by Various
Adequate reached the warrior’s side and joined in the shooting. There was no accounting for what faced him now. He had lost track of how many comrades had fallen, had lost any sense of the mechanics of transformation. All he knew was that the station that had been his home, antiseptic and pristine, for so many years was in the throes of a rampaging disease. Its arteries and veins now coursing with enormous stalking bipeds, with herds of skittering infection forms.
And he and Capital were the only antibodies.
So many, so unimaginably hideous. Until today, he had gone fifteen years without firing his boltshot. Now, he didn’t want to take his finger off the trigger. Destruction was the only answer for such creatures. He targeted a greenish-colored infection form—and reveled as the running pustule popped. His weapon found the hulking combat form, knocking it backward but doing no damage. Less satisfaction there. He could no longer make out the straight lines of the floor, the wall, the ceiling: the whole spoke was alive. He existed to kill it.
Between the dual attack, the Flood’s charge abated. Adequate’s ancilla studied his armor’s long-range sensors and reported that the creatures were still up ahead, but regrouping. “We are the only ones left,” Adequate said to Capital as they huddled behind a half-closed emergency door for cover. “All the other vanes are sealed and infested.”
“We have to scuttle the station, plunge it into the gas giant,” Capital said, his voice grave. “Or it will sit here as a festering trap forever. Anyone who tries to board will suffer as we have.”
Adequate took the news with a combination of resignation and disappointment. Destruction in this manner was a standard protocol for gas mines and other similar stations at high risk.
“Do you have your master key?”
Adequate fumbled for it in a compartment on his utility belt. Capital found his own. “It takes both your key and mine to get into the catastrophic-response system. You know where to use it?”
“Yes.” The system was a fearsome-looking console in the hub, one Adequate had long preferred not to look at.
Capital put his key in Adequate’s gloved hand. “Take them both. If I fall . . . end it.”
Adequate stared at the pair of electronic keys. He had grown to hate Seclusion Spiral over the last few years, and yet . . . it was still his home. “Are you certain you don’t want to do it?”
“You have seniority. It is your duty to remain.” Capital fired another volley and looked back at him. “No less is expected from any of us. We were all sent here to sacrifice ourselves against the Flood.”
“Sacrifice ourselves? Here?” Adequate didn’t understand. “Why would the Librarian think the Flood would come here? This is the last place the Flood should want.”
“So we all thought. But I saw something out the window this morning that made me believe otherwise.”
Adequate’s eyes widened. The avian? “You saw it too?”
“I saw three of them.” Down the tunnel, chaotic movement. Capital turned back to his shooting. “Forget about me. Go!”
Adequate did as he was told, still not quite understanding.
Five great doors, all sealed shut—and the monitors in the hub that still worked showed the Flood gathering outside every one. Adequate had seen on the monitors that Capital had fallen and been transformed into what he had tried to destroy. It was only a matter of time before the monsters’ battering undermined the hub, Adequate’s refuge of last resort.
Yet here he stood for long minutes, motionless, with one key already placed in the catastrophic-response-system console. The other remained in his hand. He stared at it, trying to ignore the pummeling sounds coming from all around. Those sounds, and the voice of his ancilla, constantly urging him to activate the device and destroy the station.
He knew what he needed to do—and yet something in what Capital had said still puzzled him. In the last hour, he had learned more about Seclusion Spiral and its surroundings than he had found out in fifteen years residing here.
And all at once, it made sense. “Ancilla!”
“What, Adequate?”
“I know what’s been happening.”
“Of course you do,” the AI responded, as animated as it ever sounded. “We are under siege!”
“Not that. I meant during the last ten solar years. I know why the particle transfer tubes are empty—why the collector’s systems have been offline all this time.” He paused. “I believe you know what I mean too.”
“Your reason centers are your private space, Adequate—I will not know unless you express the concept. But do it quickly, or—”
“The avians. I believe there are many more, down in the storm—and that my superiors must have known of their existence. You calculated that the station hasn’t been harvesting particles for more than ten solar years. Why is that?”
“I am unaware—”
“It is because ten years ago, the Forerunners discovered them here. But they mentioned nothing—because by then, they were aware of the threat the Flood posed. They didn’t want to open this new species to destruction.” He paused. “No, not destruction. Exploitation. Absorbing a species capable of thriving in the skies of a gas giant could provide the Flood with a unique and dangerous new set of capabilities.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
Adequate shook his head, frustrated. As intelligent as his ancilla was, it sometimes lacked in imagination—particularly when it came to visualizing worst-case scenarios. “Don’t you see? Imagine what this species could mean for a world under siege. The Flood could deploy the avians from their ships, never having to land, never having to sacrifice their vessels on entry. A Flood ship could endanger a whole world as soon as it was in range!” The thought alone nearly made him cringe. “That explains the measures that have been taken. The Librarian had to make sure the Flood never discovered the avians.”
More hammering from outside. “This order of events is illogical, Adequate. If they wanted to protect the avians of Seclusion from the Flood, they could have removed the station, rather than have it here attracting attention.”
“Possibly they were afraid the Flood would find its way here regardless. As long as any Forerunner knew the avians existed, the potential existed for the Flood to gain that knowledge too.”
“Then why did they not simply remove the avians themselves, through the Conservation Measure?”
“You know the conditions in the winds below. It might not have been possible. If any avians remained . . .” He trailed off. “Perhaps it was too late. That is why they left the station in place, with a skeleton crew. I believe Capital-Enforcer suspected we were here to be a decoy.”
“A decoy?”
“I know.” The concept was both enlightening and infuriating. “They realized the Flood would find Seclusion one day—and it did, via our tanker. And they knew what would happen next.”
The ancilla finally understood. “You would have destroyed the station—and with it, this infestation of the Flood.”
“Then this entire world would be cut off from the Flood, seemingly devoid of any viable hosts.” He turned over the second key in his hand. “So the other sentries and I have been here as a living shield, an offering. The Forerunners assigned us here to ensure that when the Flood finally arrived at Seclusion, it wouldn’t detect the avians. And the galaxy would be spared a potential Flood form capable of immediately rendering worlds defenseless because of their resilience to extremes.”
The ancilla paused long seconds before answering. “The conjecture is possible. Given the electrical interference of the storm below, the Flood could well be tricked into thinking that any bioelectrical activity in this region is localized to the station above.”
“So the Flood would consume us—and then leave what’s below alone.”
“The conjecture is possible.”
Adequate sighed. “I am no longer enamored of my assignment.”
The din rose. “Structural failure on door two is imminent,” the ancil
la said. “What will you do?”
“My duty, I suppose.” Adequate took a look at the abominations on the monitors—and inserted the key into the slot on the console beside Capital’s. A panel whirred open, exposing a blinking green button. “Good-bye, ancilla. I am sorry you were not joined with a better Manipular.”
“I have no complaints, Adequate. Good-bye.”
Adequate awoke in darkness, with his body pinned upside down between a heavy object and a metal surface. Every muscle in his body screamed. If this was death, it was more painful than he’d been led to expect.
With extreme effort, he forced the massive structure trapping him backward. It was a data processing tower, he realized; it had come centimeters from crushing the life out of him against the hub’s wall. On his hands and knees, he struggled to get his bearings.
The command center looked as if a giant had shaken it like a toy. Every furnishing, every piece of equipment that could move had relocated. Woozily, he struggled to get to his feet. His body felt heavy. Was the hub accelerating upward? He couldn’t tell. The whole facility felt as if it were underwater. Above, the skylights had closed, protective shields locked into place. He could make out sizable dents on the ceiling nearby, artifacts of the great shaking.
“Ancilla? Ancilla?”
For the first time since he had been united with the automated assistant, Adequate failed to get a response. That fact terrified him more than anything that had yet befallen. Even though he had always felt apart from the group for fifteen solar years, he had never felt completely alone, thanks to his ancilla. He couldn’t imagine going on without it.
Adequate activated his helmet light and staggered around the chamber, righting equipment as he went. Finding one of the stations governing power, he tripped a switch and watched as several of the systems in the hub came back online.
He thought he heard wind coming through what was likely a broken seal in his helmet. Focusing, it resolved into a hum at the back of his head. Seconds later, it became a voice.
“. . . Adequate?”
“Ancilla!”
“I . . . apologize. My systems appear to have gone into hibernation during whatever happened.” A pause. “What did happen?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.” There were no sounds coming from the five doorways to the spokes, and none of the monitors displaying feeds from that part of the station had come back online. “Are you in contact with the core computer?”
“My connection is still resetting. Perhaps look out a viewport.”
Adequate stumbled toward another console and activated a control. Above, shields slid down into one of the skylight window frames, unleashing a blaze of color. It took several seconds for Adequate’s eyes to adjust.
“I thought perhaps we had launched into space.” He squinted. “Where are we?”
“Open the rest.”
He did so—and the skylights ringing the circular room revealed a spectral sea. Tendrils of clouds swirled and danced back and forth, lit by near-constant flashes of multicolored lightning.
And everywhere were the avians.
He had wanted a long look at them. He had it now. Whole flocks of avians coursed across the sky, swooping about with ease and in comfort. There was none of the tentative, fearful nature of the being he had seen earlier. No, here, they had command—and “here” was not the place he had been before.
Adequate fell to his knees, and not just because of the pull on his body. “We are deep in the storm. We are in their home.”
Flying creatures soared past the windows, tiny microbursts of electricity flashing across their rippling forms. There seemed, somehow, to be a logic to it: was it perhaps their means of communication, Adequate wondered? He felt like one of the explorers he had heard of, living undersea on a strange world, communing with a culture that existed hidden from view.
And now there were smaller ones, identical in form and shape to the others but for their size, fluttering against the panes above. Not threatening the station, at all—but he could tell they were excited. And there, on another avian’s dorsal side, clung what he at first thought was a bumpy fin. On closer look, they appeared to be even smaller avians, still. Were they the species’ young, or something else? Every few moments, they flitted from the back of one adult to another. What kind of community might they have?
A minute in which he could not take his eyes from the skylight ended when his ancilla spoke. “Connection reacquired. The console function apparently did destroy the Flood—by shedding the station’s vanes.”
Adequate got to his feet and looked to the doors with alarm. “We would fall without them!”
“We did. And so did the vanes.” The ancilla paused. “According to the hub’s computer, when you toggled the control, the spokes holding the vanes explosively ejected. Cut off from the rotating hub, each one was slung kilometers away.”
“What happened to them?”
“They were swept into the electrical storm and ripped to shreds. The hub’s sensors saw it all, before it lost too much elevation.”
“So the Flood . . . ?”
“Gone. The computer believes the vanes were pulverized. No Flood infection could possibly have survived there—and no invasive elements have been detected on the hub.”
“But how did we survive?”
“We fell many kilometers—until the hub’s engines ignited.”
“They did? I thought the thrusters were only used to brake the hub when the station was deployed from orbit—and for elevation when it got caught in downdrafts.”
“It appears,” the ancilla said, “that the hub’s systems considered the loss of the vanes a catastrophic event—and that it fired the thrusters before we descended to a crushing depth.”
“It certainly felt catastrophic.” He paused and looked out the skylight again. “Can it take us back up?”
Another pause. “The central computer does not believe so. The crosswinds above are too strong. We appear to be hovering in a zone of relative calm within the vortex, at equilibrium between the tempest above and the pressure below.”
“How long can we remain here?”
“As long as the thrusters burn.”
“And how long is that?”
“Indefinitely. The stubs that used to hold the vanes deployed electrostatic collectors; they are now drawing power from outside. It should be sufficient to keep us stable—and for life-support needs. But you will feel slightly heavier for the constant acceleration.”
“I will live,” Adequate said. Then he smiled at that. I will live.
“The food pantry was freshly stocked—and for twenty-one,” his ancilla said. “With those reserves and your armor’s defalt sustainment system, you should be able to survive for . . . well, a lifetime. You will have the complete run of the living quarters.”
Adequate didn’t register the comment. His eyes were again on the avians, hovering outside. They flitted back and forth—and one paused particularly close, looking in. He wondered if it was the one who he’d seen earlier, above.
“If the avians live down here, why did they visit us at the cloud tops?”
“Insufficient information. Perhaps they consume for food the same particles Seclusion Spiral was designed to harvest.” The ancilla paused. “Or perhaps they were curious.”
“They are wonderful,” Adequate said. The avian outside glistened, electrical energy seeming to well from somewhere within its form. They could clearly fly to the top of the enormous storm, if they wanted to; in his mind’s eye, he could see them soaring the cosmos, using their mysterious internal power for propulsion. But he could not imagine them ever wanting to leave, not with such a lovely world here below providing all they needed.
“The Forerunners were correct to protect them from the Flood,” his ancilla said.
Adequate let out a deep breath. “It is a shame these magnificent things do not know what sacrifice has been made for them.”
“We may teach them, Adequate. We have
plenty of time—and a number of methods by which the hub might establish communication.” His ancilla sounded almost excited. “Before long, you might be able to tell them the designations of all those who protected them—including yours.”
“I have never cared for mine.” Adequate chuckled, in spite of himself. “Spare me that.”
“No, I think you are Adequate-Observer no longer.”
He didn’t know what the ancilla meant. “I have not evolved.”
“I disagree. From today, I think you should be called Defender-of-the-Storm.”
The Forerunner mentally tried it on. “I like it.” He continued wandering the room, constantly looking up at the avians. “And perhaps they have stories to tell us too.”
A NECESSARY TRUTH
* * *
* * *
TROY DENNING
This story takes place three months after the United Nations Space Command’s extraction of the 717th research battalion by the elite Spartan Blue Team from the volatile and besieged colony of Gao (Halo: Last Light).
1420 hours, October 14, 2553 (military calendar)
Officers’ Club, UNSC Recreational Facility 6055-NA-A
Liberty District, Neos Atlantis, Alcides System
It had been just a hundred days since Veta Lopis left Gao to join the Office of Naval Intelligence, and already she’d become one of those jump-weary planet hoppers who never had time to enjoy the local wonders.
Today, she was on Neos Atlantis, facing a panoramic window at one end of the officers’ club in UNSC Recreational Facility 6055-NA-A. The window afforded a spectacular view of the Theran Crown, a gloomy, spire-studded cryovolcano ringed by ice cliffs as green as emeralds. But Veta was actually watching the interior of the window, using the reflections on the glass to keep tabs on her three young subordinates.