Evolutions: Essential Tales of the Halo Universe

by Various

  “She’s not answering on any frequency, Sarge,” Burgundy finally replied over Lopez’s headset. They were on an open frequency for now. Later, only Lopez would have access, and anyone she designated. “Can’t get a peep out of her. No distress beacon. She’s cold, and I don’t think her engines have been running for a while.”

  Not if she lay in the same position she’d been in when John Doe had escaped her clutches. So cold and yet hugging so close to the burning shard of a world now lost to them, as if seeking sanctuary.

  “Can she zoom in? It just looks like a dark block,” Benti muttered to Lopez, not realizing Burgundy could hear her.

  A closer view appeared on-screen. “That better?” Burgundy asked. “She ain’t that pretty. Not by half. I’d never date her.”

  A wracked and splintered mountain range formed the backdrop for the Mona Lisa, made it difficult to make her out even with the zoom. She had a blunt snout, the five levels Lopez had seen on the schematic, and some definite damage to the left thruster in the back. A few dents. Some bits like barnacles where compartments had been custom-built onto the ship. That was a bit odd, but not unknown. Near the back, Lopez could see where something had left a definite hole. Not enough to scuttle it. Freighters could take a severe pounding. Almost certainly the Mona Lisa still had breathable air.

  “How’d the postmortem go, Benti?” Lopez asked in a quiet voice. Benti had gotten a peek but Lopez hadn’t had a chance to ask her about it yet.

  “Why not ask Tsardikos?”

  “Huh?”

  Benti nodded toward one of the others. “Tsardikos over there did the autopsy. Then they put him on the mission.” She shrugged, that officers move in mysterious ways look on her face.

  That made Lopez’s heart do a strange leap. “No,” she said. “I want to hear it from you.” Didn’t want to hear it from a noncom who shouldn’t even be on the mission. Tsardikos didn’t look comfortable over there, fidgeting in his kit. Why should he?

  Benti grimaced. “Nasty wounds. Whatever opened his chest and back wasn’t a blade, and took a hell of a lot of force. Don’t know what it was, but I suppose when you’re busting out of prison you use what you can grab. I brought extra blood bags, though. Just in case. It was a prisoner riot, right? It’d have to be.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Lopez said. “You honestly expect some punk-ass jailbird to get a shiv in one of us? You doubting the Marine Corps, Private?” Didn’t mind messing with her people every once in a while.

  “It was one hell of a shiv,” Benti muttered. “Sir.”

  “Why bother? I mean, if they’re just escapees in a dead ship?” MacCraw piped up. “Just mark her position and come back when things are less hot, Sarge?” Almost like he expected Lopez to say, “You’re right, MacCraw,” and turn the Pelican right around.

  Lopez was about to give MacCraw a hell of a reply, one that mentioned his cologne, when Rebecca came over the radio. Closed channel, just for her and Burgundy. “Signal strength is weak, Sergeant. I’m getting the pictures now. We’ve picked up a Covenant ship in the vicinity. Distant, but we’ll have to tread carefully. The commander has ordered the Red Horse to maintain radio contact as much as possible in the field, but we mustn’t reveal ourselves. Maneuverability is limited. You may be on your own for a while. You have your orders.”

  “Roger that,” Lopez said. “I’ll check in with Burgundy once we’re on board to see if I can patch you in. If not, I guess it’s just me and the pilot.” From the forward position, Burgundy gave a thumbs-up over her shoulder. Rebecca signed off.

  “And me,” Benti said, smiling.

  Lopez nodded, said, “Yeah, you too.” She caught Clarence staring at her oddly. Jealous? Yeah, you be jealous, Clarence, you gloomy bastard.

  “The game is always changing,” MacCraw said, to the air.

  “Give thanks you’ve got a game on,” Lopez said, and almost meant it. Checking on some spooky mystery transport at the ass-end of space wasn’t her idea of a good op, but it was better than nothing.

  “How’d the ship even get here?” MacCraw asked. He just wouldn’t shut up. “They just happened to randomly guess the slipspace coordinates? I mean, we don’t even know where we are, and we’re supposed to be here.”

  “Don’t try to be smart, MacCraw,” Lopez said. “That’s not what you’re paid for.”

  “No,” Benti and a couple of the others chimed in, “you pay us to be pretty.” A tired old joke, a necessary one. One MacCraw might not’ve heard before.

  “Damn straight,” Lopez said. “How’d that haiku go? ‘Something, something, something . . . something, and then comes ice cream.’ ” Something they’d eaten far too much of, last R & R.

  “You missed a ‘something.’ ”

  “You kids play your cards right and after this comes ice cream. Don’t ever say Mama Lopez does nothing for you.”

  Some grins, a couple of comments about “Mama” Lopez, and then a near-ritual silence.

  Lopez began the count. Not required, but she liked to name each person under her command right before any mission that might turn hot: Benti, Clarence, MacCraw, Percy, Mahmoud, Rakesh, Orlav, Simmons—currently pulling double duty as Burgundy’s copilot—Rabbit, Singh, Gersten, Cranker, Sydney, Ayad, Maller, and Tsardikos. Standard equipped with MA5B assault rifles, HE pistols, and ye olde frag grenades. Among flares, food rations, water, medic kits, schematics of the ship, the usual.

  A bunch of jokers, lifers, and crazies. Benti, Clarence, Mahmoud, and Orlav were the best of the lot. MacCraw was, well, raw, so who knew? A few were average, and she’d deploy them that way. Without remorse. Singh and his engineers Gersten and Sydney were an unknown, really. Two loaners from another squad, Ayad and Maller, she didn’t know at all. A lot of the rest of the best had been left back on the Red Horse. Because, you know, the ship needed them. Or something like that.

  All of them were rosary beads to her now anyway, already counting and hating herself for it. Mystic bullshit. But she did it every time. Had to. It was how she rationalized putting herself in danger. Perform this ritual and luck will follow. Don’t, and it won’t. And that’s the difference between life and death. Between a scar and a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

  “We good, Sarge?” Benti whispered.

  “You should have gone before we left, like Mama Lopez told you.”

  Benti smirked, stopped at the last second from reaching out and smacking Lopez on the shoulder.

  Pelican drew close, the battered and scarred skin of the Mona Lisa filling the view. As they all braced for that slight lurching shudder that meant arrival, Lopez tried not to think about the noncoincidence of who had been chosen for the mission and who hadn’t.

  Because, to a person, her squad consisted of everyone who had come into contact with John Doe on board the Red Horse.

  >Benti 1315 hours

  * * *

  Benti watched as the soft seal locked on and they had compression. A shiver ran through the Pelican as the hatches disengaged, maw ready to open and disgorge them into the Mona Lisa. Benti had never seen a real live pelican except in videos, but it amused her to think of them erupting out of the gullet of a giant bird. A Trojan Pelican, almost.

  This silent moment, right before combat, before she had to use any of her bandages and blood bags, this moment always made her regret having given up smoking.

  “We’re solid, Sarge, and I can go ahead and set you free whenever you want,” Burgundy said, voice coming over the headsets now, which somehow made Benti think of Rebecca’s What do you mean, you won’t come back?

  Good old Clarence and that dumbass MacCraw knelt to either side of the gangplank, rifles at the ready, the rest of the squad behind them, hunched over, waiting. Clarence was chewing gum ferociously, about as worked up as Benti had ever seen him. Docking a Pelican wasn’t a stealthy business. Whoever was on board the Mona Lisa would know they were here.

  What kind of greeting would they get? A big party celebration, or one candle s
tuck in a cupcake?

  God, she wanted a cigarette right now.

  Lopez gave Burgundy the order.

  “Go forth and plunder,” Burgundy said, and somehow Benti could tell old Stickybeak was glad to be staying on board the Pelican.

  The gangplank lowered in a hiss of hydraulics and the fast-fading clang of the plank against ground. Not exactly a red carpet, in Benti’s opinion.

  A smell came in with the cold air that was both dusty and moist. It almost had texture, a substance. It made Benti wrinkle her nose, and she didn’t wrinkle her nose at much.

  Beyond the gangplank, the main lights were out. Emergency strip lights threw supply crates, control stations, and loading machinery into murky relief. The oval shape of a small transport ship rose up, too, overlooking the jumbled maze spanning the hangar. Deep, dark, reddish shadows thrown up against the far walls.

  Benti looked around. That was it? She’d been looking forward to getting off the Red Horse and exploring new territory. Even if it was just junk, Benti wanted to see it. At least it was different junk.

  Nothing moved. Nobody even seemed to breathe.

  “Lights,” Lopez ordered quietly, and Benti switched hers on.

  Suddenly there was a mutual clicking and beams shot out all over the place, temporarily blinding Benti. Crap. You’d think they’d know better. What if they’d been trying to throw a surprise party?

  Lopez didn’t seem impressed either. “Get your heads on straight, Marines! Move out!”

  Benti winked at Clarence, who acknowledged her with a nod, and that was about all. It was enough. Clarence, to her, was like a dolphin or otter or some other creature that seemed to be all muscle and was sleek and functional. What she was to him, Benti had no idea. Comic relief? He hadn’t looked amused when she’d told him he was an otter. Off duty they hardly ever saw each other, but they always worked as a team, to the point no one tried to break them up any more. If something works, then don’t question it, just work it. Work it to death.

  They filed quickly into the hangar in a standard sweep, torchlight raking the crates around them over and over. No matter what you did, regulation boots were never silent, and it was no different this time.

  Ten meters out from the Pelican—with Benti hissing Tsardikos back in line, the clueless moron—the surprise party really got started . . .

  >Lopez 1317 hours

  * * *

  Trouble came simple, like it always did: a guttural resonance that came from an inhuman throat. A sigh with a texture they knew too well. Sent them diving down behind cover. In the stillness that followed, no repeat of the sound.

  “Up periscope,” Lopez said to Cranker. He didn’t get it, so she said, “Pop yer head up, Private, and take a quick scan around.”

  Cranker, looking worried, did just that, and then hunkered down even lower. “Looks all clear.”

  Of course it did. You didn’t get your head blown off. Wasn’t fair, but she always picked the one she liked the least.

  Benti, wide-eyed, almost giddy: “That sounded like—”

  Don’t get jumpy, kid! Lopez raised a finger to her lips.

  Scuffling sounds came from about fifteen meters ahead. Multiple contacts.

  Lopez gave orders with her hands. Some were quicker on the take than others. Percy and Orlav tapped their crew in passing, including Benti, and scurried off between the surrounding cargo containers. That left Lopez with the dregs. She grinned at Singh, who didn’t seem to find any of this funny.

  “This is Sergeant Lopez of the UNSC Marine Corps! Identify yourself!”

  No reply. A flurry of movement. She rose. Rifle butt cozy in her shoulder. Finger on the trigger. The Marines around her rising from cover, too.

  “Where—?”

  “Two o’clock—”

  “It’s gonna bolt—”

  A rushed patter of sprinting footfalls flashing across the hangar floor. Darting between storage crates. A glimpse of blue, of familiar backward knees, and formidable shoulders as they came into contact with the corner of someone’s flashlight beam.

  Covenant Elites.

  Tongues of fire from the rifles, that glorious, deafening sound that Lopez knew so well. Sharp shadows danced up in snarling light. Sparks from bullets punched through crates. The target fled between stacked pallets and loaders, not even grazed, no telltale purple glow on the ground. They’d been too eager.

  It didn’t matter. That one glimpse was all it took. It lit a fire in Lopez. A crazy, irrational fire. Twenty-seven years of war, a war longer than Benti’s life, Clarence’s life, than most of their lives, so much loss and death and grief and blood and fury—it didn’t matter. It didn’t need articulating. Not for her, not for any of them.

  “Take ’em down!” she roared. “Take ’em all down!”

  As if they needed telling.

  >Benti 1318 hours

  * * *

  Even though she was just following orders, some small part of Benti thought careening off into the darkness with an unknown number of hostiles in the area added up to a big heaping dose of crazy. The larger part of her didn’t care.

  “To the left!” Orlav shouted, her flashlight beam glancing off the storage containers, breaking off into the distant ceiling. It caught in freeze-frame wide sprays of blood. The floor was sticky with it. They were following drag marks, and over the top, wide stumpy footprints. Fresh.

  A bark of gunfire, but no flash, hidden somewhere beyond the containers. Percy and Ayad shouting over the roar of a Covenant Elite. Lopez swearing. Some damn powerful swearing—wouldn’t be surprised if some Covie didn’t drop dead just from hearing it.

  Benti almost fell over a collapsed makeshift barricade, turning too hard around a corner, following the footprints, dimly aware the others weren’t around her.

  She slipped on the blood-slick floor, caught the impression of movement in front of her, and pulled the trigger without waiting. The bullets punched into the Elite’s gut and purple blood splashed down on her face and neck. It doubled over, massive hands cupping its belly. Got a full-on cough of the creature’s fetid breath, those four spiny jaws twitching beneath the clenched fist of a head flexed wide in surprise, anger, or some emotion she’d never understand. Especially without their armor, they always looked like they were intensely thinking. But that couldn’t be it, and she wasn’t going to give it a chance to think.

  Her rifle roared until the Elite dropped, collapsing on top of her.

  “Crap!” Being crushed seemed a poor reward for doing her job.

  But then Clarence was there, grabbing her harness and hauling her from beneath the Elite by the scruff of the neck. Covie blood had soaked her. It glowed in the dark and smelled a bit like armpit mixed with wet cat.

  No time to wipe it off: sporadic gunfire throughout the hangar couldn’t mask the distinctive footfalls approaching, fast and heavy.

  A second Covenant Elite burst out from behind a damaged loader, seeing but ignoring them as they pivoted to face it. The Elite vaulted over an operation console and into the darkness.

  “It’s going for the Pelican!”

  They took off after it.

  “Orlav, you back there? One coming your way!”

  Benti spat, trying not to think about the alien blood in her mouth and everything she knew about hygiene.

  Again she followed the footprints, down one narrow corridor, then another. The container crates formed a kind of maze. Clarence dropped back, checking the corners, not happy about rushing past so many places ripe for more Elites to pop out at them from behind.

  The Elite clearly wasn’t heading for the Pelican. Instead, it was—

  Well, crap. It was right there, against the wall of crates.

  Crouched, but not hiding, its head tilted, listening. She noticed its muscles were withered and its limbs lined with scars and wounds, not all of them old, and then realized it was naked. No armor at all. How strange, how perfect.

  “I’m going to kill you,” Benti whispered. “I
’m going to—”

  It held up one finger. It shushed her. Pointed toward the darkness in front of them.

  That surprised her so much she shut up, listened with the alien.

  Benti heard a last bark of gunfire, the moaning gargle of a dying Elite on the far side of the hangar. Status reports back and forth on the radio. The alien’s breathing. Her breathing. Nothing more.

  It looked over at her.

  Benti was no expert on Covie expressions, but she could tell it was relieved.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  Even unarmed, a Covenant Elite was more than capable of overpowering any Marine with its bare hands. They never stopped, they never gave up until you put them down. Yet this one remained crouching, unthreatening. Listening.

  It wasn’t afraid of her. She knew that.

  But it was afraid of something.

  The muzzle of Clarence’s rifle entered her peripheral vision, spat fire, and deafened her in one ear. The Covenant Elite smashed back against a container, half its face shorn off.

  Face impassive, Clarence looked at her, a faint judgment, a question, only manifesting in the set of shoulders. He’d seen her hesitate. Crap. She stared back at him, reduced to silence, feeling a flare of irritation she knew was her embarrassment eating itself: Who’re you to judge? You could’ve frozen up a hundred times before in combat for all I know. But she knew, in her gut, that was a lie. Rumor had it no one had killed more Covies than Clarence.

  Lopez, from off to the left: “Marines! Four Covie dead over here. The rest of you, report! Watch for active camo. Keep those flashlights on.”

  The surprise party was over. A sound-off around the hangar, which didn’t seem nearly so big now that their eyes had adjusted to the darkness.

  “We’re good, Sarge,” Benti said, punching Clarence in the shoulder in an attempt to gloss over the awkward strain between them. “Two confirmed kills.” She turned her back on the dead, naked alien and followed Clarence to where the flashlights were converging.

  “No kills here, just thrills,” Gersten said from somewhere off to the right. “That small transport got smashed up good, Sarge. Someone drunk driving, I dunno.”