by Kelly Gay
This isn’t real.
This had to be some twisted AI version of a joke.
Your father is dead.
There had to be someone to detonate the fusion reactor. There had to be someone to stay behind. . . .
He sacrificed his life.
Pieces spun through her memory—Little Bit’s narrative, the video file, the debris field—all fragments and parts of a larger whole, all talking at once, all fitting into a horrific puzzle.
Her father, he wouldn’t have stayed behind.
But he would.
Absolutely. He’d be the first to volunteer if the stakes were high enough. And back then, at the very beginning of the invasion, they sure as hell were.
Blowing up the shield world to prevent the Covenant from getting their hands on an entire Forerunner fleet was exactly the sort of thing John Forge would do.
A hand landed on her shoulder and she jumped, backing away.
Voices began filtering through her shock. The crew. Spark.
“I am very sorry to deliver such bad news, Rion,” Spark said, sounding worried and confused and even apologetic.
Her brow went high. “You’re sorry?”
Shock, grief, and rage filled her up, swift and vicious and consuming, pushing at her insides, into tiny crevices and corners and cells, until she wanted to scream, to break into a million pieces under the pressure. She lunged at the armiger, shoving his chest plate as hard as she could, letting out a guttural cry.
He could have crushed her in an instant, but stumbled away instead as if he were much more frail.
“You’re sorry! You didn’t just figure this out now. How long? How long have you known?”
“I have known nearly the entire time.”
Rion lost it then, hitting and screaming at the armiger as he continued to back up, refusing to engage in a fight as she bruised and bloodied her knuckles on his impervious alloy, pounding on him, swiping at his legs, toppling him, until she found herself on the ground, the armiger behind her, finally holding her still in a choke hold. But she wasn’t done: as soon as she was down, instinct had her drawing her handgun and shoving it under the armiger’s jaw.
Her breathing was ragged and harsh, her rage a slow burn now, and the present situation reemerging, whether she wanted it to or not. Her bleary gaze found Spark’s avatar standing on the terminal, watching her in consternation, the lines in his face somehow more humanoid than ever.
“Fire your weapon and the bullet will most likely ricochet into your skull,” he said calmly.
Of course it would. Rion dropped the gun, her arm going limp. Her face was wet and she was wheezing from the choke hold.
“You do realize you cannot overpower me. I could kill you without any effort at all,” Spark’s avatar added.
She leveled a murderous glare his way. “You already have.”
Lessa put her hand to her mouth at that, tears streaming down her face.
Spark let out a heavy sigh, his demeanor full of regret. “I realize how you feel, but—”
“You have no idea what this feels like,” she said, seething, as hot tears re-formed in her eyes and she struggled to be free of him.
The avatar stiffened, his blue light turning crimson, the lines in his face carving it into anger. “I have no idea? Me?” He disappeared as the armiger released her, shoving her forward. She rolled onto her hands and knees, gasping, tears splattering on the ground. The crew had had enough, and they made moves to intervene, but Rion held up a hand and pushed to her feet.
The armiger straightened to its full height, a subtle reshape into something more threatening. It stepped closer and leaned forward, pulsing red and menacing, looking her dead in the eye.
“I HAVE NO IDEA?!” it shouted.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, her inner voice made a sound of warning, but she shut it down, and shoved the armiger’s chest plate with both hands. “Yeah,” she replied. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Because she couldn’t fold right now, couldn’t take the knowing. The truth was too harsh, too real, too searing . . . she’d rather bleed and fight. She screamed and pushed at him again, then went to strike—but he’d finally had enough and grabbed her wrist tightly.
“How dare you. You are a speck of dust. A child. One who knows nothing! Imagine a life where everyone you know is gone!” He stepped closer and she moved back. But he kept on coming, squeezing her wrist harder and harder. “Entire races, gone. Entire planets, gone. . . . But that is not enough. No,” he continued, “even your own body is taken from you while you are conscious of it happening. Your entire civilization is wiped out, and you helped initiate the process. Imagine being the only one left!” His voice broke at that. “The only one left for a hundred thousand years, and when you finally wake up . . .”
He couldn’t go on. He was overwhelmed with emotion, his voice cracking as though he wept.
The armiger pinched his fingers together and held them to her face. “Your grief is a mote,” he said with anger, “a tiny grain of sand in an ocean the size of the universe.”
He paused. “I did not kill your father, Captain. He chose his own destiny. He had the courage to do what needed to be done.” He leaned forward, his face close to hers, his voice low. “Cry to me after you witness all sentient life in the entire galaxy erased with barely a whisper. Dare face me then, and say I know nothing of grief.”
They stared at each other, lost in their own anguish, each blaming the other.
Rion jerked her wrist away from him, and he let her go, his red light returning to blue. She rubbed her wrist and then wiped her arm across her wet face. “I’m done being led around by the nose.” She went to the terminal and slapped her hand onto the dome. “We’re finished here.” The translucent barrier fell, and the light column seemed to grow a bit brighter with it gone.
Rion turned away; no sooner had she set one foot on the bridge to leave than a flurry of light across the divide stopped her.
The ledge there was filled with armed soldiers, weapons drawn. She recognized Agent Hahn and near him a very tall Spartan in full Mjolnir armor, directing two other Spartans along the ledge. No need for the Big Guy to take off his helmet—Rion knew exactly who it was.
Another squad appeared, in all-black, special ops combat gear.
She counted ten all together.
Rion spun, a cold bitterness settling into her bones. “Cut the bridge,” she demanded.
Spark disabled the light bridge. Then he faced her, hesitating a long moment before saying, “Good-bye, Captain.”
He turned and walked directly into the column, swallowed up by light until not even a shadow of him remained.
He’d simply left.
Abandoned them.
Spark had bowed out as they faced an enemy they couldn’t possibly defeat. At least, not here, not trapped as they were.
Rion couldn’t process it fully; there were too many emotions clogging her brain. Options weren’t coming. As hard as she might try, there didn’t seem to be a way through. The crew . . . they’d counted on her, and—
“Rion.” It was Niko. He was in front of her now, looking as stricken and shocked by Spark’s revelation and defection as she was, but he grabbed her shoulders and looked at her head-on until she focused on him.
“Hey. Hey. Put it in a box,” he said softly. “Remember what you told me? Lock it behind a wall, keep it contained? And then”—he glanced across the divide and back at her—“when we need it, you let it out like a goddamn storm. Remember?”
Tears swam in his young eyes. Here was someone who’d believed in her, relied upon her, cared about her. Had she not been emotionally spent, she would have dropped to her knees and let it all out. But instead she found herself hardening inside, finding some inner reserve. She thought of Cade, and how she would never get over that loss, but there was a way, always a way, to keep on, to move forward. She could do so again. And she—they—would all get through this.
Slowly she began to nod
, letting Niko’s words wash over her, giving her strength. . . .
He gave her a sad, lopsided smile. “So, Cap . . . what do we do now? Last stand?”
She drew in a deep breath and noted two of the special ops soldiers were working on the terminal from their end. “They’re trying to get the bridge back online. Let’s look around and see if we can find another way out of here.”
“What about following Spark?” Lessa said, gesturing to the hard light column.
“We have no idea where he disappeared to. And I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of following that asshole into the unknown. Ram, you go left, Niko, right—follow that platform around and see where it leads.”
While the Ace crew were armed and held their rifles at the ready, they hadn’t taken aim and they didn’t plan to.
Rion and Lessa stood at the terminal and watched the progress across the divide. If that light bridge engaged . . .
“Captain Forge.” The Big Guy’s voice resonated in the cavern. “There’s nowhere for you to go. It’s over. Put your weapons down and we’ll figure this out.”
“Yeah, no thanks!” Rion shouted back. “I know what you guys do to people like us. I don’t figure on disappearing anytime soon.”
“No one’s disappearing,” the Spartan said.
“Can you give me your word on that?”
He hesitated. Because of course he couldn’t vouch for ONI—he wasn’t the one in charge. And ONI had a knack for hiding prisoners away without any regard to the legal system or individual rights.
“Captain,” Agent Hahn called. “All we want is the armiger and the monitor. Hand them over, and I’ll guarantee you and your crew walk away from this.”
Lessa leaned closer to Rion, frowning. “As if we could control Spark.”
“Sir,” one of the soldiers working on the terminal said, “light bridge is coming online.”
CHAPTER 48
* * *
Ipass through the column’s blinding light and into a haze of white.
I see nothing at first, and then . . . a lithe figure emerges out of the ether, and I know it is her.
The Librarian.
I feel the technology that allows her to awaken and form. Her essence strengthens and floats closer to me. And I see her clearly. Unchanged. The epitome of grace, and beauty, and intelligence, she wears a flowing dress and headpiece and a heavy aura of responsibility. Her large, dark eyes regard me with love and friendship, sadness and regret.
She is the same who blessed me as an infant, the same who appeared to me in my child’s mind, serene and loving. She is as I have always seen her.
Goddess. Mother. Manipulator. Savior.
Her examination sweeps through me with such gravitas and power. Suddenly I am pulled from my armiger body, becoming visibly more solid until once more I am Chakas. But I know this is simply her doing. Making us equals. Making us memories of flesh and bone.
“Chakas,” she says with all the affection of a mother welcoming home a long-lost son. “Somehow you have always managed to find a way, and serve me well.”
“And I have always managed to pay a price.”
I do not mean for our greeting to begin with contention. The words came out before I could stop them. But they are true, so I lift my chin and claim them.
Her head tilts. “Have I hurt you so?” she asks, her expression softening with sorrow and regret.
Yes! I cry inside.
She nods gravely. “For that, I am saddened. Regrets are all that is left, it seems.” Her anguish should fill me with satisfaction, but because I love her, it does nothing but make me hurt more.
“You have persisted,” she says with pride. “Adapted. You are a singular marvel.”
“Of your design?” I must know. Did she mean for this to happen? She set so many eventualities in motion, and I must know if I am one of them.
She shakes her head. “No. Your evolution now is your own, a product of necessity perhaps, one that might have a great impact on things to come. Sometimes . . .” Her dark eyes show a flash of mirth. “Sometimes the universe creates what it needs without the machinations of others.”
“I do not understand.”
“No, you do not. But one day you will. You are a creature of choice now, without my sway or influence. Will you serve the Mantle?”
“The Mantle was yours—it was never mine.”
“No. It was yours, meant for your kind, not Forerunners. And look at us now.” She gazes at me with such remorse. “Champions of the Mantle are so few . . . and there is still much to do. At Requiem, I was awoken, along with my husband.”
I recoil. “The Didact is alive?”
The Catalog claimed as much as well, I remember.
Her expression grows forlorn and she sighs. She does not answer, but it is clear his threat is not worrisome.
“I have seen the progress of humanity’s advancement,” she says. “I have seen the paths they might take and the darkness that is coming from many sides. I have given mankind the means and the impetus, and I will give them all that is mine to give. Perhaps this time they will achieve what we could not.” Her lips turn up slightly at the corners. “They do not have us Forerunners standing in their way.”
There is so much I have wanted to say to her over the millennia, so many questions, so many accusations, so many conversations . . . and now I cannot find the words.
“I do not care about your war and your Mantle,” I say.
“But then . . . you do. One side cares. The other does not. One is cold and scheming. The other is all heart.”
“I have no heart. That too was taken from me. I have paid my price, done what was required of me. My friends,” I manage. “Riser, Vinnevra . . .”
She studies me for a long moment. “As a human, you carried the essence of Forthencho, Lord of Admirals, within you. You felt his struggle, his torment and despair. You were his prison. And you knew how it felt to lose yourself to his strong presence. . . . Would you do such a thing to another, raise old friends who are at peace? Conscript other humans to carry them?”
“You did the same.” To me.
“For the greater good.”
“The greater good is merely an excuse for the strong to make decisions for the weak.”
She doesn’t answer me; she sees that this is an argument neither one of us will win. My ire deflates.
“Are they?” I question her words. “At peace?”
“They were left to live out their lives in peace, their gene song quiet.”
“They are remembered in the Domain. Send me there. Give me access so that my memory may join them.” I am pleading. The words coming out of me are crushing. I will give up everything to be among them.
“They are only echoes now, Chakas,” she tells me. “Experience remembered through the eyes of my kind, nothing more. You are not meant to relive the past, to dwell in the halls of living memory.” She shakes her head. “Where you wish to go, the bad lives alongside the good.”
I do not know how to respond to this. I am confused and, after all this time, no longer know what I want.
She is correct—I already know this. Is there no hope?
I find myself beginning to panic.
“Then join me,” I offer. “You can walk, as I do, among humans again.” It is a small thing for her to use an armiger in the same manner I have done.
She shakes her head. “It is not my time.”
“Then I will join you.”
“Dear Chakas. I see the burden of loneliness you have carried these long millennia. Had you not been a monitor, the weight of it would have crushed you long ago. Do not let it do so now. You must do the difficult thing and let it go. Perhaps . . . the friends you seek, you have already found.”
The haze clears and I can see the Ace of Spades crew, trapped. They will not escape the chamber.
In nanoseconds, I replay our time together, every word spoken, every word unsaid, our trials and our journey, our trust and mistrust, ou
r disagreements and laughter.
Of all the sentient life I could have encountered, I encountered them. So suited to my needs, and so familiar. . . .
I feel panic again. I do not want to lose the Librarian. “And you? What will you do now?”
“This imprint will join the others already gone to the Absolute Record. Humanity must be given the tools to hold the Mantle of Responsibility. And the knowledge—they must have the knowledge to tend the Domain. . . .” She stares off into nothing for some time before gracing me with a soft look. “Then, perhaps . . .”
“Bastion?” I ask.
Her tender smile fills me with love and finality, and I see that she does not believe she will ever make it there, or perhaps anywhere she might recover and rest and find peace at last.
“Perhaps,” she answers. “With a little luck.”
If I had a heart, it would be breaking. I feel no luck, but the absence of it, a heavy doom and despair. Already I am letting go. . . .
“Luck is your way,” I remind her.
“No, dear Chakas . . . Spark. It is yours.” She gazes at the crew through the thinning of the light. “And theirs. It always has been. Don’t you see? You may leave with me to the Absolute Record or . . . you may choose a different path. The choice is yours, my old friend.”
A small etched box appears and she hands it to me.
“What is this?”
“A key. Find what’s missing,” she says. “Fix the path. Right what my kind has turned wrong.”
I frown.
“Or come with me.”
Time is standing still.
I commit this moment to memory, every detail.
I want to ask her what it is that she wants. Not what she hopes to achieve or the responsibilities she has taken upon her shoulders, but her own desire, her heart’s wanting.
But I realize I do not have to ask this. I already know. “Can the Didact find peace?”
The sorrow that flashes through her eyes instantly pains me. “I fear my husband is beyond redemption.” She shifts her emotions. “You have made your choice then?”
I look back and see the light bridge has been reactivated and Spartans are advancing, weapons drawn.