other vessels comprising Battle Group X-Ray as they approached Harvest.

  The colony world glowed blue and filled the view screens that stretched floor to ceiling in the cavernous command center.

  Cole paused before a translucent screen the size of a blackboard, and with deft motions he zoomed back and forth through the spatial planes of this star system.

  As the battle group descended below the planetary plane a blip appeared on screen.

  “One ship,” Cole murmured. He tapped the tactical display and the image enlarged.

  The Covenant warship had sweeping organic curves, an odd purple phosphorescence, and was patterned with glowing red ovals and lines—the whole thing looked like a sleeping deep-sea creature of gigantic proportions.

  “Two kilometers long, one wide,” Cole said. “Energy readings off scale.”

  “Increase battle group velocity to three quarters full,” Cole told one of his adjutant officers.

  He pulled the perspective back on the tactical screen so Harvest was the size of a baseball, and then plotted a parabolic course past the enemy to slingshot around the world.

  “Navigation inputs completed,” Cole told the Everest’s AI.

  Named Sekmet, the ship’s AI’s hologram was a lion-headed woman dressed in white Egyptian robes.

  “Transmit burn vectors to the fleet,” Cole ordered.

  “Aye, sir,” Sekmet answered, her cat eyes flashing green and gold.

  Forty comets flared in the dark as the group accelerated toward the Covenant vessel parked in orbit over Harvest.

  “Fire at will,” Cole said. There was no emotion in his voice. He stared at the tactical board, watching and waiting.

  MAC rounds streaked through space—strikes of molten tungsten alloy impacted the Covenant shields.

  The veil of energy shook about the alien vessel and shimmered and resonated . . . but not a gram of metal touched its hull.

  Hundreds of Archer missiles fired and filled the vacuum between the opposing forces—blanketing the enemy ship with fire and thunder . . . but not a shred of shrapnel scarred its surface.

  Two curved lines on the Covenant flanks wavered and pulled free, oscillating through space.

  They enveloped ships on either side of Battle Group X-ray.

  Plasma tore through two meters of titanium-A armor like a blowtorch through tissue paper. Explosions boiled through their interiors—blasting out the aft sections, blooming with white-hot secondary fusion detonations as reactors went supercritical . . . leaving smears of fire and burning dust where a moment before there had been two UNSC destroyers.

  Officers scrambled to COM stations to relay reports from the fleet.

  “Nukes have no effect on the vessel, sir,” and one officer shouted.

  “Sacramento is down, as is Lance Held High!”

  Vice Admiral Cole remained impassive at his tactical board.

  The Covenant ship fired again, plasma lines searing space, boiling titanium and steel, vaporizing the fragile flesh and bone contained within.

  “The Tharsis, Austerlitz, and Midway destroyed. My God!!”

  Cole squinted at the energy signatures oscillating on the display before him.

  “Campo Grande is gone! The Virginia Capes, too.”

  “Sound the retreat,” one officer screamed.

  “Belay that order,” Cole barked without looking up.

  The fleet arced about the apogee of their parabolic course and engines flared as they came about the dark side of Harvest. The scattered debris of seven destroyers, however, continued on their previous trajectories, sparks and swirls of molten alloy that faded into the night.

  Cole jotted down calculations . . . and frowned.

  “Damage and casualty report, sir.” One of his adjutant officers offered him a data pad.

  Cole waved it away.

  He leaned closer to his display and drew a curve, numbers scrolling alongside his line as it circled about Harvest—and intercepted the enemy vessel.

  Cole nodded and finally glanced up.

  His bridge officers looked to him and seemed to absorb some of the vice admiral’s implacable self-possession.

  “Open alpha FLEETCOM channel,” he ordered.

  “Open, sir.”

  “Accept new course inputs,” Cole said. “Accelerate to flank speed. Ready another salvo of MAC rounds. Sekmet, we need an Archer missile solution on target 0.1 seconds after those MACs—then a second firing solution for a salvo of nuclear detonations 0.2 seconds after initial impact.”

  Sekmet blinked. “Understood, Adm
iral. Threading multiple processing and crosschecking matrices between fleet AIs. Working . . .”

  Cole’s hands came up in a gesture that seemed part contemplation and part prayer.

  “Firing solutions acquired,” Sekmet announced.

  “Input solutions. Slave master-firing control to Everest, and lock,” Cole ordered.

  “How many of the Archers, sir?” the Chief Weapons officer asked. “How many Shivas?”

  Cole glared at the man like he was crazy. “All of them, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, sir. Solutions locked and ready to fire on your order.”

  Cole nodded and laced his hands behind his back. He studied the tactical board as Battle Group X-ray inched along their new trajectory.

  The UNSC ships accelerated about the curve of Harvest, and the sun rose and blazed across the view screens.

  The Covenant ship waited for them—plasma lines heating and flaring through space on an intercept course.

  “Prepare to launch missiles,” Cole ordered. There was steel in his tone. “Release targeting and fire control of the MACs to Sekmet.”

  He watched as the deadly plasmas sped toward them.

  “Initiate firing sequence—now!”

  Dozens of rumbles shook Everest.

  “Archer and Shiva missiles away, sir!”

  Covenant plasma, so bright it seemed to ignite the black fabric of space, hit the fleet and burned the Constantinople, Troy, and melted the prow of the Lowrentz.

  More than a thousand missiles left crisscrossing exhaust trails as they sped toward their target. The larger Shiva missiles fell behind the swarm.

  Explosions spread throughout the fleet as new plasma ejected from the Covenant ship—destroying the Maelstrom, the Waterloo, and the Excellence.

  “MAC system power at maximum,” Sekmet announced. “Automatic firing sequence to commence in three seconds . . . two . . . one.”

  The remaining ships in Battle Group X-ray fired their magnetic accelerator cannons—twenty-seven simultaneous lightning strikes that flashed across space and struck the Covenant vessel.