by Eric Nylund
Fred and Will emerged from their cover. John looked at them and shook his head.
John opened the tiny access panel on Grace’s armor power pack and entered the fail-safe code. They still had a mission to finish, which meant they couldn’t carry her out; it would slow them down too much. They wouldn’t be leaving her for the Covenant either, though. Her armor’s tiny fusion reactor would overload and burn everything within a ten-meter radius—Grace’s funeral pyre.
“Let’s move,” John said. “Cortana, which way?”
“Proceed into the temple thirty meters. Turn right. There will be a sealed doorway, an access hatch for Engineers. I will open it and lock it behind you. Hurry. I’m encountering increased resistance from the station’s AIs. While I have their security COM channels blocked, word of intruders is speeding via private COMs.”
There was a curious echo to her voice. Maybe it was feedback from the Covenant triangulating on their signals. Or maybe there was some other effect at work. What had she warned him about? Unforeseen complications using a copy of a copy of Cortana?
“Roger that,” he said and waved Fred and Will forward. He took one last look at Grace, then marched quickly and silently ahead.
There were no more motion contacts in the temple. The Chief, however, saw Grunts and Jackals, Elites and Hunters in murals painted on the walls. In the shadows and stained-glass filtered light, those pictures seemed to move. They genuflected to something farther ahead. The Chief wished he had more time to take a full video record.
Blue Team moved thirty meters and turned to face a section of the wall. It parted. The passage could have fit two Engineers side by side, but John had to crouch and turn sideways to pass. Will and Fred followed; Cortana sealed the door behind them.
They continued until the narrow passage turned ninety degrees and dropped straight down. Will attached a rope and they rappelled down a hundred meters, landing on a platform.
John overlooked a cavern hewn from rough stone that arched up ninety meters and vanished into the shadows in the distance. Five hundred twelve fusion reactors that looked like flatted spiral seashells filled the space, stacked in rows and columns eight deep. Each was the size of a Pelican dropship and thrummed with power, casting off waves of wavering heat.
The open areas between the reactors were a tangle of plasma conduits and alive with swarms of thousands of buoyant Engineers as they tended the machinery. Faint wispy borealis comprised of escaped plasma swirled, whipped into a luminous froth by the intense magnetic vortices within the chamber.
It was a tremendous feat of engineering. It was as if the station’s builders had hewn this from a seed asteroid and built the rest of the installation around it.
Will pointed across the room to three Jackals who walked along a catwalk. Blue Team held position and didn’t move.
“There,” Cortana announced. “Across the platform is a terminal on the reactor subsystem.”
John held up a hand to Will and Fred, waited for the Jackal guards to pass, and then sprinted across the platform. He removed Cortana’s chip and inserted it into the terminal.
After three seconds, she reported: “I’m in. Very few Covenant counterintrusion measures in this system. I can accomplish the overload.
“I’ve found an exit route for Blue Team and uploaded it into your NAV systems,” she continued. “It should be stealthy enough for you to return to the repair bay undetected. Once there, give me the order and I can begin. It will take ten minutes for the overload to build. There’s no stopping once I start this, Chief, so be sure.”
“This station and the Covenant fleet might jump to Earth in the next ten minutes,” John said. He looked to Fred and Will, and they nodded as if they could read his mind.
“Proceed with the overload now, Cortana.”
The light from the reactors shifted; blue plasma tinged white and spread like a poison through the interconnecting conduits.
“Overload commencing,” the copy of Cortana announced. “I suggest Blue Team move at top speed to the exit.”
A NAV triangle indicated a ladder that ran to the catwalk overhead. John held up two fingers at Will and Fred and then nodded to the patrolling Jackals. Fred and Will knelt, braced, and waited for him to go ahead.
John climbed the ladder. As he neared the top, three shots rang out behind him. The sound was nearly drowned out by the intensifying reverberations from the reactors. He cleared the top of the ladder and saw three dead Jackals on the catwalk. He swept both directions with his rifle and then waved Will and Fred forward.
His countdown timer read 9:47. The heat and light from the reactors grew stronger, and John’s shields flared slightly.
Blue Team jogged down the catwalk to an elevator. They got inside, the doors closed, and the car immediately ascended.
When the doors opened again, artificial blue sunlight filled the car—as did the shadows cast by two Elites waiting for the elevator. Blue Team opened fire and cut down the Elites, leaving a spray of blood across the ground.
The Chief edged around the frame of the elevator door and saw a tangle of pipes and fountains and one of the curious spiral waterways that fell up from its center. This was a heat exchange plant for the reactors below. Already the water in the canals steamed and boiled.
He saw that Covenant Elite and Hunter pairs had converged at the entrance to the temple a hundred meters to his right. Over the temple dozens of Banshee fliers circled the carnage.
A gang of Grunts managed to clear an opening to the temple. There was a flash of light and fire that roiled out in a long plume, burning them as well as their Elite overseers.
“Good-bye, Grace,” John whispered.
The detonation of her power pack would buy them more time while the Covenant forces tried to figure out what just happened—perhaps they’d think Blue Team was still inside the temple. Grace had also taken out a dozen Grunts and four Elites with her last action. That would have pleased her.
John turned toward the far end of the great room and spotted a band of translucent material on the far wall. It led to the repair bays and airlocks beyond. That was their exit.
He glanced at his mission timer: 8:42. They’d have to get there fast.
His gaze locked onto the Banshees in the air. He searched for Linda, posted somewhere in the odd geometry of this station. She could be anywhere along several kilometers of cityscape.
John clicked on his COM. “Linda, do not reply. The Covenant are triangulating on our signals. I’m hoping they do and send a few of those Banshees to reconnoiter. When they get close to the heat-exchange plant, take them out—we’ll need their vehicles.”
There was no answer. Did that mean Linda understood and was in a position to help? Or was she dead?
As John hoped, three Banshees peeled off the search formation, circling the temple and turning toward them.
John waved Fred and Will out of the elevator and into the forest of steaming pipes. They scattered, took cover, and aimed at the incoming Banshees.
The Banshees spread out, slowed…but then banked, returning to the temple.
John clicked his COM three times.
The Elite pilots immediately wheeled about and accelerated toward their position. One Banshee flier nosed into a classic strafing dive. Its plasma cannons warmed and crackled with energy, indicating an imminent discharge.
There was a spray of blood in the flier, then the pilot fell forward and pushed the accelerator to full. The Banshee careened through the air at maximum velocity—crashing into a water-recovery tower, and wobbled to the ground.
“Linda,” John muttered and tried to spot her. Judging from the blood spray, she’d managed to send a round through the tiny exposed area of the cockpit, and inflicted a lethal ricochet. He looked for her position; most likely the shot had come from behind and above. There were numerous catwalks running across the length of the massive room. She had to be on one of them.
The two remaining Banshees accelerated toward Blue Team. T
heir plasma cannons flickered, and they leveled into a flat trajectory.
John, Fred, and Will raised their rifles.
There was a muted crack of a sniper rifle, and another Banshee drifted to the ground, its pilot felled by Linda’s uncanny skill.
The last remaining pilot veered starboard, not knowing what had just taken out its two wingmates…only that it had to get out of the area if it was going to live. In the tightest arc of its curve, the craft slowed. John couldn’t tell precisely where the shot came from, but a third sniper round ricocheted through the craft’s cockpit. The Banshee spun in circles before it thumped to a halt, nose-down in the street.
Three impossible shots, three kills. Even for Linda, this was superb shooting—the finest shots John had ever seen. He looked around the station, over the buildings, spires, catwalks, transit tubes—it was impossible to spot her.
John waved Fred and Will toward two of the downed Banshees and sprinted toward the one still spinning riderless in the street, its canards scraping and sparking along the stones.
He climbed aboard, pushed the throttle forward, and pointed to the far wall. He held his hand flat and lowered it, indicating that Fred and Will should skim low to the ground.
John veered off in a wide arc. Maybe he could divert the attention away from them.
He rose slightly higher and buzzed the tops of gilt domes and statues of Elite heroes with raised swords. Grunts and Jackals scattered as he approached, and John fired at them. He shifted to the side as he splashed though water falling from one side of the station to the other.
Four Banshee fliers fell in behind him. John weaved back and forth. A pair of plasma bolts sizzled over his head.
He risked a look over his shoulder and saw two of the Banshees drop away. A moment later they crashed into the surface.
Linda still had his back covered.
He dropped to the ground and skimmed along a street, skidded, and turned into an alley. Banshee shadows passed overhead. He pushed the throttle to full and made a direct run toward the back wall.
Will and Fred had grounded their fliers and crouched next to the meter-thick window separating this inner section from the repair bays. John settled his Banshee next to theirs, turned his backpack around, reached in, and tossed Fred his last Lotus antitank mine.
“Get that on the window and set for a remote trigger.” He then risked an open COM channel to the copy of Cortana in the station’s system. “Cortana, can you open the airlocks in the repair bay?”
A flurry of voices filled the COM, all speaking at the same time, shouting to be heard over one another…all Cortana’s voices. One finally broke through. “Chief, I’ve spun off a copy dedicated exclusively to communicating with you. Go ahead.”
“How many copies are there of you?”
“Unknown. Hundreds. The Covenant AI overwhelmed me. Had to. This is difficult. Many errors in my systems. Filtering over all subchannels of information.
“To answer your initial question: yes. I can override safety lockouts and open the airlocks. My systems are fragmenting. I cannot exist in a coherent state much longer.”
John looked out across the kilometers of curving cityscape. Wraith tanks rolled into the streets; legions of Grunts, Jackals, and Elites raced from building to building and shot at targets that weren’t there. Banshees and Ghosts buzzed through the air like clouds of flies.
John’s mission countdown timer read 7:45.
“Linda’s back there,” he told Fred and Will. Fred started to say something, but John cut him off. “If I’m not back in three minutes, blow that window and exit.”
Fred hesitated but then nodded.
“I can’t leave her,” John said and gunned his Banshee’s throttle. “Not if she’s still alive.”
Dr. Halsey’s last words to him resonated in John’s mind: I should have been trying to save every single human life—no matter what it cost.
He’d get to Linda. He’d get her out alive—or die trying.
Chapter Thirty-Five
1820 Hours, September 13, 2552 (Revised Date,
Military Calendar) Aboard Covenant Battle
Station Unyielding Hierophant.
The Master Chief accelerated his Banshee to its top speed.
There was another explosion at the temple, and plumes of steam geysered into the air from the heat-exchange plant. The circling formations of Banshees scattered.
John tucked as close as he could to his flier’s fuselage and coaxed every bit of speed from the craft.
A pair of Banshees swooped in, one off his port, the other on his starboard. Their plasma weapons heated; John rolled back and forth to throw their aim. He braced for impact…but there was none.
The Chief craned his head back and saw the pilot of the lead Banshee slump, slide off the flier, and plummet to the ground. The trailing Banshee was riderless as well…only a blood-spattered cockpit and cowling.
Linda still had him covered—had taken out both pilots with precise fire. She had to be close.
John scanned the area. There were spires and water-reclamation towers, transport tubes and catwalks that crisscrossed the center of the interior. There was a nexus of walkways near the beam of illumination that ran down the center of the station, a location with enough glare that a sniper might hide in the open undetected.
He risked keying Linda’s private COM channel. “Thought you might need a ride, so I—”
An energy mortar blasted over John’s shoulder, burning the air like a sun in close orbit and draining his shields to half. It impacted a water tower, and the structure detonated into a cloud of blinding steam.
John punched the Banshee through the cloud, glanced down, and saw a Wraith tank tracking his trajectory. He ducked and weaved but kept moving toward Linda’s probable location.
His mission countdown timer read 7:06. There was no time for fancy evasive maneuvers.
Did Linda even want to be found? Maybe she wanted him to get to safety and leave her behind? It’s what he would have done.
“Position report, Linda,” John barked over the COM. “That’s a direct order.”
Three seconds ticked off his mission clock and then the six-tone “Oly Oly Oxen Free” song whistled through John’s speakers and a NAV marker appeared on his heads-up display.
The triangular marker centered on a rope that ran between two transit tubes and dangled perilously close to the high-intensity light beam. It was a barely discernible thread that ran through a hard shadow cast by a nearby catwalk.
John hit his image enhancers. Through the glare of the light, and in the depths of the shadow, he caught the flicker of reflected optics.
Linda used both the brilliant light and the darkness to hide.
John angled the Banshee to her. He clipped the tether line from his armor to the frame of the Banshee and pulled his body deeper into the craft.
When he was thirty meters away, he made visual contact. Linda had the rope coiled about a boot and wrapped about one forearm. She held her sniper rifle in one arm, and John could only surmise that she had been firing from such an impossible position.
She uncoiled the rope from her boot, swung, released at the apex of the arc—and fell toward him.
John forced the Banshee’s cowling up against straining hydraulics and stretched out his arm, his fingers touched hers—and her hand slapped firmly into his gauntlet.
He swung her around and over his shoulder. Linda landed atop him, holding on to his armor.
John spun the Banshee about and accelerated back to the windows. The craft’s forward cowling remained wrenched up and slowed them down—but there was no other way to fit two people on the craft.
“Coming in hot,” John said over the COM to Fred and Will. “Open the door and get ready for a quick exit, Blue Team.”
Fred’s acknowledgment light winked on.
“Cortana, breach those airlocks. Now!”
A cacophony of voices filled John’s COM. There were so many copies of Cort
ana speaking at the same time he couldn’t make out anything coherent.
“Cortana, the airlocks.”
There was a pop of static. “Apologies, Chief,” Cortana replied. “I’ve spun off a dedicated copy to…to…speak with you.”
John thought she had already made a copy to talk directly with him. What had happened to it?
“Override the airlock safeties, Cortana. Open the external and repair bay doors.”
“Working, Chief. There’s too much system COM traffic. So many of us. Near saturation level. Have to fight to get…Stand by…”
An explosion appeared a kilometer away along the far wall. The Lotus antitank mine became a blossom of flame and black smoke that drifted and diffused and left a spiderweb of cracks on the meter-thick translucent section.
But the window held.
That Lotus antitank mine could have sheared through that wall even if it had been reinforced steel, but this wall had remained in one piece.
They were stuck inside.
Three hundred meters to the window.
“Cortana!”
In John’s peripheral vision he saw clouds of Banshee fliers and a slew of Ghosts gaining on them.
“Cortana—it’s now or never!”
“In…” Cortana’s voice was faint. “Intersystem failure 08934-EE. Global system error 9845-W. Resetting. Inner doors open. Override in progress. System lockdo—”
The COM went dead.
A hundred meters away, beyond the cracked window, the atmosphere turned white for a split second then cleared. Spaced every twenty meters along the bay walls, the airlock doors were opening. Beyond, stars shone upon velvet black.
Fred and Will’s Banshees appeared off John’s starboard canard. John pointed and together they dived, accelerating toward a bull’s-eye pattern of cracks on the translucent portion of the wall.
That web of fissures spread: fingers that stretched and split along the length of the window…slowed and stopped.
John fired the Banshee’s plasma cannons. Fred opened fire as well, and four blobs of plasma splashed across the glassy surface fifty meters away.
