by Eric Nylund
Cortana had been on edge. She had been so distracted at times she hadn’t even known the correct time. They had, however, all been pushed to the breaking point in the last few weeks. And despite any minor flaws, Cortana had always come through for him.
“We couldn’t have survived without you,” he finally told her. “Your programming is as good as ours.”
She tinged pink and then her hologram returned to a cool blue hue. “Are my aural systems malfunctioning or was that a compliment, Chief?”
“Continue to monitor Slipspace for any anomalies,” the Master Chief said, ignoring her.
He strode to the three forward viewscreens and stared into blackness. He wanted solitude, to gaze at nothing, and complete the task that he dreaded.
John pulled his team roster onto his heads-up display. He ran down the list, designating all those who had died on Reach, and afterward, as Missing In Action. James, Li, Grace…and all his dead teammates who would never officially be “allowed” to die. And in his mind, they would never find any peace until this war was won.
He paused at Kelly’s name.
John listed her as MIA, too. She was ironically the only Spartan truly missing, whisked away by Dr. Halsey on some secret private mission. John knew that whatever the doctor had planned, she would protect Kelly if she could. Still, he couldn’t help but worry about them both.
He added Corporal Locklear to his list and designated him Killed In Action. It was a more fitting end for a man who had been as much a warrior as any Spartan.
The last three names on his list he stared at for a long time: Warrant Officer Shiela Polaski, Lieutenant Elias Haverson, and Admiral Danforth Whitcomb. He reluctantly listed them as KIA and referenced his mission report, which detailed their heroism.
Two men had stopped a Covenant armada. They had willingly died doing it, and they had bought the human race a brief respite from destruction.
John felt glad. They were soldiers, sworn to protect humanity from all threats, and they had fulfilled their duty as few ever could. And like his Spartans who were “missing in action,” the Admiral and the Lieutenant would never die, either. Not because of a technicality in a mission status listing, but because in their deaths they would live on as inspirations.
John turned and watched as Linda, Will, and Fred occupied the bridge stations. John would make sure that he and the last surviving Spartans did the same.
The elevator doors opened, and Sergeant Johnson stepped onto the bridge.
“Got all those Covenant Engineers rounded up on B-Deck,” Sergeant Johnson announced. “Slippery suckers.”
The Chief nodded.
“The boys at ONI and those squid heads have a lot in common. Can’t understand a thing they say and they’re just as good looking. Guess they’re all going to have a long talk about technical whatsits and scientific doodads when we get home.”
Sergeant Johnson crossed the bridge to the Master Chief. “There’s one other thing. Another ONI thing.” He held out a data crystal and his gaze fell to the deck. “Lieutenant Haverson gave this to me before he and the Admiral left. He said you’d have to deliver it for him.”
John stared at the data crystal and reluctantly plucked it from the Sergeant’s fingers as if it were a slug of unstable radioactive material.
“Thank you, Sergeant.” He hesitated and then added, “I’ll take care of this.”
The Sergeant nodded and strode toward Weapons Station One.
John turned back to the blank monitors and retrieved the other data crystal from his belt compartment. Yesterday he had believed he had done the right thing by giving the Lieutenant all of Dr. Halsey’s Flood data—including the data on the Sergeant, which she assured him would lead to his death.
But now?
Now, John knew the difference one man could make in this war. He understood Dr. Halsey’s desire to save every person she could.
John held the two data crystals, one in each hand, and stared at them—trying to discern the future from their glimmering facets.
That was the point, wasn’t it? He couldn’t know the future. He had to do what he could to save every person. Today. Now.
So he decided.
He tightened his fist around the crystal with the complete mission data and crushed it to dust. John couldn’t condemn Sergeant Johnson.
He hefted the remaining data crystal. There would have to be enough in it for ONI. He set the crystal securely back into his belt.
Today they had won. They had stopped the Covenant. John would return to Earth with a warning and enough intel to keep scientists at ONI busy.
But what about tomorrow? The Covenant didn’t give up once they set their sights on a target. They wanted Earth—they’d come for it. Destroying their fleet would only delay that inevitable fact.
They had time, though. Maybe enough time to prepare for whatever the Covenant could throw at them.
John would take today’s victory. And he’d be there when the fighting started again—he’d be there to win.
Section VII
Harbinger
Epilogue
Ninth Age of Reclamation, Step of Silence
Covenant Holy City “High Charity,” Sanctum of
the Hierarchs.
A hundred thousand probes darted and scanned with winking electronic eyes across the void of tangled nonspaces enveloping the Covenant inner empire. They gathered data and emerged into the cold vacuum, where they were recovered by the hundreds of supercarriers and cruisers in station-keeping positions around the massive, bulbous planetoid that dominated the heavens.
Not a single rock larger than a centimeter could enter this space without being identified, targeted, and vaporized. Authorization codes were updated hourly, and if any incoming vessel hesitated for a millisecond with the proper response, it, too, met unyielding destruction.
The High Charity drifted beneath this impervious network, illuminated by the glow from scores of warship engines.
Deep within, protected by legions of crack Covenant soldiers, the Sanctum of the Heirarchs was an island of calm. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the chamber were ornamented with mirrored shards made from the fused glass of countless worlds conquered by the Covenant Hegemony. They reflected the whispered thoughts of the one who sat in the center of this room—mirrored them back, so they might consider the glory of its domain, and learn from its wisdom…because there was no higher source of intellect, will, and truth alive in the galaxy.
In the middle of the chamber, hovering a meter off the floor upon its imperial dais, sat the Covenant High Prophet of Truth. Its body was barely discernible, covered as it was with a wide red cloak, and upon its head sat a glowing headpiece with sensor and respiratory apparatus that extended like insect antennae. Only its snout and dark eyes protruded…as did tiny claws from the sleeve of its gold underrobes.
The left claw twitched—the signal for the chamber’s doors to open.
The doors groaned and split apart, and a crack of light appeared.
A single figure appeared silhouetted in the illumination. It bowed so deeply that its chest brushed against the floor.
“Rise,” the Prophet of Truth whispered. The word was amplified by the chamber; it echoed and boomed forth as if a giant had spoken. “Come closer, Tartarus, and report.”
A ripple of shock passed through the Imperial Elite Protectors. They had never seen such a creature allowed so close to the Holy Ones.
“Protectors,” the Prophet commanded. “Leave us.”
Together the honor guards straightened, bowed, and filed out of the great chamber. They said nothing, but the Prophet saw the confusion on their features. Good—such ignorance and puzzlement had its uses.
The Brute, Tartarus, strode across the great room. When he stood within three meters of the Prophet, he fell to one knee.
The creature was a magnificent specimen of viciousness. The Prophet marveled at its near-unthinking potential for mayhem; the rippling muscle under its dull g
ray skin could tear apart any opponent—even a mighty Hunter. It was the perfect instrument.
“Tell me what you found,” the Prophet said, its voice now truly a whisper.
Without looking up Tartarus reached for its belt and the attached orb.
The Prophet flicked its claw at the container. It floated free from Tartarus’s grasp and hovered. The top unscrewed, and three glittering chips of sapphire-colored crystal shimmered, and threw light and shadow upon the chamber’s mirrored surfaces.
The Prophet’s dais bobbled in the suddenly uneven gravity—but it quickly compensated.
“This is all?” it asked.
“Eight squadrons combed the area surrounding the Eridanus Secundus asteroid field and Tau Ceti,” the Brute replied, bowing its head even lower. “Many were lost in the void. This is all there was to find.”
“A pity.”
The orb’s lid screwed itself back on, and then the container gently drifted into the Prophet’s grasp.
“It may yet be enough for our purposes…and one more relic from the Great Ones, as precious as they are, will soon make no difference to us.” The Prophet tucked the container deep in the folds of its underrobe. “Make sure those pilots who survived are well rewarded. Then execute them all. Quickly. Quietly.”
“I understand,” Tartarus replied with a hint of anticipation thickening his voice.
The Prophet inhaled deeply, released a rasping sigh, and then asked, “And what of the Unyielding Hierophant?”
“The reports are unclear, Your Grace,” Tartarus replied. “The renegade flagship Ascendant Justice was involved, and destroyed. We are unsure what triggered the station’s detonation. The recorded communications channels were flooded with system error reports prior to its destruction. The Engineers are saying this is imp—”
The Prophet held up one claw, indicating silence. Tartarus halted midsyllable.
“A regrettable turn of events,” the Prophet said, “but in the end, only an insignificant setback. Have the ships that are battle-ready rendezvous with us at the site of the cataclysm.”
“And what of the incompetent, High One? The one who lost Ascendant Justice?”
“Bring him before the Council. Let his fate match the magnitude of his failure.”
Tartarus’s face twisted with what passed for a grin among his species.
“Soon the Great Journey shall begin,” the Prophet of Truth continued, and its claws curled into fists. “And let nothing in this universe impede our progress.”
Adjunct
Amy,
My name is Charles VanKeerk, and for the last five years I’ve been working alongside your husband to protect the dreams that demand so much from us. I am so sorry that in all the time I’ve spent with Sam I never had a chance to meet you in person. As you know, our situation prevents us from being able to move about as we wish or see those we fight for, and because of this I am a stranger to you…and it pains me that you have to receive this message from a stranger:
Sam is gone.
For your protection, I can’t give you any details on where or how he died, but know that he was a hero, and he died as one. Everyone who fought alongside him these last years loved him as a brother, and his determination and gentle spirit were strengths to us all. It is a tragedy that Sam was forced to this fight, but forced he was, as we all are, by the most important need we have—the need to be free.
I know words can’t help right now, but please don’t doubt the value of Sam’s sacrifice or the wisdom of our fight, even in these terrible times. You will ask why, in the face of such an overwhelming external threat, we would take up arms against our own kind rather than fight against the Covenant. We struggle with this question every day…Sam fought with it every day. But what keeps us going is the certainty that there’s no future in helping those who would only put us in a cage for helping them win.
You’ve seen how the UNSC treats us, taking and taking but only offering empty promises in return…any planet outside their precious inner circle is plundered and left to suffer starvation, plague, or the onslaught of the Covenant. If only more of us would find the strength Sam had, perhaps we could make the UNSC recognize that it doesn’t matter if you come from Earth or Harvest or anywhere…we’re all equal, and we should all be treated as equals. Until that day comes, however, we have to fight every threat to our way of life…be it human or Covenant.
I write all of this to try to give you some comfort, some justification for such a terrible loss. I hope you can believe in our cause as much as Sam did, and I hope you can believe me when I say we all miss him terribly. Despite whatever you may have seen or read recently in the UNSC-controlled media, Sam’s death was a proud death. A noble death. He died for all of us, and I know for a certainty that he died for you.
My heartfelt condolences on your loss,
Charles
Tug O’ War
Oliver Birch was pretty sure he was going to die.
A stinging bead of sweat found its way into his eye, forcing him to close it tightly, take another breath, and focus. His gangly frame labored inside a pressurized atmospheric suit specifically built to sustain the perils of space. Perils like radiation bombardment, extremes of temperature, and right now, an enormous object that had managed to trap him against the bulkhead of the UNSC Dresden.
In one hand he held a magnetic vice, and in the other, a heavy-grade torque wrench—both were fixed onto the dark, hulking shape that he now found himself buried under. The shape was familiar enough, and so was the setting. Empty, weightless vacuum in the engine room of an abandoned Marathon-class cruiser called the Dresden. The shape that had pinned him was that of a Shaw-Fujikawa Translight Engine—better known as a “slipspace drive,” which had suddenly come free after nearly an hour of steady and tedious work.
Recovering some leverage with his footing, he gently pushed the large machine away while still guiding it with one hand, since the lack of any real gravity might allow it to take off in the opposite direction at a moment’s notice. And he most certainly needed to guide it because, as every schoolchild knew, slipspace drives were not to be trifled with. One false move, one wrong coordinate, one faulty mounting and bad things could happen—very bad things. Fortunately, the drive moved free and was slowly caught at its farthest corners by a series of towing cables he’d previously locked into place.
With a tap on his wristband, the distant tug’s winch began pulling the drive at a swift but controlled rate. He grabbed onto the side of the machine and trailed it back to the tug, taking a few shallow breaths to regain his composure. As the winch silently hauled Oliver and his prize, he glanced absently at the Dresden receding into the distance.
The uneven silhouette of the severely battered vessel belied its once majestic design, and all that remained now was an overturned, floating husk of steel, plastic components, and other random materials that had come free over the years. This was just one of hundreds of ships adrift in the debris field crowning the planet Biko.
Decades ago, when the Covenant first arrived here, they had swiftly and comprehensively wiped out the UNSC forces protecting it. When they were done, they had shunted the debris toward the planet’s northern pole, clearing the way for what inevitably came next: an excessive yet surgical display of their brutality through the orbital bombardment of Biko’s surface.
Oliver had never seen the Covenant up close, but he was fairly certain that if he ever encountered them, he’d mess his pants. Fortunately for Oliver that wasn’t very likely. Despite the intensity of the last few moments, his actual occupation as a “fetcher” was largely uneventful, something made even more banal by the endless paperwork his employer, Warner & Ives, bureaucratically tacked onto each operation.
Fetchers hadn’t been terribly popular till about twenty years ago when the UNSC discovered that they were closing in on a shortage of translight engines. Starships were expensive, of course, but so were manned rescue and recovery operations. With something as costly and a
s difficult to develop as a reliable slipspace drive, supply never seemed to keep up with demand, and the complexity of the drives changed the economic balance. That’s where fetchers came in. Private companies who specialized in “fetching” could now get paid good money for solid, working translight engines recovered from derelict ships.
Oliver didn’t doubt that the UNSC could send their own people to reclaim drives like the Dresden’s, but like many things the government could do, they’d rather pay someone else to do it for them. Thusly, fetching became a flourishing market that would allow companies like Warner & Ives to set up clients with contractors like Oliver. He’d locate, recover, and return the slipspace drive and there’d be a nice, fat paycheck for him in return.
At least that had been the plan, he thought, as both he and the drive finally reached the rear bay of the tug. But all that had been before he met Gretchen Navarro at a university bistro on Tribute.
After performing half a dozen tests to check the drive’s extant radiation levels, everything passed with flying colors and the drive seemed to be in perfect working order. Typically, drives suffered fairly superficial damage, with most issues relating to their external systems or mounting hardware. The drives themselves were designed to be physically bulletproof, for obvious reasons. Slipspace accidents tended to fall into categories unrelated to their normal working operations, with human error and ship mass accidents at the top of the list. Oliver meandered to the side of the bay and closed the main door, repressurizing the room and discarding his atmospheric suit.
He tapped a release button on a wall-mounted control panel and two doors opened on the port side of the tug’s bay—a beaten-up ship he called Galileo’s Worst Enemy. The tug was named, ostensibly, after Father Orazio Grassi, a priest and mathematician who’d lived in a time when the church controlled both state and science. Oddly, Grassi, a Jesuit, had objected to Galileo’s cometary theory on scientific, rather than canonical, grounds. The ensuing tiff, rather than snuff out Galileo’s genius, served only to stoke it, and led to some of Galileo’s most convincing work.
