Then, just as Cortana was about to say something, anything, even if it was wrong, the Chief recovered and took the initiative. “All right,” he said—whether to himself or to Cortana wasn’t exactly clear. “It’s time to finish this mission.”
Working carefully, so as not to walk into an ambush, the Master Chief left the large room, found his way onto a downward slanting ramp. He backed into a corner and, satisfied that the area was reasonably secure, disengaged the shoulder plates of the MJOLNIR armor.
The wound was ragged, and blood flowed freely. The Chief could ignore the pain, but the blood loss would take its toll and jeopardize the mission. He made sure the motion sensor was still active, then slung his weapon.
He dug into his equipment pack and drew out his med kit. The Spartan had been wounded before, and had on several occasions performed first aid on injured comrades and himself. He quickly cleaned the wound, sprayed a stinging puff of bio-foam into the wound, then applied a quick-adhesive dressing.
In minutes, he had suited up, popped a wake-up stim, and moved on.
“Foehammer to ground team: You’ve got two Covenant dropships coming fast!”
The Master Chief stood at the edge of a massive chasm and monitored his allies’ radio chatter. In the distance, he could barely see the twinkling of the luminescent panels that Halo’s creators had left behind to illuminate these subterranean warrens. Below him, the abyss yawned and appeared to be bottomless.
He recognized the next voice as belonging to Gunnery Sergeant Waller, the Marine in charge of their LZ. “Okay, people,” Waller drawled, “we got company coming. Engage enemy forces on sight.”
“It’ll be easier to hold them off from inside the structure,” Cortana put in. “Can you get inside?”
“Negative!” Waller replied. “They’re closing in too fast. We’ll keep ’em busy as long as we can.”
“Give ’em hell, Marine,” the AI said grimly, and broke the connection. “We’ll all be in a tight spot if we don’t get out of here before enemy reinforcements arrive.”
“Roger that,” the Master Chief replied, as he pushed his way down a ramp, through a pair of hatches, and into the gloomy spaces beyond. He marched over some transparent decking, crossed a footbridge and killed a pair of Grunts he found there, followed another ramp to the floor below, tossed a grenade into a group of enemies that patrolled the area, and hurried through a likely looking opening. There was a roar of outrage as an Elite fired up at him from the platform below while some Grunts barked and gibbered.
The Spartan used a grenade to grease the entire group and hurried down to see what they had been guarding. He recognized the Map Room the moment he saw the opening, and had just stepped inside when another Elite opened up on him from across the way. A sustained burst from his assault weapon was sufficient to drop the alien’s personal shields, and he put the alien down with a stroke of his rifle butt.
“There!” Cortana said. “That holo panel should activate the map.”
“Any idea how to activate it?”
“No,” she replied, her tone arch. “You’re the one with the magic touch.”
The Master Chief took a couple of steps forward and reached a hand toward the display. He seemed to know instinctively how to activate the panel—it almost seemed hard-wired, like his fight-or-flight response.
He banished the random thought and returned to the mission. He slid his armored hand across the panel and a glowing wire-frame map appeared and seemed to float in front of him. “Analyzing,” the AI said. “Halo’s Control Center is”—she highlighted a section of the map in his HUD—“there. Interesting. It looks like some sort of shrine.”
She opened a channel. “Cortana to Captain Keyes.”
There was silence for a moment, followed by Foehammer’s voice. “The Captain has dropped out of contact, Cortana. His ship may be out of range or may be having equipment problems.”
“Keep trying,” the AI replied. “Let me know when you reestablish contact. And then tell him that the Master Chief and I have determined the location of the Control Center.”
Captain Jacob Keyes tried to ignore the incessant slambam beat of the Sergeant’s colonial flip music that pounded over the intercom as the pilot lowered the dropship into a swamp. “Everything looks clear—I’m bringing her down.”
The Pelican’s jets whipped the water into a frenzy as the ramp was lowered and the cargo compartment was flooded with thick, humid air. It carried the nauseating stench of rotting vegetation, the foul odor of swamp gas, and the slight metallic tang typical of Halo itself. Somebody said, “Pe-euu,” but was drowned out by Staff Sergeant Avery Johnson, who shouted, “Go! Go! Go!” and the Marines jumped down into the calf-deep water.
Somebody said, “Damn!” as water splashed up their legs. Johnson said, “Stow it, Marine,” as Keyes cleared the ramp. Freed from its burden, the dropship fired its jets, powered its way up out of the glutinous air, and started to climb.
Keyes consulted a small hand comp. “The structure we’re looking for is supposed to be over there.”
Johnson eyed the pointing finger and nodded. “Okay, you slackers, you heard the Captain. Bisenti, take point.”
Private Wallace A. Jenkins was toward the rear, which was almost as bad as point, but not quite. The ebony water topped his boots, seeped down through his socks, and found his feet. It wasn’t all that cold—for which the Marine was thankful. Like the rest of the team, he knew that the ostensible purpose of the mission was to locate and recover a cache of Covenant weapons. Still an important thing to do, even in the wake of Lieutenant McKay’s efforts to raid the Pillar of Autumn, and the fact that Alpha Base had been strengthened as a result.
It was a crap detail, however—especially slogging through this dark, mist-clogged swamp.
Something loomed ahead. Bisenti hoped it was what the Old Man had dragged their sorry butts into this swamp for. He hissed the word back to the topkick. “I see a building, Sarge.”
There was the sound of water splashing as Johnson came forward. “Stay close, Jenkins. Mendoza, move it up! Wait here for the Captain and his squad. And get your asses inside.”
Jenkins saw Keyes materialize out of the mist. “Sir!”
Johnson saw Keyes, nodded, and said, “Okay, let’s move!”
Keyes followed the Marines inside. The entire situation was different from what he had expected. Unlike the Covenant, who killed nearly all of the humans they got their hands on, the Marines continued to take prisoners. One such individual, a rather disillusioned Elite named ‘Qualomee, had been interrogated for hours. He swore that he’d been part of a group of Covenant soldiers who had delivered a shipment of arms to the forces guarding this very structure.
But there was no sign of a Covenant security team, or the weapons ‘Qualomee claimed to have delivered, which meant that he had probably been lying. Something the Captain planned to discuss with the alien upon his return to Alpha Base. In the meantime, Keyes planned to push deeper into the complex and see what he could find. The second squad, under Corporal Lovik, was left to cover their line of retreat, while the rest of the team continued to press ahead.
Ten minutes had passed when a Marine said, “Whoa! Look at that. Something scrambled his insides.”
Johnson looked down at a dead Elite. Other Covenant bodies lay sprawled around the area as well. Alien blood slicked the walls and floor. Keyes approached from behind. “What do we have, Sergeant?”
“Looks like a Covenant patrol,” the noncom answered. “Badass Special Ops types—the ones in the black armor. All KIA.”
Keyes eyed the body and looked up at Bisenti. “Real pretty. Friend of yours?”
The Marine shook his head. “No, we just met.”
It took another five minutes to reach a large metal door. It was locked and no amount of fooling around with the keypad seemed likely to open it. “Right,” Keyes said, as he examined the obstacle. “Let’s get this door open.”
“I’ll try, sir,”
the Tech Specialist, Kappus, replied, “but it looks like those Covenant worked pretty hard to lock it down.”
“Just do it, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kappus pulled the spoofer out of his pack, attached the box to the door, and pressed a series of keys. Outside of the gentle beeping noises that the black box made as it tapped into the door’s electronics and ran through thousands of combinations per second, there was nothing but silence.
The Marines shifted nervously, unwilling to relax. Sweat dripped down Kappus’ forehead.
They held position for another few minutes, until Kappus nodded with satisfaction and opened the door. The Marines drifted inside. The electronics expert raised a hand. “Sarge! Listen!”
All of the Marines listened. They heard a soft, liquid, sort of slithery sound. It seemed to come from every direction at once.
Jenkins felt jumpy but it was Mendoza who actually put it into words. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this . . .”
“You’ve always got a bad feeling,” the Sergeant put in, and was about to chew Mendoza out when a message came in over the team freq. It sounded like the second squad was in some sort of trouble, but Corporal Lovik wasn’t very coherent, so it was difficult to be sure.
In fact, it almost sounded like screaming.
Keyes responded. “Corporal? Do you copy? Over.”
There was no reply.
Johnson turned to Mendoza. “Get your ass back up to second squad’s position and find out what the hell is going on.”
“But Sarge—”
“I don’t have time for your lip, soldier! I gave you an order.”
“What is that?” Jenkins asked nervously, his eyes darting from one shadow to the next.
“Where’s that coming from, Mendoza?” Sergeant Johnson demanded, the second squad momentarily forgotten.
“There!” Mendoza proclaimed, pointing to a clutch of shadows as the Marines heard the muffled sound of metal striking metal.
There was a cry of pain as something landed on Private Riley’s back, drove a needlelike penetrator through his skin, and aimed it down toward his spine. He dropped his weapon, tried to grab the thing that rode his shoulders, and thrashed back and forth.
“Hold still! Hold still!” Kappus yelled, grabbing onto the bulbous creature and trying to pull it off his friend.
Avery Johnson had been in the Corps for most of his adult life, and had logged more time humping across the surface of alien planets than any of the other men in the room combined. Along the way, he’d seen a lot of strange stuff—but nothing like what skittered across the metal floor and attached itself to one of his men.
He saw a dozen pale shapes, each maybe half a meter in diameter, and equipped with a cluster of writhing tentacles. They skittered and bobbed in a loose formation, then sprang in his direction. The tentacles propelled them several meters in a single leap. He fired a short, almost panicked burst. “Let ’em have it!”
Keyes, pistol in hand, fired at one of the creatures. It popped like a balloon, with surprising force. The tiny explosion caused three more to burst into feathery shards, but it seemed as if dozens more took their place.
Keyes realized that Private Kappus had been correct. The Covenant had locked the door for a reason, and this was it. But maybe, just maybe, they could pull back and close the creatures inside again. “Sergeant, we’re surrounded.”
But Johnson’s attention was elsewhere. “God damn it, Jenkins, fire your weapon!”
Jenkins, his face tight with fear, clutched his assault rifle with white-knuckled hands. It seemed like the little things were boiling from thin air. “There’s too many!”
The Sarge started to bellow a reply, but it was as if a floodgate had opened somewhere, as a new wave of the obscene, podlike creatures rolled out of the darkness to overwhelm the humans. Marines fired in every direction. Many lost their balance as two, three, or even four of the aliens managed to get a grip on them and pull them down.
Jenkins began to back away as fear overwhelmed him.
Keyes threw up his hands with the intention of protecting his face and accidentally caught one of the monsters. He squeezed and felt the creature explode. The little bastards were fragile—but there were so damned many of them. Another attacker latched onto his shoulder. The Captain screamed as a razor-sharp tentacle plunged through both his uniform and his skin, wriggled under the surface of his skin, and tapped his spinal cord. There was an explosion of pain so intense that he blacked out, only to be brought back to consciousness by chemicals the thing had injected into his bloodstream.
He tried to yell for help, but couldn’t make a sound. His heart raced as his extremities grew numb, one by one. His lungs felt heavy.
As Keyes began to lose touch with the rest of his body, something foul entered it, pushing his consciousness down and back even as it claimed most of his cerebral cortex, polluting his brain with a hunger so base that it would have made him vomit, had he any possession of his own body.
This hunger was more than a desire for food, for sex, or for power. This hunger was a vacuum, an endless vortex that consumed every impulse, every thought, every measure of who and what he was.
He tried to scream, but it wouldn’t let him.
The sight of Captain Keyes struggling with this new adversary had frozen Private Jenkins in place. When the Captain’s struggles ceased, however, he snapped into motion. He turned to flee, and felt one of the little beasts slam into his back. Pain knifed into him as the creature inserted its tendrils into his body, then subsided.
His vision clouded, then cleared. He had some sensation that time had passed, but he had no way to tell how long he’d been out. Private Jenkins, Wallace A., found himself in a strange half-world.
Due to some fluke, some random toss of the galactic dice, the mind that invaded his body had been severely weakened during the long period of hibernation, and while strong enough to take over and begin the work necessary to create a combat form, it lacked the force and clarity required to completely dominate its host the way it was supposed to.
Jenkins, helpless to do anything about it, was fully aware of the invading intelligence as it seized control of his musculature, jerked at his limbs like a child experimenting with a new toy, and marched him around in circles even as his friends, who no longer had any consciousness at all, were completely destroyed. He screamed, and the air left his lungs, but no one turned to look.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
SEVENTH CYCLE, 49 UNITS (COVENANT BATTLE CALENDAR) / ABOARD CRUISER, TRUTH AND RECONCILIATION, ABOVE HALO’S SURFACE.
Zuka ‘Zamamee had entered the Truth and Reconciliation via the ship’s main gravity lift, taken a secondary lift up to the command deck, suffered through the usual security check, and been shown into the Council Chambers in record time. All of which seemed quite appropriate until he entered the room to find that only a single light was on, and it was focused on the spot where visitors were expected to stand. There was no sign of Soha ‘Rolamee, of the Prophet, or of the Elite to whom he had never been introduced.
Perhaps the Council had been delayed, there had been a scheduling error, or some other kind of bureaucratic error. But then, why had he been admitted? Surely the staff knew whether the Council was in session or not.
The Elite was about to turn and leave when a second spot came on and ‘Rolamee’s head appeared. Not attached to his body the way it should have been, but sitting on a gore-drenched pedestal, staring vacantly into space.
An image of the Prophet appeared and seemed to float in midair. He gestured toward the head. “Sad, isn’t it? But discipline must be maintained.”
The Prophet made what ‘Zamamee took to be a mystical gesture. “Halo is old, extremely old, as are its secrets. Blessings, really, which the Forerunners left for us to find, knowing that we would put them to good use.
“But nothing comes without risk, and there are dangers here as well, things which ‘Rolamee promised to keep conta
ined, but failed to do so.
“Now, with the humans blundering about, his failures have been amplified. Doors have been opened, powers have been released, and it is now necessary to shift a considerable amount of our strength to the process of regaining control. Do you understand?”
‘Zamamee didn’t understand, not in the least, but had no intention of admitting that. Instead he said, “Yes, Commander.”
“Good,” the Prophet said, “and that brings us to you. Not only were your most recent efforts to trap the marauding human a total failure, he went on to neutralize part of Halo’s security system, found his way in to the Silent Cartographer, and will no doubt use it to cause us even more trouble.
“So,” the Prophet added conversationally, “I thought it might be instructive for you to come here, take a good look at the price of failure, and decide whether you can afford the cost. Do you understand me?”
‘Zamamee gulped, then nodded. “Yes, Commander, I do.”
“Good,” the Prophet said smoothly. “I’m gratified to hear it. Now, having failed once, and having determined never to do so again, tell me how you plan to proceed. If I like the answer, if you can convince me that it will work, then you will leave this room alive.”
Fortunately ‘Zamamee not only had a plan, but an exciting plan, and he was able to convince the Prophet that it would work.
But later, after the Elite had rejoined Yayap, and the two of them were leaving the ship, it wasn’t a vision of glory that he saw, but ‘Rolamee’s vacant stare.
The Master Chief paused just inside the hatch to ensure that he wasn’t being followed, checked to make certain that his weapons were loaded, and wondered where the hell he was. Based on instructions from Cortana, Foehammer had dropped her Pelican through a hole in Halo’s surface, flown the dropship through one of the enormous capillary-like maintenance tunnels that crisscrossed just below the ringworld’s skin, and dropped the unlikely twosome off on a cavernous landing platform. From there the Spartan felt his way through a maze of passageways and rooms, many of which had been defended.
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