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 in his anti-gravity throne, subtly reminding 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, which extended forward 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, Commander. 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 thousands 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, Commander. 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, Commander. Thank you, Commander.”
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.
CHAPTER
FOUR
D +17:11:04 (SPARTAN 117 MISSION CLOCK) / PELICAN ECHO 419, IN FLIGHT.
Even more important, Wellsley had concocted an array of signals designed to trick the Covenant technicians into believing that any UNSC dropship was actually one of their own. Fifty meters above the deck, and cloaked in electronic camouflage, the Master Chief and a Pelican-load of Marines waited to find out if their ruse would work.
Only time would tell if the fake signals were effective. One thing was for certain: Though conceived for the express purpose of rescuing Captain Keyes, the mission put together by Silva, Wellsley, and Cortana bore still another, even more important purpose.
If the rescue team did manage to penetrate a Covenant vessel, and successfully remove a prisoner, the human presence on Halo would be transformed from an attempt merely to survive into a full-fledged resistance movement.
The ship shuddered as it hit a series of air pockets, then swayed from side to side as the pilot who referred to herself as Foehammer wove back and forth through an obstacle course of low-lying hills. The Master Chief took the opportunity to assess the Marines seated around him.
Maybe Silva was right, maybe the SPARTAN program would end with him, but that didn’t matter. Not here—not now. The Marines would help him take out the sentries, cope with weapons emplacements, and reach the gravity lift located directly below the Truth and Reconciliation’s belly, and he was glad to have their help. Even with the element of surprise, plus support from the Marines, things were likely to be pretty hot by the time they made it to the lift. That’s when a second dropship would land and discharge a group of regular Marines that would join the assault on the ship itself.
There was some concern that the Truth and Reconciliation might simply lift at that point, but Cortana had been monitoring Covenant communications, and was convinced that critical repairs were still being made to the alien cruiser.
Assuming that they were able to reach the gravity lift, meet up with their reinforcements, and fight their way aboard the ship, all they had to do was find Keyes, eliminate an unknown number of hostiles, and show up for the dust-off. A walk in the park.
Foehammer’s voice came over the intercom. “We are five to dirt . . . repeat five to dirt.”
That was Sergeant Parker’s cue to stand and eye his troops. His voice came over the team freq and grated on the Spartan’s ears. “All right, boys and girls . . . lock and load. The Covenant is throwing a party and you are invited. Remember, the Master Chief goes in first, so take your cues from him. I don’t know about you, but I like having a swabbie on point.”
There was general laughter. Parker gave the Spartan a thumbs-up, and he offered the same gesture in return. It felt good to have some backup for a change.
He mentally reviewed the plan, which called for him to insert ahead of the Marines, and clear a path with his S2 AM sniper’s rifle. Once the outer defenses were cleared, the Marines would move up. Then, once the element of surprise had been lost, the Master Chief planned to switch to his MA5B assault rifle for the close-in work. Like the rest of the troops, the Spartan was carrying a full combat load of ammo, grenades, and other gear, plus two magazines for the M19 launchers.
“Thirty seconds to dirt!” Foehammer announced. “Shoot some of the bastards for me!”
As the Pelican hovered a foot above the surface, Parker yelled, “Go, go, go!” and the Master Chief sprang down the ramp. He sidestepped and swept the area. The Marines thundered down the ramp and onto the ground, right behind him.
It was dark, which meant they had nothing beyond the light reflected off the moon that hung in the sky and the glow of Covenant work lights to guide them to their objective. Seconds later, Echo 419 was airborne again. The pilot turned down-spin, fed fuel to her engines, and disappeared into the night.
The Master Chief heard the aircraft pass over his head, gathered his bearings, and spotted a footpath off to the right. The Marines spread out to either side as Parker and a three-Marine fireteam turned to cover the group’s six.
He crept along the rocky footpath, which rose to a two-meter-high embankment. As he neared a cluster of rocks, Cortana warned the Spartan of enemy activity ahead. A host of red dots appeared on his motion sensor. Several meters ahead and to the left was a deep pit—some kind of excavation, judging from the Covenant work lights that dotted the area with pools of illumination. He briefly wondered what the aliens were looking for.
He clicked the rifle’s safety off. What they were looking for didn’t matter. In the end, he’d make sure they never lived to find it.
The Master Chief found a patch of cover next to a tree, raised the rifle, and used the scope’s 2X and night optics setting to find the Covenant gun emplacements located on the far side of the depression. There were lots of Grunts, Jackals, and Elites in the area, but it was imperative to neutralize the plasma cannons—known as Shades—before the Marines moved out into the open. His MJOLNIR armor and shields could handle a limited amount of the Shades’ plasma fire. The Marines’ ballistic armor, on the other hand, just couldn’t handle that kind of firepower.
Once both Shades had been located, the Spartan switched to the 10X setting, practiced the move from one target to the next, and tried it yet again.
Once he was sure that he could switch targets quickly enough, he exhaled quietly, then held his breath. His hand squeezed the trigger and the rifle kicked against his shoulder. The first shot took the nearest gunner in the chest. As the Grunt tumbled from the Shade’s seat, the Master Chief panned the rifle to the right, and put a 14.5mm round through the second Grunt’s pointy head.
The rifle’s booming report alerted the Covenant and they returned fire. He moved forward along the low ridge and took a new firing position behind the scaly bark of a tree. The rifle barked twice more, and a pair of Jackals fell. He reloaded with practiced ease, and continued sniping. Without the Shades to support them, the enemy fell in ones, twos, and threes.
The Master Chief reloaded again, fired until there were no more targets of opportunity, and made the switch to his assault rifle. He jumped down into the open pit and crouched behind a large boulder, one of several that were strewn around the depression.
“Marines: Move up!” he barked into the radio. In seconds, they charged into the pit. As the lead soldiers entered, a trio of Grunts burst from hiding, shot one of the Marines in the face, and tried to run. The soldier’s body hadn’t even hit the ground before the Spartan and another Marine hosed the aliens with bullets.
The gunshots echoed through the twisting canyons, then faded. The Spartan frowned; there was no way the fracas would go unnoticed. The element of surprise was gone.
There was no time to waste. The Master Chief led the Marines through the depression, up a hill on the far side of the pit, and along the side of a sheer cliff face. He stayed close to this rock wall on his right, mindful of the sheer drop that awaited any who strayed too far to the left. He could just make out the glint of moonlight on a massive ocean, far below him.
His motion sensor pinged two contacts and he waved the Marines to a halt. He crouched behind a clump of brush at the top of the cliff path, conscious of the massive drop on the other side. A pair of Jackals rounded the bend ahead, their overcharged plasma pistols pulsing green, and paid dearly for their enthusiasm.
The Spartan sprang from his cover and slammed the butt of his rifle into the nearest Jackal’s shield. The energy field flared and died, and the force of the blow sent the alien tumbling off the path. The alien screamed and plummeted off the cliff.
The Chief pivoted and fired his rifle from the hip. The burst struck the second alien in the side. The Jackal slammed to the ground as his finger tightened on his weapon’s trigger as he died. A massive hole blossomed in the rock above the Master Chief’s head.
He slammed a fresh magazine into his weapon, a
nd continued to advance.
“Here’s a little something to remember me by,” one of the Marines growled, and shot each Jackal in the head.
As the team continued up the path, they encountered another Shade, more Grunts, and a pair of Jackals, all of whom seemed to melt away under the combined assault by the Master Chief’s sniper rifle, the Marine’s assault weapons, and a few well-placed grenades.
The rescue force pressed on, toward the lights beyond. Covenant resistance was determined but spotty, and before long the Master Chief could hear the thrumming sound of the alien ship as it hovered more than a hundred meters above them. His skin crackled with static electricity. In the center of a steep dip in the rock lay a large metal disk, the gravity lift that the Covenant used to move troops, supplies, and vehicles to and from the ringworld’s surface. Purple light shimmered around the platform where the beam was anchored.
“Come on!” the Master Chief shouted, pointing at the lift. “That’s our way in. Let’s move!”
There was a mad dash through a narrow canyon followed by a pitched battle as the Master Chief and the Marines entered the area directly below the ship.
The depression was ringed with Shades, and all of them opened fire at once. The Chief made use of the sniper rifle to kill the nearest gunner, charged up the intervening slope, and jumped into the now vacant seat. The first order of business was to silence the other guns.
He yanked the control yoke to the left and the gun swiveled to face a second Shade, across the defile. A glowing image of a hollow triangle floated in front of his face. When it lined up with the other gun, it flashed red. He thumbed the firing studs, and lances of purple-white energy lashed the enemy emplacement. The Grunt gunner struggled to leap free of his Shade, fell into the path of the Spartan’s fire, and was speared by a powerful blast. He slumped against the base of his abandoned Shade, a smoking hole burned through his chest.
The Master Chief swiveled the captured gun and took aim on the remaining Shades. He hosed the targets with a hellish wave of destructive energy, then, satisfied that the emplacements were silenced, went to work on the enemy ground troops.
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