Halo: Evolutions - Essential Tales of the Halo Universe

by Eric Nylund

  “Right,” she said without feeling. No, wrong. The radio had been silent for too long. Too much interference. Benti knew that if more were coming, it wouldn’t be to help them.

  Henry looked at her, then Clarence, and the Elite’s shoulders sagged in a universal sign of disappointment. It read Benti’s expression just fine. Its shoulders sagged further when, beyond the door, came a crash and rumble.

  “There’s another way out of here?” Benti asked.

  “Yeah,” the prisoner said reluctantly, “but we’ve heard them things outside that hatch too.”

  “Just show us the way out,” Benti said impatiently.

  Cricket bat resting up against his shoulder, Henry pointed without enthusiasm to a ladder and hatch leading up to the next deck.

  “We’ll have to chance it. You’re on a prison transport, you must be badass.” Despite befriending a Covie. “Get Gersten’s gun and use it.”

  Rimmer shook his head emphatically. “Not that badass. Nobody’s that badass. He touched it, I’m not touching it. I’m not going near it.” She wasn’t going near it either, which was the point.

  Clarence retrieved Gersten’s rifle, took a wipe from the pouch Benti had half opened, cleaned the weapon, and thrust it at Rimmer. Benti he might argue with, but under Clarence’s glare, Rimmer took the rifle. Reluctantly.

  “What about Henry?” Rimmer asked. “Henry deserves a better weapon.”

  Clarence gave the two of them a look like, Isn’t it enough we haven’t blasted him to hell? Benti just gave a humorless laugh. Even with the odds stacked against them, no way would she willingly hand a rifle to a Covenant.

  “Let him keep his cricket bat,” Benti said. “And he can be the one on point. If he doesn’t like it, tough.”

  Henry didn’t seem surprised. Rimmer seemed about to argue, then thought better of it.

  “Henry, Rimmer, me, and Clarence, that order. One of us drops—”

  “We leave them,” Rimmer said. “Or make sure they don’t come back.”

  She put her foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. If there was anything up there, she couldn’t hear it over the din back in the recycling plant.

  “Covenant are not in charge of this ship.” It wasn’t framed as a question.

  Rimmer snorted. “The Flood got out. There’s no one in charge of this ship any more.”

  >Lopez 1510 hours

  Lopez shook the pain out of her hand. Her knuckles stung. “Never hit someone in the jaw, MacCraw.” But, damn, on some level, it had felt good. She’d wanted to do it for a while.

  He gaped at her. “But you just did! Sarge!”

  “Silly of me,” she said, turning to Smith, who’d staggered to the floor, holding his face, blood on his chin. “Very silly.” She slammed one regulation navy boot into his gut so hard he curled around her foot, the force exploding saliva from his mouth.

  “Sarge!” What outfit did MacCraw think he’d joined? The Lady’s Auxiliary Gardening Society?

  “You know what that thing was, you lying son of a bitch.” Lopez ignored MacCraw. “Virus my ass. Mahmoud, search him again.”

  Four rosary beads in her mind, possibly six more hanging in the balance. She flexed her fingers. Yeah, never hit someone in the jaw, unless it was utterly necessary.

  “Still nothing,” Mahmoud reported.

  Smith looked a little too smug about that. She was beginning to think he couldn’t help himself.

  “Take off his shoes. Check his tighty whities, if you have to. Check his damn body cavities!”

  “Sarge!” Mahmoud looked as mortified as Smith.

  Lopez curled her lip in a snarl. Didn’t need to say anything further.

  Nothing on Smith’s body, who flinched away from the rough hands on him. But then:

  “Sarge,” Mahmoud couldn’t conceal the relief in his voice. He rose, Smith’s shoes in one hand, an identity pass in the other. “I found this.”

  Lopez read it. “Office of Naval Intelligence, Section 3, Major John Smith, Research and Development.” The foulest tasting title she’d ever uttered. “Lovely.”

  ONI. Spooks. Wraiths. The mystery was suddenly a whole lot less mysterious, and Lopez found that didn’t make her any happier.

  Smith wheezed suddenly, sucking in a huge gulp of air, face beet-red and not just from the punch.

  “Officer on deck, soldiers,” Lopez said to the others as she crouched down beside Smith, if that was even really his name. “Why didn’t you identify yourself?” She thought she had a good idea why. Whatever Smith’s mission had been, that mission had gone belly-up. Not just failed, but failed in a spectacular, amazing, epic way.

  He choked and coughed, curled up to protect his belly.

  “Why didn’t you identify yourself, sir?” Lopez asked.

  Percy spat on the ground. MacCraw still just stood there, stunned by the way events had broken.

  Smith uncurled, up on one elbow. Now Lopez could see he was furious. “Let’s cut the bull-crap, Sergeant. I outrank you. It doesn’t matter why I didn’t give you my rank to begin with. Effective immediately, we abandon ship.” He stopped, coughed again. “I cannot be infected. I am privy to highly classified intelligence—I cannot be allowed to be infected. We abandon ship, return to the Red Horse, and destroy the Mona Lisa from a safe distance.”

  When she didn’t answer, Smith said, “I know you had to come on a Pelican. Probably in the hangar right now, waiting for you.”

  They stared at each other.

  “That’s an order, Sergeant.” Quietly. In control of himself now.

  A whole new game now, and Lopez didn’t have the right of it. Or did she? Smith could’ve told her men to arrest her, but he hadn’t.

  “I have soldiers aboard I cannot contact. Sir,” she said.

  The others looked on with a kind of fascination, witnessing something she knew they’d never seen before. Smith outranked her, but these were extenuating, extraordinary circumstances. Lopez was their Mama. Smith wanted to retreat to a safe place. Command was a privilege those under you had to grant. You assumed it, but you couldn’t assume it.

  “There have been many casualties in this war,” Smith said. “There will be many more.”

  Well. That sealed it. She bent at the knees and landed a punch from above. Damn, that hurt. Grabbed his collar and hauled him to his feet, shoving him back at Mahmoud and Singh.

  “Sarge?” Percy said.

  She nursed her hand. “Shit, ouch, shit. We’re going to the bridge. No spook is going to leave my kids in the dark and then scuttle the ship on them. Shit. Benti would haunt us if we did, and she’d be a real annoying ghost. Damn, that stings. Any questions?” Said it casual, but knew this was the break point. If they were going to break.

  Met their eyes, relieved to see no argument there. You didn’t leave your own in the dark. Not even if there were big bad “viruses” out there. Especially not then.

  “Um.”

  Except for Percy, apparently. Was she going to have a problem with Percy?

  “Private?”

  “Can I hit him too, Sarge?”

  >Foucault 1515 hours

  Foucault stood on the bridge beneath the light of the images brought back from the ship’s remote cameras. They’d displayed the same thing for hours: the Mona Lisa dark and tiny against the backdrop of broken Halo, the endlessly shifting cloud of debris, brief flares in Threshold’s atmosphere as pieces of Halo plummeted into the gas giant, and one Covenant capitol ship, on the very edge of the sensors, nearly masked by the planet. The Covenant ship hadn’t picked up on them, and some part of him—the reckless part—wanted to sneak up and lay down a few well-placed mines.

  A timer, nestled in to one corner of the main screen, counted the seconds since last contact with Sergeant Lopez and her team.

  It had been running a long time.

  Rebecca stood on a holopad in her war avatar. Foucault had insisted on it. It seemed disrespectful of her to show up on the bridge looking like a dumpy It
alian woman. It offended his sense of decorum. Besides, he often underestimated Rebecca when she took on that avatar. He didn’t want to do that, not now.

  He knew: there were Covenant on board the Mona Lisa.

  He knew: there were ONI personnel on board the Mona Lisa.

  He knew . . . well, not much else.

  He knew his options were limited.

  The timer flicked over, another minute gone.

  A new context, a new paradigm. A new something.

  “Helm,” he said, determined to break the spell of inertia. “Bring us up on the Mona Lisa. Quietly. I want Sergeant Fugazi and two squads prepped and ready for dust off as soon as we’re alongside.”

  “Yes, sir! New heading—”

  “Commander,” Rebecca cut in over the top. “What are you doing? Our orders specifically state that if recon, or a loss of recon, indicates the Mona Lisa has been compromised beyond retrieval, the Red Horse is authorized to fire a Shiva missile and destroy the ship, regardless of passengers and regardless of revealing our position.”

  Foucault turned, caught the eye of the helmsman, who was hesitating, and nodded. “Yes, Rebecca. I am aware of our orders.”

  Sometimes he’d much rather be a private than a commander. Sometimes he’d much rather be lowered down into the middle of a firefight than have to make overarching high-level and distant decisions. Field combat came more naturally to him than this posturing and fencing.

  Rebecca crossed her arms, tilting her head toward the timer. “That indicates a ‘loss of recon,’ Commander. It is time to reassess the situation.”

  Intimidation tactics were wasted on an AI, but he leaned down, close to the Ghost Who Must Be Obeyed, and whispered. “I have been given my orders, but I have not been granted any information with which to assess the situation. We are to destroy the Mona Lisa if it is ‘compromised,’ but by what I do not know.”

  “Covenant,” Rebecca replied succinctly.

  “Sergeant Lopez and her team are more than capable of handling the Covenant presence on board that ship. No, I say again: I have not been given any information that would warrant firing on one of our own ships with my own soldiers aboard. Prep a Pelican, bring up the Red Horse. I suspect you could tell me what I need to know, and I suspect you will not. Thus, I see no alternative but to conduct further recon.” Perfectly aware he was beginning to sound like his prissy schoolteacher of a father. “You were right. We do send our soldiers to their deaths, but we do not willingly abandon our own, Rebecca. We do not turn and leave them.”

  “You’re getting spittle on my projector,” Rebecca said.

  Foucault straightened, turning away. He really missed Chauncey.

  “Once I have all the facts, then I shall reassess the situation. And part of that reassessment will be to determine if you are fit for duty, given your current conduct. Your activation date was, as I recall, more than six years ago.” He did not use the word rampancy, but knew she damn well understood his meaning. A dirty tactic, but these were dirty times.

  Silence between them. Foucault thinking of his superior officer with the glass eye.

  This time, Rebecca broke first.

  “Okay.”

  Foucault struggled not to raise an eyebrow in surprise.

  This time it was the AI’s turn to lean in and whisper. “Somewhere private, Commander. I have something to show you. Something you won’t want your crew to see.”

  >Burgundy 1520 hours

  Hands and claws and deformed bodies and the stink of something so foul she’d vomited. Forming a living conveyor belt, passing her along the passageways. Always the roar of their anger to drown out her screams.

  She’d gone down fighting, but she’d gone down. The mistake had been thinking Cranker had still been Cranker, Maller still Maller. A shot through the heart didn’t do it. A shot in the leg didn’t do it. By the time she’d figured that out, they’d had her. Maller had broken one of her legs as she’d tried to get to the pilot’s seat. Cranker had knifed her in the side.

  As she’d lain there trying to get up, Cranker had kicked her, and Maller had reared up with fist and claw held high, like he was going to finish her off. But then a whole bunch of the small ones, the ones like bouncing beach balls—that’s what her mind made them into so she could handle it—had come surging up the gangplank. Cranker had stopped, and Maller with him.

  They’d stood there, heads held like they were sniffing the air, or like they were receiving information. Plants reaching for the light.

  By then, Burgundy had begun to go into shock, the pain draining away. She couldn’t get over the strangeness of those living beach balls, which made her mind flash to images of the ocean when she was on leave. A strange, quick glimpse of Benti drinking a piña colada, Clarence alone in the distance like a lost soul, wandering through the surf, looking for seashells. Surely Lopez had to be somewhere. The sarge would come and save her.

  She’d tried to resume her epic journey to the pilot’s seat, but Cranker and Maller had come to some kind of decision.

  Suddenly, Cranker was picking her up and slinging her over his shoulder, growling as he did it. The pain of that cut through the shock, her leg a burning plank of wood. She screamed, beat at him with her good arm, only realizing in that second that her right arm hung useless across Cranker’s back. Across the horrible nodule of a passenger he’d picked up. There was a wetness that clung to her that she realized must be blood.

  Maller brought up the rear, followed by the beach balls. She closed her eyes against that sight, and most of the time since she’d tried to keep them shut. It was her only defense against what was happening.

  Because now, slowly, laboriously, with starts and stops where Cranker carried her again, she was being passed along by a great community of the horribly transformed—down corridors, pushed through airducts, sometimes dropped as Cranker and Maller fought with some new monstrosity that apparently hadn’t gotten with the program. Whatever the program was.

  Sometimes now she tried to reason with the two Marines. “Cranker,” she’d say, “please take me back to the Pelican. I know you’re still in there. I know you can hear me.” Or she’d say, mumbling it a bit because she felt so weak, “Maller, I know you don’t want to do this. I know you want to help me. Please, please help me” Once she even said, “If you’d just put me down, I could do the rest. I can find the sarge. I can explain it was a mistake.” She laughed bitterly at that one, knowing everything was past repair, and her laughter dissolved into panicked sobs again. She was alone.

  Cranker and Maller never answered. Cranker and Maller had their marching orders, and they didn’t come from the sarge.

  >Lopez 1527 hours

  “Hell of a big virus,” Lopez said, pushing Smith ahead of her. He’d pleaded his case for a while, told her he’d launched the empty escape pods to avoid anything getting off-ship as soon as he realized the situation. Told her he’d tried to sabotage the bridge but hadn’t been able to get close enough. And, then, apparently, decided to wait it out in his little blind room. None of it really made Lopez see him in a better light.

  Backtracking, now that their path through the rec room had been cut off, looking for any way forward. Any way backward. Any way at all. “Hell of a big virus,” Lopez said again. “Looked more like a giant angry testicle to me.”

  No one laughed. “Not a virus, no. More of an . . . infestation.” Smith was hunched over, hadn’t stopped cradling his stomach. “It came with the Covenant prisoners and just spread. The more bodies they took over, the more—”

  “Taking over bodies?!” MacCraw near tripped at the words.

  “It was a Flood infection form that took your friend,” Smith said. He had an enormous shiner swelling his cheek that made his words come out a little soft. “They get under the skin. It will take him over and assimilate him entirely. It’ll wipe his memories but retain his knowledge. Then the Flood will control his body—all of his body, down to the cellular level. Then mutate—like you sa
w with those bodies—to make a better weapon of him.”

  Lopez hastened her steps, hearing the words “retain his knowledge.”

  Smith couldn’t seem to stop now that he’d started, like it was a relief to talk to someone about it. “A form infected by Flood is difficult to stop. They don’t register pain, don’t require all organs functioning, are fueled by such rage that even when disabled they are extremely dangerous. Mindless as animals. Less than animals. Destroy the core, the head, or the infection form.”

  Or, maybe, Smith was spreading a different kind of infection. That information had to be classified, and now they’d heard it. Lopez had to fight the urge to tell him to shut up now.

  But he was done. “Stop here.” Smith put a hand up against a wall that looked no different from anything else and flinched when Lopez reached for him.

  “Concealed door,” he said, coughing. “There’s a scanner at eye level here. There’s no other way out, Sergeant.” When she hesitated, added: “All passages are blocked.”

  “So helpful all of a sudden,” Lopez said dryly.

  Smith shrugged. “The sooner you get to the bridge, the sooner I get off this ship.” Smith pressed his hand to the wall.

  The wall sank back, slid aside, revealing another black box of a room.

  “It leads to the labs,” Smith said. “We can get through from there.” He didn’t look happy about that.

  A crash and roar bounced up the corridor. Somewhere close, something was trampling a barricade. A tremor through her kids. A shudder they couldn’t hide.

  “Mahmoud?” Lopez said out the side of her mouth, shining her flashlight down one way, as Percy looked the other.

  “I’m looking, I’m looking.” He scrolled too fast through their schematic. “Okay here. It looks like ventilation shafts. Leading . . . yeah, there are a couple of other access points, we can get to the bridge through here. Theoretically. Maybe even back to the hangar.”