First Strike

by Eric Nylund

  Locklear shrugged and pushed the loaded gurney.

  Dr. Halsey halted by the ship’s port hatch. It was sealed so tightly that no seam could be discerned.

  She retrieved the thermal printout from her coat and rechecked its contents. She then touched a recessed button on the hull, and a tiny plate slid aside revealing an alphanumeric keyboard. Dr. Halsey typed in a long string and pressed ENTER.

  The hatch parted with a hiss.

  She smiled. “Not even Cortana could crack their crypto, indeed.” She waved Locklear inside.

  Locklear obliged her and pushed the gurney into the ship. Dr. Halsey followed, secured the examination table, and escorted Locklear outside. She turned and headed back into the vessel.

  He started back toward the elevator, then halted. “Doc, when we were talking…you said when ‘you’ jump to Slipspace. You meant when ‘we’ jump to Slipspace, didn’t you?”

  Dr. Halsey locked eyes with him for a moment. Then she touched a button inside the ship, and the hatch hissed closed between them.

  The Master Chief stepped off the elevator and onto the bridge of the Gettysburg. Lieutenant Haverson and Admiral Whitcomb stared at the displays at Weapons Station One and Engineering.

  “Sirs,” the Chief said.

  The Admiral waved him forward without bothering to look up.

  The Chief had two tasks. First, he would inform the Admiral of his first-strike mission plan. He had to convince him there was no risk to their primary goal of returning to Earth—and a huge payoff if they succeeded. The only thing Admiral Whitcomb might object to was the high risk to his team.

  The Chief’s second task would be more difficult. He touched the belt pouch containing Dr. Halsey’s data crystals. One was her analysis of the Flood infection mechanism and a possible way to block it. The second data crystal contained the source files of that discovery, and according to Dr. Halsey it would lead to Sergeant Johnson’s undignified, and unnecessary, death.

  And yet, if it gave Section Three a better chance to stop the Flood—if indeed that threat had any meaning after the destruction of Halo—maybe it was worth one man’s life. Maybe if Sergeant Johnson knew, he’d volunteer.

  The Chief’s duty was clear: He had to hand over all files to the Lieutenant—but deep down, he had to admit that it didn’t feel right.

  “Cortana.” Admiral Whitcomb crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Give me an update on our power.”

  Cortana’s tiny image flickered to life on the holopad near the NAV station. She crossed her arms over her chest much as he had, and minute red symbols raced over her glowing lavender skin. “Status is nearly identical to my last report five minutes ago, Admiral. Tests on Ascendant Justice’s reactor and the Gettysburg’s engines are in synch, and will be completed in forty minutes.”

  “Hurry,” the Admiral growled. “I don’t want to get stuck without power when unfriendlies show up. I want to get under way to Earth. Weapons status?”

  “Aye, sir,” Cortana said. “Plasma turret one is obliterated; no possibility of repair. Plasma turrets two, three, and four are repaired, and although I’m waiting for power to test them, I have run three hundred twelve virtual test-firings without incident. Turrets five, six, and seven, however, require parts Governor Jiles does not have in his inventory. Two Archer missile pods on the Gettysburg have been refilled. That gives us sixteen missiles hot and ready to go, sir.”

  “I’d like to know where Jiles got those missiles,” Lieutenant Haverson muttered. “They’re UNSC military contraband.”

  “He is a pirate, Lieutenant,” Cortana said.

  “Good work,” the Admiral told Cortana. “Keep me posted.” He turned toward the Chief. “You had something, Master Chief?”

  Before the Master Chief could speak his mind, Haverson said, “Admiral.” He pointed at the forward screens and at the Chiroptera-class ship accelerating away from the Gettysburg’s launch bay. “I thought Jiles was staying on board to oversee repairs.”

  “So did I,” the Admiral said. “Cortana, did you catch Jiles leaving on surveillance?”

  “No, sir, but you might be interested in this.” On the screen a grainy video appeared of Locklear, Dr. Halsey, and a Spartan on a gurney boarding the ship. “Locklear left them at the ship, sir. Doctor Halsey and SPARTAN 087 departed.”

  “Cortana,” the Admiral barked. “Hail that ship. Now.”

  “Hailing.”

  Governor Jiles appeared on forward screen number one. “Admiral,” he said with a nervous smile. “I just saw my ship leave the launch bay. Perhaps you can explain why you commandeered my personal property when I have showed nothing but good faith in this—”

  “Hold on to your shirttail, Governor,” Admiral Whitcomb snapped. “I’m in the middle of finding out who took your ship and what precisely is going on. Cortana, any response to our hail?”

  “An automated code, sir,” she said. Her mouth opened in astonishment. “UNSC Code Three-Nine-Two.”

  “Three-Nine-Two?” the Admiral asked. He stared into space, trying to recall the obscure code.

  The Master Chief cleared his throat and told him, “Admiral, that is an official ‘nonresponse’ code, sir. Special Warfare teams use it to ignore hails…due to a higher-priority mission.”

  “God damn it.” The Admiral’s face flushed, and he ground his teeth. “You mean the good doctor just told me to go to hell.”

  On the forward screen the Chiroptera, its batlike wings nearly invisible against the black of space, accelerated in a sudden burst. Pinpoints of light appeared around the craft that elongated and smeared. The ship vanished.

  “A Slipspace transition,” Cortana said.

  “I thought you told me,” the Admiral said, slowly turning on Haverson, “that that ship was locked down. That vital components were removed when it was decommissioned. That there was no way it could make a Slipspace jump?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “And would you care to explain why that ship just disappeared, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Admiral. I was wrong,” Haverson replied without meeting the Admiral’s eyes. “Doctor Halsey apparently found a way to circumvent the ONI lockout on the ship’s systems.”

  On screen, Jiles said, “This is most unfortunate, Admiral. I expect to be compensated—”

  “You bet it’s unfortunate,” Admiral Whitcomb said. “If I’d known there was a chance we could have used that ship to jump to Earth…I would have done it an hour ago. Cortana, what was her trajectory?”

  “Not Earth,” Cortana said. “Doctor Halsey’s course points to no known system in my database.”

  The Admiral scrutinized the forward screens: Jiles’s face, the empty star field, and the frozen video of Dr. Halsey and Locklear in the launch bay. “I want Corporal Locklear on the bridge ten minutes ago. Lieutenant Haverson, have Cortana locate him. Then I want you personally to escort that ODST up here.”

  Haverson swallowed. “Yes, sir.” He marched to the elevator, and Cortana told him, “He’s on B-Deck, Lieutenant, medical storage. He’s not answering my COM page.” The elevator shut.

  “Chief, you’re on the Engineering console,” the Admiral said. “Cover the NAV station, too.”

  “Yes, sir.” He moved to the Engineering station’s monitors. There were thirty-five minutes to go on the shakedown cycle of the reactors and engines.

  “Contact,” Cortana said. “Bearing zero-three-zero on the solar plane. One—correction, two—Covenant cruisers. They’re not moving. Maybe they haven’t spotted us.”

  “It never rains when it can monsoon,” the Admiral declared. “They can’t help but see us, Cortana, with all the radio chatter, ships, and leaking radiation. I bet they’re just figuring out how best to kill us.”

  Governor Jiles turned to someone off screen, and then said, “Admiral Whitcomb, given this new development I would like to evacuate my people off the Gettysburg and out of harm’s way.”

  “Of course, Governor. Do what you have
to.”

  The number three screen snapped off, and the stars reappeared.

  “And I’ll do what I have to, too,” Admiral Whitcomb said. “Cortana, halt the reactor and engine shakedown.”

  “Sir? There are risks—”

  “I want them online now. Don’t tell me what the risks are. Just do it.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “Master Chief, get this crate ready to move and stay on your toes. We’ll need every trick in the book to outmaneuver two cruisers.”

  “Affirmative, Admiral.” The Chief observed the shakedown cycle halt and Ascendant Justice’s reactors restart. Radiation indicators redlined, and then dropped to a hairbreadth…which was technically considered safe. The Gettysburg’s engines shuddered to life. The Chief felt the vibration though the deck half a kilometer away. “Reactors are hot, sir,” he reported.

  The Admiral watched as Jiles’s fleet of single ships and technicians in jet packs abandoned the Gettysburg, swarming across the dark of space back to the safety of their asteroid. “Rats leaving a sinking ship?” he wondered aloud.

  The Master Chief wasn’t sure if that was a question directed at him, but he decided to reply anyway. “They’re just men who want to live, sir.”

  The Admiral nodded.

  “Covenant cruiser accelerating,” Cortana announced. “Bearing on a vector out-system. It’s transitioning to Slipspace.”

  “Master Chief, get this tub moving. Now! Bring us up to half maximum speed.”

  “Aye, sir.” He tapped in commands. “Answering one half forward.” The radiation warning on Ascendant Justice’s reactor flickered, but stabilized and subsided.

  The combined mass of the two attached ships groaned as their recently repaired superstructures overcame their inertia.

  “Heat up our plasma turrets, Cortana.”

  “Aye s—” Her translucent lavender hologram faded to ice blue. “Sir, additional contacts at system’s edge. Three. No—additional transitions from Slipspace; counting eighteen—now thirty Covenant ships of various classes. Positions zero-three-zero. Zero-nine-one, one-eight-zero…Sir, they have us enveloped.”

  The star chart vanished in a wink, and a map of the Eridanus system appeared with tiny triangles representing Covenant ships now encircling the perimeter. The map turned to a side profile and revealed half a dozen additional ships scattered along the nadir and zenith of the system.

  Admiral Whitcomb stared at the map and shook his head. “You know the story of the Alamo, Chief?”

  “Yes, sir. A famous siege with a handful of defenders holding off overwhelming forces.”

  The Admiral smiled. “Texan defenders, Chief—there’s a big difference. Colonel William Barrett Travis with one hundred fifty-five men held off more than two thousand Mexican invaders. They hunkered down inside a tiny fort and fought like wildcats. Travis got a handful of reinforcements later—thirtytwo men.” The Admiral’s smile faded. “You know there were fifteen civilians inside that fort, too?” He looked at the map again. “Well, when the fighting was over, Travis and his men were dead, but it cost the enemy six hundred lives.”

  “Like the Battle of Thermopylae,” the Chief remarked.

  “But there were survivors at the Alamo; they let the civilians live.” He turned to the Chief. “You think anyone’s going to survive this fight? You think there’s any way to win?”

  The Master Chief tried to think of a way to fight and to win. Thirty Covenant ships against their damaged hybrid vessel. Add to that the need to defend Governor Jiles’s crew. Could he board one of the Covenant craft? Get Cortana to infiltrate their systems and broadcast falsified orders? They would see him approaching. Or was there a blind spot he could approach from? How could he hide from the rest of the ships in their fleet, though? And by the time he could implement such a plan, the Gettysburg would be molten slag.

  “It was a rhetorical question, Chief,” the Admiral said.

  “Yes, sir,” the Chief replied. “Given our situation, resources, and our enemy’s determination, then, no, I see no way to win…or survive.”

  “Neither do I.” Admiral Whitcomb stood straight. “Cortana, get ready to jump. Chief, accelerate to flank speed course zero-five-five by two-nine-zero. Prepare to transition out of normal space on my mark.”

  “Aye, sir,” the Chief and Cortana answered in unison.

  “We’re leaving Governor Jiles and his people?” Cortana asked.

  Admiral Whitcomb was silent a long moment, and then he replied, “We are. This isn’t the Alamo and I’m not Colonel William Barrett Travis, although I dearly wish I were. No, we’re running. We’re trading hundreds of lives for billions.”

  The Master Chief absentmindedly reached for his belt pouch, and Dr. Halsey’s data crystals clinked. “Is this the right thing to do, sir?”

  “The right thing?” Admiral Whitcomb sighed. “Hell, son, it probably isn’t. Personally, I’d prefer to fight, and die fighting, and take every one of those Covenant bastards with me. But I do not have the liberty to make that choice. My duty is clear: to protect the men and women of Earth—not a pack of privateers and outlaws.” He closed his eyes and said, “The logic of the situation is also too damned clear. Even if we stay and fight…they’ll all be just as dead.”

  “Capacitors at full charge,” Cortana announced. “Preparing to enter Slipspace. Waiting for your order, sir.”

  The Master Chief saw the energy from Ascendant Justice’s reactor drain to 5 percent. Motes of blue-green light appeared on the forward screen, and the stars stretched and smeared like watercolors.

  But something was wrong: The shields of the Chief’s MJOLNIR armor rippled. The radiation monitors spiked. Where was it coming from?

  “Hundreds for billions,” the Admiral whispered. “Duty be damned…I’m still going to burn in hell for this.” Admiral Whitcomb inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

  “Go, Cortana. Get us out of here. And God forgive me.”

  Corporal Locklear whistled, and the robotic dolly obediently followed him. The rolling robot was stacked with rifles, pistols, ammunition crates, and enough C-7 foaming explosive to blow a half-kilometer crater in the side of the Gettysburg.

  He made his way to the cargo elevator and then down to B-Deck. He had seen on the Gettysburg’s inventory that that was where they stored medical supplies…and he wanted a few cans of biofoam handy for the Master Chief’s extremely well-planned suicide mission.

  Not that Locklear had anything against a good suicide mission. He’d been on plenty before, and they seemed to give him the most bang for his buck. Only now, after so much fighting, he just wanted a break: twenty-four hours of sleep, and some R&R.

  He idly tugged at the bandanna tied to his biceps.

  “Damn girl,” he whispered. “Why’d you have to die? I had plans for you and me.”

  What was he doing mooning over a woman? And a Navy flier to boot? His squad would have laughed themselves wet if they knew…only they were all dead, too.

  “Screw this,” Locklear said. “I’m still alive. I’m not going to die. And I’m not going to feel guilty for any of this.”

  He laughed and told himself, “It’s not like the entire universe hasn’t been trying to kill me off, though.” Locklear turned to the robotic dolly. “Right, amigo?”

  Its treads spun, and the flatbed dolly turned to the right.

  “No, no, stop.” He sighed. “Man, I gotta buy myself a ticket out of this outfit. Next thing, I’ll be asking one of the Spartans out on a date…if I could even tell the boys from the girls in that squad.” He shuddered.

  The doors of the large cargo elevator squeaked open; Locklear stepped off, and whistled for the dolly to follow.

  Storage Bay Two had racks and shelves that rose from the deck five meters to the ceiling. He played his flashlight over the uneven surfaces. He spied a desk and terminal in the corner.

  “Hello, inventory control,” he said. “The place to go for goodies in any Navy outfit.” He
strode to the desk, sat down, and tapped in a search for medicinal-grade ethyl alcohol.

  A tone chimed in his earpiece, and Cortana’s voice said, “Corporal Locklear, I have an urgent request from Admiral—”

  Locklear squelched his COM. “Enough chatter, lady,” he murmured. “The bar just opened.”

  The location for MED34-CH3CH2OH popped on screen.

  “B-I-N-G-O,” he sang.

  Locklear jumped up. “Come on, amigo. You and me are going to throw a party.”

  The deck lurched under Locklear’s feet. “What the?…We’re moving?” He turned the inventory display to face him and tap ped in a command to switch to external camera mode.

  Craggy asteroids moved past them—no, it was the Gettysburg that was moving. Locklear squinted and saw a flash of blue. He magnified that part of the screen and found a dozen blurry blue flares from engine cones and the pulsing lateral lines filled with plasma. Covenant ships.

  “Ah hell,” he said and backed away from the desk. “So much for happy hour.”

  Something moved in his vest. Locklear reached in his pocket and pulled out the crystal Dr. Halsey entrusted to his care. The elongated stone rippled, facets moved and rearranged like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

  He spied the same blue color on the inventory monitor—pinpricks of stretched space, the first indication of a Slipspace jump.

  “I’m not going through another Slipspace fight,” Locklear said through gritted teeth. “I’m not going to let them follow us. Or let this thing shoot off a signal flare to every Covenant ship in the galaxy.”

  He grabbed a can of C-7 off the dolly and dropped Dr. Halsey’s crystal on the deck. He quickly covered the thing with the foaming explosive. It hardened to a stiff resin in a matter of seconds. Locklear grabbed a detonator, inserted it into the foam, and connected it to a timer.

  Why had the doc given him this to guard? She said because the ONI spooks wouldn’t have the guts to get rid of it if they had to…would maybe even let it fall into Covenant hands. That made sense, but, at the same time, there was something not quite right with that explanation.