As the Grunt and his group of surly Jackals stood guard in the Autumn’s shuttle bay, a dropship loaded with supplies circled over the downed ship, asked for and received the necessary clearances, and swooped in for a landing.
Yayap eyed his recalcitrant troops, saw that three of them had drifted away from their preassigned positions, and used his radio to herd them back. “Jak, Bok, and Yeg, we have a shuttle coming in. Focus on the dropship – not the area outside.”
The Jackals were too smart to say anything over the radio, but the Grunt knew they were grumbling among themselves as they returned to their various stations and the ship settled onto the blast-scarred deck.
“Watch the personnel slots,” Yayap cautioned his troops, referring to the small compartments that lined the outside surfaces of the shuttle’s twin hulls. “They could be packed with Flood.”
In spite of the resentment he felt, Bok touched a switch and opened all of the slots for inspection, a new security procedure instituted three days before. The compartments were empty. The Jackals sniggered, and there was nothing Yayap could do but suffer through the indignity of it.
With that formality out of the way, a crew of Grunts moved in to unload supplies from the cargo compartments that lined the inside surface of the dropship’s hulls, and towed the heavily loaded antigrav pallets out onto the deck. Then, with the unloading process complete, the shuttle rose on its grav field, turned toward the hatch, and passed out into bright sunlight.
The cargo crew checked the label on each cargo container to see where it was supposed to go, gabbled at one another, and were about to tow the pallets away when Yayap intervened.
“Stop! I want you to open those cargo mods one at a time. Make sure they contain what they’re supposed to.”
If the previous order had been unpopular, this one met with out-and-out rebellion, as Bok decided to take Yayap on. “You’re no Elite! We’re under orders to deliver this stuff now. If we’re late, they’ll take our heads.” He paused and clicked his beak meaningfully. “And our kin will take yours, gas-sucker.”
The Jackals, all of whom were enjoying the interchange to the maximum, looked at each other and grinned.
’Zamamee should have been there, should have been giving the orders, and Yayap cursed the officer from the bottom of his heart. “No,” he replied stubbornly. “Nothing leaves here until it has been checked. That’s the new process. The Elites were the ones who came up with it, not me. So open them up and we’ll get you and your crew out of here.”
The other alien grumbled, but knew the rule-happy Elites would back Yayap, and turned to his crew. “All right, you heard Field Master Gas-sucker. Let’s get this over with.”
Yayap sighed, ordered his Jackals to form a giant U with the open end toward the cargo containers, and took his own place in the line.
What ensued was boring to say the least, as each cargo module was opened, closed, and towed out of the way. Finally, with only three containers left to go, Bok undogged a hatch, pulled the door open, and disappeared under an avalanche of infection forms. One of the attacking pods grabbed onto the Jackal’s head, wrapped its tentacles around the creature’s skull, drove a penetrator down through his throat, and had already tapped into the soldier’s spine by the time Yayap yelled, “Fire!” and the rest of the Jackals opened up.
Nothing could live where the twenty plasma beams converged – and most of the infection forms were dead within two or three heartbeats. But Yayap thought he detected motionbehind the mist created by the exploding pus pods and lobbed a plasma grenade into the cargo module. There was a flash of green-yellow light as the device went off, followed by a resonant boom! as it detonated.
The cargo container shook like a thing possessed, and chunks of raw meat flew out to spray the deck with gore. It was clear that three, or maybe even four combat forms had been hiding in the cargo compartment, hoping to enter the ship.
Now, as the last of the infection forms popped, a momentary silence settled over the shuttle bay. Bok’s corpse smoldered on the deck.
“That was close,” the Jackal named Jak said. “Those stupid gassers damned near got us killed. Good thing our file leader kept ’em in line.” The soldiers to either side of the former critic nodded solemnly.
Yayap, who was close enough to hear the comment, wasn’t sure whether to be angry or pleased. Somehow, for better or for worse, he’d been elevated to the position of honorary Jackal.
A full company of heavily armed Marines waited as torches cut through the metal grating, sparks fell into the stygian blackness below, and each man or woman considered what awaited them. Would they survive? Or leave their bones in the bottom of the hole? There was no way to know.
Meanwhile, thirty meters away, two officers stood by themselves. McKay had borne far more than her fair share of the burden ever since the drop. Silva was aware of that and regretted it. Part of the problem stemmed from the fact that she was his XO, an extremely demanding position that could burn even the most capable officer out. But the truth was McKay was a better leader than her peers, as evidenced by the fact that the Helljumpers would follow her anywhere, even into a pit that might be filled with life-devouring monstrosities.
But everyone had their limits, even an officer like McKay, and the Major knew she was close to reaching them. He could see it in the grim contours of her once rounded face, the empty staring eyes, and the set of her mouth. The problem wasn’t one of strength – she was the toughest, most hard-core Marine he knew – but one of hope.
Now, as he prepared to send her below, Silva knew she needed something real to fight for, something more than patriotism, something that would allow her to get at least some of the Marines to safety.
That, plus the possibility that something could happen to him, lay behind the briefing that ensued.
“So,” Silva began, “go down, get the lay of the land, and see if you can slam the door on those bastards. Forty-eight hours of Flood-free operation would be ideal, but twenty-four would be sufficient, because we’ll be out of here by then.”
McKay had been looking over Silva’s shoulder, but the last sentence brought her eyes back to his. Silva saw the movement and knew he had connected. “‘Out of here,’ sir? Where would we go?”
“Home,” Silva said confidently, “to brass bands, medals, and promotions all around. Then, with the credibility earned here, we’ll have the opportunity to create an army of Helljumpers, and push the Covenant back into whatever hole they evolved from.”
“And the Flood?” McKay asked, her eyes searching his face. “What about them?”
“They’re going to die,” Silva replied. “The AIs managed to link up a few hours ago. It turns out that the Chief is alive, Cortana is with him, and they’re trying to rescue Keyes. Once they have him they’re going to rig the Autumn to blow. The explosion will destroy Halo and everything on it. I’m not a fan of the Spartan program, you know that, but I’ve got to give the bastard credit. He’s one helluva soldier.”
“It sounds good,” McKay said cautiously. “But how do we get off before the ring blows?”
“Ah,” Silva replied. “That’s where my idea comes in. While you’re down cleaning out the sewers, I’ll be up top, making the preparations necessary to take the Truth and Reconciliation away from the Covenant. She’s spaceworthy now, and Cortana can fly her, or, if all else fails, we’ll let Wellsley take a crack at it. It would be a stretch – but he might be able to pull it off.
“Imagine! Arriving back on Earth in a Covenant cruiser, packed with Covie technology, and loaded with data on Halo! The response will be incredible! The human race needs a victory right now, and we’ll give them a big one.”
It was then, as McKay looked into the other officer’s half-lit face, that she realized the extent to which raw ambition motivated her superior’s actions, and knew that even if his wildest dreams were to come true, she wouldn’t want any part of the glory that Silva sought. Just getting some Marines home alive – that would
be reward enough for her.
An old soldier’s adage flashed across her mind: “Never share a foxhole with a hero.” Glory and promotion were fine, but right now, she’d settle for survival, plain and simple.
First there was a loud clang, followed by the birth of six blue-white suns, which illuminated the inside surface of the shaft as they fell to the filth-encrusted floor below.
Then the invaders dropped, not one at a time down the stairs as the infection forms might have assumed, but half a dozen all at once, dangling on ropes. They landed within seconds of each other, knelt with weapons at the ready, and faced outward. Each Helljumper wore a helmet equipped with two lights and a camera. With simple back and forth movements of their heads, the soldiers created overlapping scans of the walls which were transmitted up to the grating above, and from there to the mesa.
McKay stood on the grating, eyed the raw footage on a portable monitor, and saw that four large arches penetrated the perimeter of the shaft and would need to be sealed in order to prevent access to the circular stairway. There was no sign of the Flood.
“Okay,” the officer said, “we have four holes to seal. I want those plugs at the bottom of the shaft thirty from now. I’m going down.”
Even as McKay spoke, and dropped into the hole which had been cut into the center of the grate, Wellsley was calculating the exact dimensions of each arch so that Navy techs could fabricate metal “plugs” that could be lowered to the bottom of the shaft, manhandled into position, and welded into place. Within a matter of minutes computer-generated outlines were lasered onto metal plates, torches were lit, and the cutting began.
McKay felt her boots touch solid ground, and took her first look around. Now, finally able to see the surroundings with her own eyes, the Company Commander realized that a bas relief mural circled the lower part of the shaft. She wanted to go look at it, to run her fingers across the grime-caked images recorded there, but knew she couldn’t, not without compromising the defensive ring and placing herself in jeopardy.
“Contact!” one of the Marines said urgently. “I saw something move.”
“Hold your fire,” McKay said cautiously, her voice echoing off the walls. “Conserve ammo until we have clear targets.”
As soon as she’d given the “hold fire” order, the Flood gushed out into the shaft. McKay screamed: “Now! Pull!” and seven well-anchored winches jerked the entire team into the air and out of reach. The Marines fired as they ascended. One Helljumper screamed curses at the combat form who was leading the charge.
The loudmouthed Marine dropped his clip, loaded a fresh one into his rifle, and shouldered the weapon to resume fire. The combat form he’d been shooting leaped fifteen meters into the air, wrapped his legs around the Marine’s waist, and caved in the side of the soldier’s head with a rock.
Then, with the fallen Marine’s assault weapon slung over his shoulder, the creature climbed the rope like an oversized monkey, and raced for the platform above.
Lister, who still stood on the grating above, aimed his pistol straight down, put three rounds through the top of the combat form’s skull, saw the form fall backward into the milling mass below, and watched it disappear under the tide of alien flesh.
“Let’s move, people!” the noncom said. “Raise the bait, and drop the bombs.”
Energy bolts stuttered upward as the winches whirred, the Helljumpers rose, and twenty grenades fell through the grating and into the mob below. Not fragmentation grenades, which would have thrown shrapnel up at the Helljumpers, but plasma grenades, which burned as the Flood congregated around them, then went off in quick succession. They vaporized most of the gibbering monsters and left the rest vulnerable to a round of gunfire and a second dose of grenades.
Ten minutes later word came down that the plugs were ready, and a larger combat team was sent down, followed by four teams of techs. The arches were blocked without incident, the shaft was sealed, and the grating was repaired. Not forever, but for the next day or so, and that was all that mattered.
The Master Chief arrived at the top of the gravity lift and fought his way through a maze of passageways and compartments, occupied by Flood and Covenant alike. He rounded a corner and saw an open hatch ahead. “It looks like a shuttle bay,” Cortana commented. “We should be able to reach the Control Room from the third level.”
The CNI link that Cortana followed served to deliver a new message from the Captain. The voice was weak, and sounded slurred. “I gave you an order, soldier, now pull out!”
“He’s delirious,” Cortana said, “in pain. We have to find him!”
...pull out! I gave you an order, soldier!
The thought echoed in what was left of Keyes’ ravaged mind. The invading presence descended. It could tell this one was nearly expended – no more energy left to fight.
It pushed in on the memories that the creature so jealously guarded, and recoiled at the sudden resistance, a defiance of terrible strength.
Keyes clutched at the last of his vital memories, and – inside his mind, where there was no one but he and the creature that attempted to absorb him – screamed NO!.
Death, held in abeyance for so long, refused to rush in. Slowly, like the final drops of water from a recently closed faucet, his life force was absorbed.
With the memory of the voice to spur him on, the Master Chief made his way out onto a gallery over the shuttle bay, found that a pitched battle was in progress, and lobbed two grenades into the center of the conflict. They had the desired effect, but also signaled the human’s presence, and the Flood came like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
The Flood onslaught was intense, and the Spartan was forced to retreat into the passageway whence he had come in order to concentrate the targets, buy some time, and reload his weapons.
The pitched firefight ended, and he sprinted for the far side of the gallery and passed through an open hatch. He fought his way up to the next level of the gallery, where the Flood appeared to be holding a convention at the far end of the walkway.
The Chief was fresh out of grenades by then, which meant he had to clear the path the hard way. A carrier form exploded, and sent a cluster of combat forms crashing to the ground.
The burst carrier spewed voracious infection forms in every direction, and collapsed as one of the fallen combat forms hopped forward, dragging a broken leg behind him, hands clutching a grenade as if it were a bouquet of flowers.
The Spartan backed away, fired a series of ten-round bursts, and gave thanks when the grenade exploded.
The carrier had given him an idea – when they blew, they went up in a big way. A second of the creatures scuttled into view, and made its ungainly way forward, accompanied by a wave of infection forms and two more combat forms. He used his pistol scope to survey the combat forms and was gratified that they fit the bill: Each carried plasma grenades.
He stepped into view, and the combat forms instantly vaulted high in the air. As soon as their feet left the deck, the Chief dropped and fired – directly at the carrier.
The Spartan’s aim was perfect – as soon as they passed over the carrier, it burst, and ignited the plasma grenades the combat forms carried. They all went up in a blue-white flash of destructive energy.
“The Control Room should be this way,” Cortana said as he charged ahead, eager to keep them moving in the right direction.
He moved fast, advancing across the blood-slicked floor, and followed Cortana’s new nav coordinates toward the still-distant hatch. He passed through the opening, followed the corridor to an intersection, took a right, a left, and was passing through a door when a horrible groan was heard over the link.
“The Captain!” Cortana said. “His vitals are fading! Please Chief, hurry.”
The Spartan charged into a passageway packed with both Covenant and Flood, and sprayed the tangle of bodies with bullets.
He kept running at top speed, sprinting past enemies and ignoring their hasty snap-shots. Time was of the essence; Key
es was fading fast.
He made it to the CNI’s carrier wave source: the cruiser’s Control Room. The lighting was subdued, with hints of blue, and reflections off the metal surfaces. Thick, sturdy columns framed the ramp which led up to an elevated platform, where something strange stood.
He thought it was a carrier at first glance, but soon realized that the creature was far too large for that. It boasted spines that connected it to the ceiling overhead, like thick, gray-green spiderwebs.
There were no signs of opposition, not yet anyway, which left him free to make his way up the ramp with his rifle at the ready. As he moved closer the Chief realized that the new Flood form was huge. If it was aware of the human presence, the creature gave no sign of it, and continued to study a large holo panel as if committing the information displayed there to memory.
“No human life signs detected,” Cortana observed cautiously. She paused, and added: “The Captain’s life signs just stopped.”
Damn. “What about the CNI?” he asked.
“Still transmitting.”
Then the Chief noticed a bulge in the monster’s side, and realized that he was looking at an impression of the Naval officer’s grotesquely distorted face. The AI said, “The Captain! He’s one of them!”
The Spartan realized then that he already knew that, had known it ever since he had seen Jenkins’ video, but was unwilling to accept it.
“We can’t let the Flood get off this ring!” Cortana said desperately. “You know what he’d expect... What he’d want us to do.”
Yes, the Chief thought. I know my duty.
They needed to blow the Autumn’s engines to destroy Halo and the Flood. To do that, they needed the Captain’s neural implants.
The Flood h-2 Page 29