D+58:36:31 (SPARTAN-117 Mission Clock) /Pelican Echo 419, approaching Covenant arms cache.
Echo 419’s engines roared as the Pelican descended through the darkness andrain into the swamp. The surrounding foliage whipped back and forth inresponse to the sudden turbulence, the water beneath the transport’s metalbelly was pressed flat, and the stench of rotting vegetation flooded theaircraft’s cargo compartment as the ramp splashed into the evil-lookingbrew below.
Foehammer was at the controls and it was her voice that came over the radio.
“The last transmission from the Captain’s ship was fromthis area. When youlocate Captain Keyes, radio in and I’ll come pick you up.”
The Master Chief stepped down off the ramp and immediately found himselfcalf-deep in oily-looking water. “Be sure to bring me a towel.”
The pilot laughed, fed more fuel to the engines, and the ship pushed itselfup out of the swamp. In the three hours since she had plucked the Spartanoff the top of the pyramid, he’d scarfed a quick meal and a couple hours ofsleep. Now, as Foehammer dropped her passenger into the muck, she was gladto be an aviator. Ground-pounders worked too damn hard.
Keyes floated in a vacuum. A gauzy white haze clouded his vision, though hecould occasionally make out images in lightning-fast bursts—a nightmaretableau of misshapen bodies and writhing tentacles. A muted gleam of lightglinted from some highly polished, engraved metal. In the distance, he couldhear a droning buzz. It had an odd, musical quality, like Gregorian chantslowed to a fraction of its normal speed.
He realized with a start that the images were from his own eyes. Theknowledge brought back a flood of memory—of his own body. He struggled, andrealized in mounting horror that he could just barely feel his own arms.
They seemed softer somehow, as if filled with a spongy, thick liquid.
He couldn’t move. His lungs itched, and the effort of breathing hurt.
The strange droning chant suddenly sped into an insect buzz, painfullyechoing through his consciousness. There was something . . . distant,something definitivelyother about the sound.
Without warning, a new image flashed across his mind, like images on a videoscreen.
The sun was setting over the Pacific, and a trio of gulls wheeled overhead.
He smelled salt air, and felt gritty sand between his toes.
He felt a sickening sensation, a feeling of indescribable violation, and thecomforting image vanished. He tried to remember what he was seeing, but thememory faded like smoke. All he could feel now was a sense of loss.
Something had been taken from him . . . butwhat ?
The insistent buzz returned, painfully loud now. He could sense tendrils ofawareness—hungry for data—wriggling through his confused mind likediseased maggots. A host of new images filled him.
. . . the first time he killed another human being, during the riots onCharybdis IX. He smelled blood, and his hands shook as he holstered thepistol. He could feel the heat of the weapon’s barrel . . .
. . . the pride he felt after graduating at the Academy, then a hitch—as ifa bad holorecord was being scrolled back—then a knot in his gut. Fear thathe wouldn’t be able to meet the Academy’s standards . . .
. . . the sickening smell of lilacs and lilies as he stood over hisfather’s coffin . . .
Keyes continued to float, mesmerized by the parade of memories that began topile on him, each one appearing faster than the last. He drifted through thefog. He didn’t notice, or indeed care, that as soon as the bursts of memoryended, they disappeared entirely.
The strangeotherness receded from his awareness, but not entirely. He couldstill sense theother probing him, but he ignored it. The next burst ofmemory passed . . . then another . . . then another . . .
The Chief checked his threat indicator, found nothing of concern, andallowed the swamp to close in around him. “Make friends with yourenvironment.” That’s what Chief Mendez had told him many years ago—andthe advice had served him well. Bylistening to the constant patter of therain,feeling the warm humid air via his vents, andseeing the shapes naturalto the swamp, the Spartan would know what belonged and what didn’t.
Knowledge that could mean the difference between life and death.
Satisfied that he was attuned to the environment around him, and hopeful ofgaining a better vantage point, he climbed a slight rise. The payoff wasimmediate.
The Pelican had gone in less than sixty meters from the spot where Echo 419had dropped him off—but the surrounding foliage was so thick Foehammer hadbeen unable to see the crash site from the air.
The Chief moved in to inspect the wreckage. Judging from appearances, andthe fact that there weren’t many bodies lying around, the ship had crashedduring takeoff, rather than on landing. The impression was confirmed when hediscovered that while they were dressed in fatigues, all of the casualtieswore Naval insignia.
That suggested that the dropship had landed successfully, discharged all ofits Marine passengers, and was in the process of lifting off when amechanical failure or enemy fire had brought the aircraft down.
Satisfied that he had a basic understanding of what had taken place, theChief was about to leave when he spotted a shotgun lying next to one of thebodies, decided it might come in handy, and slipped the sling over his rightshoulder.
He followed a trail of bootprints away from the Pelican and toward the glowof portable work lights—the same kind of lights he’d seen in the areaaround theTruth and Reconciliation . The aliens were certainly industrious,especially when it came to stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down.
As if to confirm his theory regarding Covenant activity in the area, itwasn’t long before the Spartan came across asecond wreck, a Covenantdropship this time, bows down in the swamp muck. Aside from swarms ofmothlike insects and the distant chirp of swamp birds, there were no signsof life.
Cargo containers were scattered all around the crash site, which raised aninteresting question. When the transport nosed in, were the aliens trying todeliver something, weapons perhaps, or taking material away? There was noway to be certain.
Whatever the case, there was a strong likelihood that Keyes had beenattracted to the lights, just as he had, followed them to the crash site,and continued from there.
With that in mind, he swung past a tree that stood on thick, spiderlikeroots, followed a trail up over a rise, and spotted a lone Jackal. Withouthesitation, he snapped the assault rifle to his shoulder and brought thealien down with a burst.
He crouched, waiting for the inevitable counterattack—which never came.
Curious. Given the lights, the crash site, and the scattering of cargomodules, he would have expected to run into more opposition.
Alot more.
So where were they? It didn’t make sense. Just one more mystery to add tohis growing supply.
The rain pattered against the surface of his armor, and swamp water sloshedaround his boots as the Master Chief pushed his way through some foliage andsuddenly came under fire. For one brief moment it seemed as if his latestquestion had been answered, that Covenant forceswere still in the area, butthe opposition soon proved to be little more than a couple of haplessJackals, who, upon hearing the sound of gunfire, had come to investigate. Asusual they came in low, crouching behind their shields, so it was almostimpossible to score a hit from directly in front of them.
He shifted position, found a better angle, and fired. One Jackal went down,but the other rolled, and that made it nearly impossible to hit him. TheSpartan held his fire, waited for the alien to come to a stop, and cut himdown.
He worked his way up the side of a steep slope, and Chief spotted a Shadesited on top of the ridge. It commanded both slopes, or would have, hadsomeone been at the controls. He paused at the top of the ridge andconsidered his options. He could jump on the Shade, hose the ravine below,and thereby let everyone know that he had arrived, or slip down the slope,and try to infiltrate the area more quietly.
The Chief settled on the second option, started down the slope in front ofhim, and was soon wrapped in mist and moist vegetation. Not toosurprisingly, some red dots appeared on the Spartan’s threat indicator.
Rather than go around the enemy, and expose his six, the Master Chiefdecided to seek them out. He slung the MA5B and drew out the shotgun—bettersuited for close-up work. He pumped the slide, flicked off the safety, andmoved on.
Broad variegated leaves caressed his shoulders, vines tugged at the barrelof the shotgun, and the thick half-rotten humus of the jungle floor gave wayunder the Chief’s boots as he made his way forward.
The Grunt perhaps heard a slight rustling, debated whether to fire, and wasstill in the process of thinking it over when the butt of the shotgundescended on his head. There was a solidthump! as the alien went down,followed by two more, as more methane breathers rushed to investigate.
Satisfied with his progress so far, the Spartan paused to listen. There wasthe gentle patter of rain on wide, welcoming leaves, and the constant soundof his own breathing, but nothing more.
Confident that the immediate perimeter was clear, the Master Chief turnedhis attention to the Forerunner complex that loomed off to his right. Unlikethe graceful spires of other installations, this one appeared squat andvaguely arachnid.
He crept down onto the flat area immediately in front of it. He decided thatthe entrance reminded him of a capital A, except that the top was flat, andwas bracketed by a pair of powerful floodlights.
Wasthis what Keyes had been looking for? Something caught his eye—a pair oftwelve-gauge shotgun shells, and a carelessly discarded protein bar wrapper,tossed near the entrance.
He must be getting closer.
Once through the door he came across a half dozen Covenant bodies lying in apool of commingled blood. Struck once again by the absence of seriousopposition, the Master Chief knelt just beyond the perimeter established bythe blood, and peered at the bodies.
Had the Marines killed them? No, judging from the nature of their wounds itappeared as if the aliens had been hosed withplasma fire. Friendly fireperhaps? Humans armed with Covenant weapons? Maybe, but neither explanationreally seemed to fit.
Perplexed, he stood, took a long, slow look around, and pushed deeper intothe complex. In contrast with the swamp outside, where theconstantdrip ,drip,dripof the rain served to provide a constant flow ofsound, it was almost completely silent within the embrace of the thickwalls. The sudden sound of machinery startled him, and he spun and broughtthe shotgun to bear.
Summoned by some unknown mechanism, a lift surfaced right in front of him.
With nowhere else to go, the Master Chief stepped aboard.
As the platform carried him downward a group of overlapping red blobsappeared on his threat indicator, and the Spartan knew he was about to havecompany. There was a screech of tortured metal as the lift came to a stop,but rather than rush him as he expected them to, the blobs remainedstationary.
They had heard the lift many times before, the Chief reasoned, and figuredit was loaded with a group of their friends. That suggested Covenant,stupidCovenant.
His favorite kind, in fact—apart from the dead kind.
Careful to avoid the sort of noise that might give him away, he completed afull circuit of the dimly lit room, and discovered that the blobs wereactually Grunts and Jackals, all of whom were clustered around a hatch.
The Chief suppressed a grin, slung the shotgun, and unlimbered the assaultrifle.
Their punishment for not guarding the lift consisted of a grenade, followedby forty-nine rounds of automatic fire, and a series of shorter bursts tofinish them off.
The hatch opened onto a large four- or five-story-high room. The MasterChief found himself on a platform along with a couple of unsuspectingJackals. He immediately killed them, heard a reaction from the floor below,and moved to the right. A quick peek revealed a group of seven or eightCovenant, milling around as if waiting for instructions.
The noncom dropped an M9 HE-DP calling card into their midst, took a stepback to avoid getting hit by the resulting fragments, and heard a loudwham!
as the grenade detonated. There were screams, followed by wild firing. TheSpartan waited for the volume of fire to drop off and moved forward again. Aseries of short controlled bursts was sufficient to silence the lastCovenant soldiers.
He jumped down off the platform to check the surrounding area.
Still looking for clues as to where Keyes might have gone, the Master Chiefconducted a quick sweep of the room. It wasn’t long before he picked upsome plasma grenades, circled a cargo container, and came across the bodies.
Two Marines, both killed by plasma fire, their weapons missing.
He cursed under his breath. The fact that both dog tags had been takensuggested that Keyes and his team had run into the Covenant just as he had,taken casualties, and pushed on.
Certain he was on the right trail, the Spartan crossed the troughlikedepression that split the room in two, and was forced to step over andaround a scattering of Covenant corpses as he approached the hatch. Oncethrough the opening he negotiated his way through a series of rooms, allempty, but painted with Covenant blood.
Finally, just as he was beginning to wonder if he should turn back, heentered a room and found himself face-to-face with a fear-crazed Marine. Hiseyes jerked from side to side, as if seeking something hidden within theshadows, and his mouth was twisted into a horrible grimace. There was nosign of the soldier’s assault weapon, but he had a pistol, which he firedat a shadow in the corner. “Stay back! Stay back! You’re not turning meinto one of those things!”
The Master Chief raised a hand, palm out. “Put the weapon down,Marine . . . we’re on the same side.”
But the Marine wasn’t having any of that, and pressed his back against thesolidity of the wall. “Get away from me! Don’t touch me, you freak! I’lldie first!”
The pistol discharged. The Spartan felt the impact as the 12.7mm slug rockedhim back onto his heels, and decided that enough was enough.
Before the Marine had time to react, the Chief snatched the M6D out of hishand. “I’ll take that,” he growled. The Marine leaped to his feet, butthe Chief planted his feet and gently but firmly shoved the soldier back tothe floor.
“Now,” he said, “where is Captain Keyes, and the rest of your unit?”
The private turned fierce, his features contorted, spittle flying from hislips. “Find your own hiding place!” he screamed. “The monsters areeverywhere! God, I can still hear them! Justleave me alone .”
“Whatmonsters?” the Spartan asked gently. “The Covenant?”
“No!Not the Covenant.Them! ”
That was all the Spartan could get from the crazed Marine. “The surface isback that way,” the Master Chief said, pointing toward the door. “Isuggest that you reload this weapon, quit wasting ammo, and head topside.
Once you get there hunker down and wait for help. There’ll be a dust-offlater on. Do you read me?”
The Private accepted the weapon, but continued to blather. A moment later hecurled into a fetal ball, whimpered, then fell silent. The man would nevermake it out alone.
One thing was clear from the Marine’s ramblings. Assuming that Keyes andhis troops were still alive, they were in a heap of trouble. That left theChief with little choice; hehad to put the greatest number of lives first.
The young soldier had clearly been through the wringer—but he’d have towait for help until the Master Chief completed his mission.
Slowly, reluctantly, he turned to investigate the rest of the room. Theremains of a badly shattered ramp led up over a small fire toward thewalkway on the level above. He felt heat wash around him as he stepped overa dead Elite, took comfort from the fact that the body had been riddled withbullets, and made his way up onto a circular gallery. From there, the MasterChief proceeded through a series of doorways and mysteriously empty rooms,until he arrived at the top of a ramp where a dead Marine and a large poolof blood caused him to pause.
He had long ago learned to trust his instincts—and they nagged at him now.
Something feltwrong . It was quiet, with only a hollow booming sound todisturb the otherwise perfect silence. He was close to something, hecouldfeel it, but what?
The Chief descended the ramp. He arrived on the level spot at the bottom,and saw the hatch to his left. Weapon at the ready, he cautiously approachedthe metal barrier.
The door sensed his presence, slid open, and dumped a dead Marine into hisarms.
The Spartan felt his pulse quicken, as he bent slightly to catch the bodybefore it crashed into the ground. He held the MA5B one-handed and coveredthe room beyond as best he could, searching for a target. Nothing.
He stepped forward, then spun on his heel and pointed the gun back the wayhe’d come.
Damn it, it felt like eyes bored into the back of his head. Someone waswatching him. He backed into the room, and the door slid shut.
He lowered the body to the ground, then stepped away. The toe of his boothit some empty shell casings which rolled away. That’s when he realizedthat there werethousands of empties—so many that they very nearly carpetedthe floor.
He noticed a Marine helmet, and bent to pick it up. A name had beenstenciled across the side. JENKINS.
A vid cam was attached, the kind worn by the typical combat team so theycould critique the mission when they returned to base, feed data to theghouls in Intelligence, and on occasions like this one, provideinvestigators with information regarding the circumstances surrounding theirdeaths.
The Spartan removed the camera’s memory chip, slotted the device into oneof the receptacles on his own helmet, and watched the playback via a windowon his HUD.
The picture was standard quality—which meant pretty awful. The night-visionsetting was active, so everything was a sickly green, punctuated by whiteflares as the camera panned across a light source.
The picture bounced and jostled, and intermittent spots of static marred theimage. It was pretty routine stuff at first, starting with the moment thedoomed dropship touched down, followed by the trek through the swamp, andtheir arrival in front of the A-shaped structure.
He spooled ahead, and the video became more ominous after that, startingwith the dead Elite, and growing even more uncomfortable as the team openedthe final door and went inside. Not justany door, but the same door throughwhich the Master Chief had passed only minutes before, only to have a deadMarine fall into his arms.
He was tempted to kill the video, back his way through the hatch, and scrubthe mission, but he forced himself to continue watching as one of theMarines said something about a “. . . bad feeling.” A badly garbled radiotransmission came in, odd rustling noises were heard, a hatch gave way, andhundreds of fleshy balls rolled, danced, and hopped into the room.
That was when the screaming started, when the Master Chief heard Keyes saythat they were “surrounded,” and saw the picture jerk as something hitJenkins from behind, and the video snapped to black.
For the first time since parting company with the AI back in the ControlRoom, he wished that Cortana were with him. First, because she mightunderstand what the hell was going on, but also because he had come to relyon her company, and suddenly felt very much alone.
However, even as one aspect of the Spartan’s mind sought comfort, anotherpart had directed his body to back toward the hatch, and was waiting to hearthe telltale sound as it opened. But the doordidn’t open, something whichthe Master Chief knew meant trouble. It caused a rock to form at the bottomof his gut.
As he stood there, gripped by a growing sense of dread, he saw a flash ofwhite from the corner of his eye. He turned to face it, and that was when hesaw one, then five, twenty, fifty of the fleshy blobs dribble into the room,pirouette on their tentacles, and dance his way. His motion sensor painted asudden blob of movement—speeding closer by the second.
The Spartan fired at the ugly-looking creatures. Those which were closestpopped like air-filled balloons, but there were more,many more, and theyrolled toward him over the floor and walls. The Spartan opened up inearnest, the obscene-looking predators threw themselves forward, and thebattle was joined.
It was dark outside. Only one mission had been scheduled for that particularnight, and it had returned to the butte at 02:36 arbitrary. That meant theNavy personnel assigned to the Control Center didn’t have much to do, andwere busy playing a round of cards when the wall-mounted speakers burpedstatic, and a desperate voice was heard.“This is Charlie 2-1-7, repeat 217,to any UNSC forces . . . Does anyone copy? Over.”
Com Tech First Class Mary Murphy glanced at the other two members of herwatch and frowned. “Has either one of you had previous contact with Charlie217?”
The techs looked at each other and shook their heads. “I’ll check withWellsley,” Cho said, as he turned toward a jury-rigged monitor.
Murphy nodded and keyed the boom-style mike that extended in front of herlips. “This is UNSC Combat Base Alpha. Over.”
“Thank God!”the voice said fervently.“We took a hit after clearing theAutumn,put down in the boonies, and managed to make some repairs. I’ve gotwounded on board—and request immediate clearance to land.”
Wellsley, who had been busy fighting a simulation of the battle of Marathon,materialized on Cho’s screen. As usual, the image that he chose to presentwas that of a stern-looking man with longish hair, a prominent nose, and ahigh-collared coat. “Yes?”
“We have a Pelican, call sign Charlie 217, requesting an emergency landing.
None of us have dealt with him before.”
The AI took a fraction of a second to check the myriad of data stored withinhis considerable memory and gave a curt nod. “There was a unit designatedas Charlie 217 on board theAutumn . Not having heard from 217 since weabandoned ship, and not having received any information to the contrary, Iassumed the ship was lost. Ask the pilot to provide his name, rank, andserial number.”
Murphy heard and nodded. “Sorry, Charlie, but we need some informationbefore we can clear you in. Please provide name, rank and serial number.
Over.”
The voice that came back sounded increasingly frustrated.“This is FirstLieutenant Rick Hale, serial number 876-544-321. Give me a break, I needclearance now .Over. ”
Wellsley nodded. “The data matches . . . but how would Hale know that AlphaBase even existed?”
“He could have picked up our radio traffic,” Cho offered.
“Maybe,” the AI agreed, “but let’s play it safe. I recommend you bringthe base to full alert, notify the Major, and send the reaction force to PadThree. You’ll need the crash team, the emergency medical team, and somepeople from Intel all on deck. Hale should be debriefedbefore he’s allowedto mix with base personnel.”
The third tech, a Third Class Petty Officer named Pauley, slapped the alarmbutton, and put out the necessary calls.
“Roger that,” Murphy said into her mike. “You are cleared for Pad Three,repeat, Pad Three, which will be illuminated two minutes from now. A medicalteam will meet your ship. Safe all weapons and cut power the moment youtouch down. Over.”
“No problem,”Hale replied gratefully. Then, a few moments later,“I seeyour lights. We’re coming in. Over.”
The pilot keyed his mike off and turned to his copilot. Bathed in the greenglow produced by the ship’s instrument panel, the Elite looked all the morealien. “So,” the human inquired, “how did I do?”
“Extremely well,” Special Operations Officer Zuka ’Zamamee said frombehind the pilot’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
And with that ’Zamamee dropped what looked like a circle of green lightover Hale’s head, pulled the handles in opposite directions, and buried thewire in the pilot’s throat. The human’s eyes bulged, his hands plucked atthe garrote, and his feet beat a tattoo against the control pedals.
The Elite who occupied the copilot’s position had already taken control ofthe Pelican and, thanks to hours of practice, could fly the dropshipextremely well.
’Zamamee waited until the kicking had stopped, released the wire, andsmelled something foul. That’s when the Elite realized that Hale had soiledhimself. He gave a grunt of disgust, and returned to the Pelican’s cargocompartment. It was crammed with heavily armed Elites, trained forinfiltration. They carried camouflage generators, along with their weapons.
Their job was to take as many landing pads as possible, and hold them untilsix dropships loaded with Grunts, Jackals, and more Elites could land on themesa.
The troops saw the officer appear and looked expectant.
“Proceed,” ’Zamamee said. “Youknow what to do. Turn on the stealthgenerators, check your weapons, and remember this moment. Becausethisbattle,this victory, will be woven into your family’s battle poem, and sungby generations to come.
“The Prophets have blessed this mission, have blessedyou , and want everysoldier to know that those who transcend the physical will be welcomed intoparadise. Good luck.”
A blur of lights appeared out of the darkness, the dropship shed altitude,and the warriors murmured their final benedictions.
Like most AIs, Wellsley had a pronounced tendency to spend more timethinking about what hedidn’t have rather than what he did, and sensors wereat the very top of his list. The sad truth was that while McKay and hercompany had recovered a wealth of supplies from theAutumn , there had beeninsufficient time to strip the ship of the electronics that would have giventhe AI a real-time, all-weather picture of the surrounding air space. Thatmeant he was totally reliant on the data provided by remote ground sensorswhich the patrols had planted here and there around the butte’s ten-kilometer perimeter.
All of the feeds had been clear during the initial radio contact withCharlie 217, but now, as the Pelican flared in to land, the package inSector Six started to deliver data. It claimed that six heavy-duty heatsignatures had just passed overhead, that whatever produced them was fairlyloud, and that they were inbound at a speed of approximately 350 kph.
Wellsley reacted with the kind of speed that only a computer is capable of—but the response was too late to prevent Charlie 217 from putting down. Evenas the AI made a series of strongly worded recommendations to his humansuperiors, the Pelican’s skids made contact with Pad 3’s surface, thirtynearly invisible Elites thundered down the ramp, and the men and women ofAlpha Base soon found themselves fighting for their lives.
One level down, locked into a room with three other Grunts, Yayap heard thedistant moan of an alarm, and thought he knew why. ’Zamamee had beencorrect: The human who wore the strange armor, and was believed to beresponsible for more than a thousand Covenant casualties,did frequent thisplace. Yayap knew that because he hadseen the soldier more than six unitsbefore, triggered the transmitter hidden inside his breathing apparatus, andthereby set the raid in motion.
That was thegood news. The bad news was that ’Zamamee’s quarry might verywell have left the base during the intervening period of time. If so, andthe mission was categorized as a failure, the Grunt had little doubt as towho would receive the blame. But there was nothing Yayap could do but gripthe crudely welded bars with his hands, listen to the distant sounds ofbattle, and hope for the best.
At this point, “the best” would likely be a quick, painless death.
All the members of the crash team, half the medics, and a third of thereaction team were already dead by the time McKay had rolled out of herrack, scrambled into her clothes, and grabbed her personal weapons. Shefollowed the crowd up to the landing area to find that a pitched battle wasunderway.
Energy bolts seemed to stutter out of nowhere, plasma grenades materializedout of thin air, and throats were slit by invisible knives. The landingparty had been contained, but just barely, and threatened to break outacross the neighboring pads.
Silva was there, naked from the waist up, shouting orders as he fired shortbursts from an assault weapon. “Flood Pad Three with fuel! But keep itinside the containment area. Do it now!”
It was a strange order, and civilians would have balked, but the soldiersreacted with unquestioning obedience and a Naval rating ran toward the Pad 3refueling station. He flipped the safety out of the way, and grabbed hold ofthe nozzle.
The air seemed to shimmer in the floodlit area off to the sailor’s right,and Silva fired a full clip into what looked like empty air. A commandoElite screamed, seemed to strobe on and off as his camo generator took adirect hit, and folded at the waist.
Undeterred, and unaware of his close call with death, the rating turned,gave the handgrip a healthy squeeze, and sent a steady stream of liquid outonto the surface of Pad 3. A Covenant work crew had been forced to build acurb around the area during the days immediately after the butte had beentaken. The purpose of the barrier was to contain fuel spills, and it workedwell, as the high-octane fuel crept in around the Pelican’s skids and wetthe area beyond.
“Get back!” Silva shouted, and rolled a fragmentation grenade in underCharlie 217’s belly. There was an explosion followed by a loudwhump! as thefuel went up and the rating shut off the hose.
The general effect was to turn those Elites who remained on the pad intoshimmering torches—screaming, dancing torches. The response was immediateas the Marines opened fire, put the commandos down, and were then forced toturn their efforts to fire fighting. Charlie 217 was fully involved by thattime, and shuddered as the fuel in one of her tanks blew.
But there were other Pelicans to protect and while some had lifted off,others remained on their pads.
Silva turned to McKay. “Show time,” the Major said, as Wellsley spoke intohis ear. “This was little more than a warm-up, no pun intended. Therealassault force is only five minutes out. Six Covenant dropships, if Wellsleyhas it right. They can’t land here, so they’ll put down out on the mesasomewhere. I’ll handle the pads—you take the mesa.”
McKay nodded, said, “Yes, sir,” and spotted Sergeant Lister and waved himover. The noncom had a squad of her Marines in tow. “Round up the rest ofmy company, tell them to dig in up-spin of the landing pads, and get readyto handle an attack from the mesa. Let’s give the bastards a warmreception.”
Lister tossed a glance at the raging fires and grinned at McKay’sunintentional pun. “Yes, ma’am!” he said and trotted away.
Elsewhere, out along the butte’s irregularly shaped rim, the commandeeredShade emplacements opened fire. Pulses of bright blue energy probed thesurrounding blackness, found the first ship, and cut the night into slices.
’Zamamee and a file of five commando Elites had already cleared the landingpad by the time the humans flooded Pad 3 with fuel. In fact, the Eliteofficer wasn’t even on the surface of the Forerunner installation duringthe ensuing inferno—he and his commandos were already one level down,moving from room to room, slaughtering every human they could find. Therehad been no sign of the one enemy soldier they wanted most, but it was earlyyet, and he could be around the next corner.
Murphy had just taken the safeties off the 50mm MLA autocannons, anddelegated control to Wellsley, when she felt something brush her shoulder.
The petty officer started to turn, saw blood spray, and realized that itbelonged to her. An Elite produced a deep throaty chuckle as both Cho andPauley met similar fates. The Control Room was neutralized.
But Wellsley witnessed the murders via the camera mounted over the mainvideo monitor, killed the lights, and notified Silva. Within a matter ofminutes six three-person fire teams, all equipped with heat-sensitive night-vision goggles, were busy working their way down through the mazelikecomplex. The Covenant’s camo generators didn’t block heat, theyactuallygenerated it, and that put both sides on an even footing.
In the meantime, thanks to a dead officer’s personal initiative, Wellsleyhad a 50mm surprise waiting for the incoming dropships. Though effectiveagainst Banshees, the Shades lacked the power necessary to knock a dropshipout of the sky, something the Covenant had clearly known in advance.
But, just as an Elite couldn’t withstand fifty rounds of 7.62mm armor-piercing ammo, the enemy transports proved vulnerable to the 50mm highexplosive shells that suddenly blasted their way. Not only that, but thefifties were computer-controlled—which was to sayWellsley controlled, whichmeant that nearly every round went exactly where it was supposed to.
Control had been delegated too late for the AI to nail the first dropship,but the second was right where he wanted it to be. It exploded as a dozenrounds of HE went off inside the fuselage. Ironically, the compartments thatheld the troops preserved most of their lives so they could die when theaircraft hit the foot of the butte.
But there were only two of the guns, one to the west, and one to the east,which meant that the surviving transports were safely through the easternMLA’s field of fire before the AI could fire on them. Still, thedestruction of that single ship had reduced the assault force by one sixth,which struck Wellsley as an acceptable result.
Machine-generated death stabbed the top of the mesa as the Covenantdropships made use of their plasma cannons to strafe the landing zone. Afire team was caught out in the open and cut to shreds even as a barrage ofshoulder-fired rockets lashed up to meet the incoming transports. There werehits, some of which inflicted casualties, but none of the enemy aircraft wasdestroyed.
Then, hovering like obscene insects, the U-shaped dropships turned down-ring, and spilled troops out their side slots, scattering them like evilseeds across the top of the mesa. McKay did the mental math. Five remainingtransports, times roughly thirty troops each, equaled an assault force ofabout one hundred and fifty troops.
“Hit ’em!” Lister shouted. “Kill the bastards before they can land!”
The response was a steadycrack! crack! crack! as the company’s snipersopened fire, and Elites, Grunts, and Jackals alike tumbled to the grounddead.
But there were plenty left—and McKay steeled herself against the comingassault.
The lights had gone off for reasons that the Grunt could only guess at, afactor which added to the fear he felt. Unable to do anything more, Yayaplistened to the muffled sounds of battle, and wondered which side to rootfor. He didn’t like being a prisoner but was starting to wonder if hewouldn’t be better off with the humans. For a while at least, until—A blob of light appeared, slid down the opposite wall, crossed the floor,and found its way into the cell. “Yayap? Are you in there?”
There were other lights now, and the Grunt saw the air shimmer in front ofhim. It was ’Zamamee! Much to Yayap’s amazement, the Elite had kept hisword and actually come looking for him. Realizing that the breathingapparatus made it difficult for others to tell his kind apart, the Gruntpushed his face up against the bars.
“Yes, Excellency, I am here.”
“Good,” the Elite said. “Now stand back so we can blow the door.”
All of the Grunts in the cell retreated to the back of the room while one ofthe commandos attached a charge to the door lock, backed away, and made useof a remote to trigger it. There was a small flash of light, followed by asubduedbang! as the explosive was detonated. Hinges squeaked as Yayap pushedthe gate out of the way.
“Now,” ’Zamamee said eagerly, “lead us to the human. We’ve been throughmost of the complex, but haven’t run into him yet.”
So,Yayap thought to himself,the only reason you came looking for me was tofind the human. I should have known. “Of course, Excellency,” the Gruntreplied, surprised by his own smoothness. “The aliens captured some of ourBanshees. The human was assigned to guard them.”
Yayap expected ’Zamamee to challenge the claim, to ask how he knew, but theElite took him at his word. “Very well,” ’Zamamee replied. “Where arethe aircraft kept?”
“Up on the mesa,” Yayap answered truthfully, “west of the landing pads.”
“We will lead the way,” the Elite said importantly, “but stay close. Itwould be easy to become lost.”
“Yes, Excellency,” the Grunt replied, “whatever you say.”
Unable to land on or near the pads as originally planned, Field Master’Putumee had been forced to drop his assault team on the area up-spin ofthe Forerunner complex. That meant that his troops would have to advanceacross open ground, with very little cover, and without benefit of heavyweapons to clear the way.
The wily field officer had a trick up his sleeve, however. Rather thanrelease the dropships, he ordered them to remain over the LZ, and strafe theground ahead of his steadily advancing troops. It wasn’t what thetransports had been designed for, and the pilots didn’t like it, but sowhat? ’Putumee, who saw all aviators as little more than glorifiedchauffeurs, wasn’t especially interested in how they felt.
So, the U-shaped dropships drifted down toward the human fortifications,plasma cannons probing the ground below, while volleys of rockets lashedupward, exploding harmlessly against their flanks.
The field officer, who advanced along with the second rank of troops, wavedhis Jackals forward as the humans were forced to pull out of their firingpits, and withdraw to their next line of defense.
’Putumee paused next to one of the now empty pits and looked into it.
Something about the excavation bothered him, but what? Then he had it. Therectangular hole wastoo neat,too even, to have been dug during the last halfunit. What other preparations had the aliens made, the officer wondered?
The answer came in a heartbeat. McKay said, “Fire!” and the Scorpion’sgunner complied. The tank lurched under the officer’s feet as the shellleft the main gun and the hull started to vibrate as the machine gun openedup. The explosion, about six hundred meters downrange, erased an entire fileof Grunts. The other MBT, one of two which Silva had ordered his battalionto bring topside, fired two seconds later. That round killed an Elite, twoJackals, and a Hunter.
Marines cheered and McKay smiled. Though doubtful that the Covenant wouldtry to put troops on the mesa, the Major was a careful man, which was why heordered the Helljumpers to dig firing pits up-ring of the installation, andcreate bunkers for the tanks.
Now, firing with their barrels nearly parallel to the ground, the MBTs werein the process of turning the area in front of them into a moonscape as eachshell threw half a ton of soil up into the air, and carved craters out ofthe plateau.
Unbeknownst to McKay, or any other human, for that matter, the third shellto roar down range blew Field Master ’Putumee in half. The assaultcontinued, but more slowly now, as lower-ranked Elites assumed command, andtried to rally their troops.
Though pursuing his own sub-mission, ’Zamamee had been monitoring thecommand net, and knew that the assault had stalled. It was only a matter oftime before the dropships would be ordered to swoop in, pick up those whocould crawl, walk, or run to them, and leave for safer climes.
That meant that he should be pulling out, looking for a way to slip throughthe human lines, but the session with the Prophet continued to haunt him.
His best chance, no, hisonly chance, was to find the human and kill him. Hewould keep his head, all would be forgiven, and who knew? A lot of Eliteshad been killed—so there might be a promotion in the offing.
Thus reassured, he drove ahead.
The commandos were up on the first level by then, just approaching a door tothe outside, when one of three waiting Marines saw a line of green blobsstart to pass the alcove in which he was hiding, and opened fire.
There was complete pandemonium as the humans ran through clip after clip ofammunition, Grunts were blown off their feet, Elites fired in everydirection, and soon started to fall.
’Zamamee felt his plasma rifle cycle open as it attempted to cool itself,and knew he was about to die, when a plasma grenade sailed in among thehumans and locked onto a human soldier’s arm. He yelled, “No!” but it wasalready too late, and the explosion slaughtered the entire fire team.
Yayap, who had appropriated both the grenade and a pistol from one of thedead commandos, tugged on ’Zamamee’s combat harness. “This way,Excellency. . . . Follow me!”
The Elite did. The Grunt led the officer out through a door, down a walkway,and onto the platform where ten Banshees stood in an orderly row. There wereno guards. ’Zamamee looked around. “Where is he?”
Yayap shrugged. “I have no idea, Excellency.”
’Zamamee felt a mixture of anger, fear, and hopelessness as a dropshippassed over his head and disappeared down-spin. The entire effort had been afailure.
“So,” he said harshly, “you lied to me. Why?”
“Becauseyou know how to fly one of these things,” the Grunt answeredsimply, “andI don’t.”
The Elite’s eyes seemed to glow as if lit from within. “I should shoot youand leave your body for the humans to throw off the cliff.”
“You cantry ,” Yayap said as he pointed the plasma pistol at hissuperior’s head, “but I wouldn’t advise it.” It took all the courage theGrunt could muster to point his weapon at an Elite—and his hand shook inresponse to the fear he felt. But not much, not enough so that an energybolt would miss, and ’Zamamee knew it.
The Elite nodded. Moments later, a heavily loaded Banshee wobbled off theground, slipped over the edge of the butte, and immediately began to losealtitude. A Shade gunner caught a glimpse of it, and sent three bursts ofplasma racing after the assault craft, but the Banshee was soon out ofrange.
The battle for Alpha Base was over.
The Spartan fired into what seemed like a tidal wave of tentacled horrors,backed away, and resolved to keep moving. He was vulnerable, in particularfrom behind, but the armor would help, especially since the monsters likedto jump on people.
What happened next wasn’t clear, but could make Marines scream, and putthem out of action in a relatively short period of time. Ammo would be aconcern, he knew that, so rather than fire wildly, he forced himself to aim,trying to pop as many of the things as he could.
They came at him in twos, threes, and fours, flew into fleshy bits as thebullets ripped them apart and seemed to melt away. The problem was thatthere were hundreds of the little bastards, maybethousands , which made itdifficult to keep up as they flooded in his direction.
There were strategies, though, things the Chief could do to help even theodds, and they made all the difference. The first was to run, firing as hewent, stretching their ragged formation thin, forcing them to skitter fromone end of the room to the other. They were numerous and determined, but notparticularly bright.
The second was to watch for breakouts, concentrations of the creatures wherea well-thrown grenade could destroy hundreds of them all at once.
And the third was to switch back and forth between the assault weapon andthe shotgun, thereby maintaining a constant rate of fire, only pausing toreload when there was a momentary lull in the fighting.
These strategies suddenly became even more critical as somethingnew leapedout of the darkness. A mass of tattered flesh and swinging limbs lashed athis head. During the first moments of the attack the Chief wondered if acorpse had somehow fallen on him from above, but soon learned the truth, asmore of the horribly misshapen creatures appeared and hurled themselvesforward. Not just ran, butvaulted high into the air, as if hoping to crushhim under their weight.
The creatures were roughly humanoid, hunchbacked figures that lookedpartially rotted. Their limbs seemed to be stretched to the breaking point.
Clusters of tentacles protruded from ragged holes in the skin.
They were susceptible to bullets, however, something for which the Chief wasthankful, although it often took fifteen or twenty rounds to put one downfor good. Strangely, even the live ones looked like they were dead, which onreflection the Master Chief was starting to believe they were. That wouldexplain why some of the ugly sons of bitches had a marked resemblance toCovenant Elites, or to what an Elite would look like if you killed him,buried the body, and dug it up two weeks later.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, two of the reanimated Elitesbarged in through the hatch, and were promptly put down. That provided theChief with an opportunity to escape.
There were more of the two-legged freaks right on his tail, though, alongwith a jumble of the tumbling, leaping swarms of spherical creatures, and itwas necessary to scrub the entire lot of them with auto fire before he coulddisengage and slip through a door.
The Spartan found himself on the upper gallery of a large, well-lit room. Itwas packed with the bipedal, misshapen creatures, but none seemed to beaware of him. He intended to keep it that way, and slid silently along theright-hand wall to a hatch.
A short journey brought the Chief to a similar space where what looked likefull-fledged battle was underway between Covenant troops and the newhostiles.
The Spartan briefly considered engaging the targets—there was certainly noshortage of them. He held his fire instead, and lingered behind a fallencargo module. After a hellish battle, the combatants had annihilated oneanother, which left him free to cross the bridge that led to the far endback along the walkway, and exit via the side door.
Another of the hunchbacked creatures dropped from above and slammed intohim. The Spartan staggered back, dipped, and hurled the monster back overhis shoulder. It crunched into the wall and left a trail of mottled gray-green, viscous fluid as it slid to the floor.
The Master Chief turned to continue on, when his motion sensor flickered red—illuminating a contact right behind him. He spun and was startled to seethe crumpled, badly damaged creature struggle to its feet. Its left armdangled uselessly and brittle bone protruded from its pale, gangrenousflesh.
The thing’s right arm was still functional, however. A twisting column oftentacles burst from the creature’s right wrist and he could hear the bonesinside break as they forced its right hand roughly aside.
The tentacle flashed out, cracked like a whip and hurled the Master Chief tothe floor. His shields were almost completely drained from the single blow.
He rolled into a crouch and opened fire. The 7.62mm armor-piercing roundsnearly cut the monster in half. He kicked the fallen hostile, put two in itschest.This time, the damn thing should stay dead, he thought.
He moved farther along the hallway. Two Marines lay where they had fallen,proving that at least some of the second squad had managed to get this far,which opened the possibility that more had escaped as well.
The Master Chief checked, discovered that they still wore their dog tags,and took them. He crept through the wide galleries and narrow corridors,past humming machinery and entered a dark, gloomy vault. His motion trackerflashed crimson warnings—he was in Hostile Central.
Another of the misshapen bipedal hostiles shambled by, and he recognized theshape of the creature’s head—the long, angular snout of an Elite facedhim. What held his fire was where the head was located.
The alien’s skull was canted at a sickening angle, as if the bones of itsneck had been softened or liquefied. It hung limply down the creature’sback, lifeless—like a limb that needed amputation.
It was as if something had rewritten the Elite, reshaped it from the insideout. The Spartan felt an unaccustomed emotion: a trill of fear. An image ofhelplessness—of screaming at a looming threat, powerless—flashed throughhis mind, a snapshot of his cryo-addled dreams aboard thePillar of Autumn .
No way is that going to happen to me,he thought.No way .
The beast shuffled by, and moved out of sight.
He took a deep breath, exhaled, then burst from his position and charged forthe center of the room. He battered aside the shambling beasts, and crusheda handful of the small spherical creatures beneath his boots. His shotgunboomed and thick, green blood splashed the floor.
He reached his objective: a large lift platform, identical to the one he’dridden down into this hellhole. He reached for the activation panel, andhoped that he’d find the up button.
One of the hostiles leaped high in the air and landed next to him.
The Chief dropped to one knee, shoved the barrel of the shotgun into thecreature’s belly and fired. The beast flipped end over end, and fell backinto a clot of the smaller, round hostiles.
He dove for the activation panel, and stabbed at the controls.
The elevator platform dropped like a rock, so far down and so fast that hisears popped.
Where the hell was Cortana when you needed her?Always telling him to “gothrough that door,” “cross that bridge,” or “climb that pyramid.”
Annoying at times, but reassuring as well.
The basement, if that’s what it was, had all the charm of a crypt. Apassageway took him into another large space where he had to fight his wayacross the floor to a door and the tunnel-like corridor beyond. That’s whenthe Spartan came face-to-face with something he hadn’t seen before andwould have preferred never to see again: one of the combative, bipedalbeasts—this one a horribly mutatedhuman . Though the creature was distortedby whatever had ravaged his body, the Chief recognized him nonetheless.
It was Private Manuel Mendoza, the soldier that Sergeant Johnson loved toyell at, and one of the Marines who had been with Keyes when he disappearedinto this nightmare.
Though twisted by what had been done to him, the Private’s face stillretained a trace of humanity, and it was that which caused the Master Chiefto remove this finger from the shotgun’s trigger, and try to make contact.
“Mendoza, come on, let’s get the hell out of here. I know they didsomething to you but the medics can fix it.”
The reanimated Marine, now possessed of superhuman strength, struck theChief with such force that it nearly knocked him off his feet, and triggeredthe suit’s alarm. Mendoza—or rather, thething that had once been Mendoza—waved a whiplike tentacle and lashed out again. The Spartan staggeredbackward, pulled the trigger, and was subsequently forced to pull it againas the twelve-gauge buckshot tore what had been Mendoza apart.
The results were both spectacular and disgusting. As the corpselike horrorcame apart, the Chief saw that one of the small, spherical creatures hadtaken up residence inside the soldier’s chest cavity, and seemed to haveextended its tentacles into other parts of what had been Mendoza’s body.
Athird shotgun blast served to destroy it as well.
Was that how these things worked? The little round pod-things infected theirhosts, and mutated the victim into some kind of combat form. He consideredthe possibility that this was some kind of new Covenant bio-weapon, anddiscarded it. The first of these combat forms he’d seen had once beenElites.
Whatever these damned things were, they were lethal to humans and Covenantalike.
He quickly fed shells into his shotgun, then moved on. The Spartan moved asfast as he could—at a dead run. He charged into another room, scrambled uponto the gallery above, blew an Elite form right out of his boots, andducked through a waiting door.
The area on the other side was more of a challenge. The Chief had the secondfloor to himself, but an army of the freaks owned the floor below, andthat’s where he needed to go.
Height conferred advantages. Some well-placed grenades, followed by a jumpfrom the walkway, and sixty seconds of close-quarters action were sufficientto see him through. Still, it was a tremendous relief to pass through acompletely uncontested space, and into a compartment where he found anewdevelopment to cope with.
In addition to their battering attacks, the creatures had acquired bothhuman and Covenant weapons from their victims, and these combat forms wereeven more dangerous as a result. The combat forms weren’t the smartest foeshe’d ever encountered, but they weren’t mindless automatons, either—theycould operate machines and fire weapons.
Bullets pinged from the metal walls, plasma fire stuttered through the air,and a grenade detonated as the Master Chief cleared the area, discovered aplace where some Marines had staged a last stand on top of a cargocontainer. He paused to recover their dog tags, scavenged some ammo, andkept on going.
Something nagged at him, but what was it? Something he’d forgotten?
It came to him all at once: He had nearly forgotten his own name.
Keyes, Jacob. Captain. Service number 01928-19912-JK.
The droning chant that had lurked at the edge of his awareness buzzed moreloudly, and he felt some kind of pressure—some sense of anger.
Why was he angry?
No, somethingelse was angry . . . because he’d remembered his own name?
Keyes, Jacob. Captain. Service number 01928-19912-JK.
Where was he? How did he get here? He struggled to find the memory.
He remembered parts of it now. There was a dark, alien room, hordes of someterrifying enemy, gunfire, then a stabbing pain . . .
They must have captured him. That was it. This might be some new trick bythe enemy. He’d give them nothing. He struggled to remember who the enemywas.
He repeated the mantra in his head: Keyes, Jacob. Captain. Service number01928-19912-JK.
The buzzing pressure increased. He resisted, though he was unsure why.
Something about the drone frightened him. The sense of invasion deepened.
Is this a Covenant trick?he wondered. He tried to scream, “It won’t work.
I’ll never lead you to Earth,” but couldn’t make his mouth work,couldn’t feel his own body.
As the thought of his home planet echoed through Keyes’ consciousness, thetone and tenor of the drone changed, as if pleased. He—Keyes, Jacob.
Captain. Service number 01928-19912-JK—was startled when new images playedacross his mind.
He realized, too late, that something was sifting through his mind, like agrave robber looting a tomb. He had never felt so powerless, so afraid . . .
His fear vanished in a flood of emotion as he felt the warmth of the firstwoman he’d ever kissed . . .
He tried to scream as the memory was ripped from him and discarded.
Keyes, Jacob. Captain. Service number 01928-19912-JK.
As each of the fragments of his past played out and was sucked into thevoid, he could feel the invader enveloping him like an ocean of evil. But,like the pieces of flotsam that remain after a ship has gone down, randompieces of himself remained, a sort of makeshift raft to which he couldmomentarily cling.
The image of a smiling woman, a ball spiraling through the air, a crowdedstreet, a man with half his face blown away, tickets to a show he couldn’tremember, the gentle sound of wind chimes, and the smell of newly bakedbread.
But the sea was too rough, waves crashed down on the raft, and broke itapart. Swells lifted Keyes up, others pushed him down, and the finaldarkness beckoned. But then, just as the ocean was about to consume him,Keyes became aware of the one thing the creature that raped his mindcouldn’t consume: the CNI transponder’s carrier wave.
He reached for it like a drowning man, clutched the lifeline with all hismight, and refused to let go. For here, deep within his watery grave, was athread that led back to what he had been.
Keyes, Jacob. Captain. Service number 01928-19912-JK.
The Master Chief fired the last of his shotgun rounds into the collapsedhulk of a combat form. It twitched and lay still.
After winding through the confusion of subterranean chambers and passagewaysfor what seemed like hours, he’d finally found a lift to the surface. Hecarefully tapped the activation panel—worried for a moment that this liftwould also drop him deeper into the facility—and felt the lift lurch into arapid ascent.
As the lift climbed, Foehammer’s worried voice crackled from his commsystem.
“This is Echo 419. Chief, is that you? I lost your signal when youdisappeared inside the structure. What’s going on down there? I’m trackingmovement all over the place.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” the Master Chief replied, hisvoice grim, “and believe me: you don’t want to know. Be advised: CaptainKeyes is missing, and is most likely KIA. Over.”
“Roger that,”the pilot replied.“I’m sorry to hear it, over.”
The lift jerked to a halt, the Spartan stepped off, and found himselfsurrounded by Marines. Not the shambling combat forms he’d spent the lasteternity fighting, but normal, unchanged human beings. “Good to see you,Chief,” a Corporal said.
The Chief cut the soldier off. “There’s no time for that, Marine.
Report.”
The young Marine gulped, then started talking. “After we lost contact weheaded for the RV point, and thesethings , they ambushed us. Sir: Advise weget thehell out of here, ASAP.”
“That’s command thinking, Corporal,” the Chief replied. “Let’s go.”
It was a short walk up the ramp and into the rain. Strangely, and much tohis surprise, it felt good to enter the stinking swamp.Very good indeed.