Halo. Flood

by William C. Dietz

  But how to capture the human? He wouldn’t come willingly, that was obvious, and his companions were armed. The moment ‘Nosolee deactivated his camouflage they would shoot him. Individually, the humans were weaklings, but they were dangerous in packs. And animals grew all the more dangerous the nearer they came to extinction.

  No, patience was the key, which meant that the Elite would have to wait. Vapor continued to roll out of the cold air vent, and the air seemed to shimmer, but no one noticed.

  “All right,” Keyes said, “let’s put her down. . . . Stand by to fire the bow thrusters . . . Fire!”

  The bow thrusters ignited and slowed the ship’s rate of descent. The Pillar of Autumn wobbled for a moment as it battled the ring’s gravity field, then corrected its angle of entry.

  Cortana took over after that, or rather, the part of herself that she had left behind did. The Autumn’s thrusters fired in increments so small that they were like single notes in an ongoing melody. The highly adaptive subroutine tracked variables, monitored feedback, and made thousands of decisions per second.

  The much-abused hull shuddered as it entered the atmosphere, started to shake, and sent a host of loose items tumbling to the deck. “That’s as far as we can take her,” Keyes announced. “Delegate all command and control functions to Cortana’s cousin, and let’s haul ass off this boat.”

  There was a ragged chorus of “Aye, ayes,” as the bridge crew disengaged from the ship they had worked so hard to save, took one last look around, and drew their sidearms. The fighting had died down, but that didn’t mean all of the Covenant forces had left.

  ‘Nosolee watched anxiously as the humans started to leave the bridge. He waited for the last person to exit, and fell into step behind. The beginnings of a plan had started to form in his mind. It was audacious—no, make that outrageous—but the Elite figured that made the scheme all the more likely to succeed.

  The lifeboat reserved for the bridge crew was close by. Six Marines had been detailed to guard it and three of them were dead. Their bodies had been dragged off to one side and laid in a row. A corporal shouted, “Attention on deck!”

  Keyes said, “As you were,” and gestured toward the hatch. “Thanks for waiting, son. I’m sorry about your buddies.”

  The corporal nodded stiffly. He must have been off duty when the attack began—one half of his face needed a shave. “Thank you, sir. They took a dozen of the bastards with them.”

  Keyes nodded. Three lives for twelve. It sounded like a good trade-off but how good was it really? How many Covenant troops were there, anyway? And how many would each human have to kill? He shook the thought off and jerked his thumb toward the opening. “Everybody into the boat, on the double!”

  The survivors streamed onto the boat, and ‘Nosolee followed, though it was difficult to avoid touching the human vermin in such tight quarters. There was a little bit of space toward the front and a handhold which would be useful once the gravity generated by the larger ship disappeared. Later, after the lifeboat landed, the Elite would find an opportunity to separate Keezz from the rest of the humans and seize him. In the meantime all he had to do was hang on, avoid detection, and make it to the surface.

  The human passengers strapped in. The lifeboat exploded out of the bay, and it fell toward the ringworld below. Jets fired, the small craft stabilized, and followed a precalculated glide path toward the surface.

  Keyes was seated three slots aft of the pilot. He frowned, as if looking for something, then waited for the boat to clear. He leaned toward the Marine in front of him. “Excuse me, Corporal.”

  “Sir?” The Marine looked exhausted, but somehow managed to snap to a form of attention, despite being belted into an acceleration chair.

  “Hand me your sidearm, son.”

  The expression on his face made it plain that the last thing the soldier wanted to do was part company with one of his weapons, particularly in close quarters. But the Captain was the Captain, so he had very little choice. The words, “Yes, sir,” were still making their way from the noncom’s brain to his mouth when he felt the M6D pistol being jerked out of his holster.

  Would one of the 12.7mm rounds punch its way through the lifeboat’s relatively thin hull? Keyes wondered. Cause a blowout and kill everyone aboard?

  He didn’t know, but one thing was certain: The Covenant son of a bitch standing in this lifeboat was about to die. Keyes raised the weapon, aimed at the very center of the strange, ghostly shimmer, and pulled the trigger.

  The Elite saw the movement, had nowhere to run, and was busy reaching for his own pistol when the first bullet struck.

  The M6D bucked, the barrel started to rise, and the third slug from the top of the clip passed through the slit in ‘Nosolee’s helmet, blew his brains out through the back of his skull, and freed him from the tyranny of physical reality.

  No sooner had the noise of the last shot died away than the camo generator failed, and an Elite appeared as if from thin air. The alien’s body floated back toward the rear of the cabin. Thousands of globules of alien blood escorted bits of brain tissue on their journey to the lifeboat’s stern.

  Lieutenant Hikowa ducked as one of the Elite’s boots threatened to hit her head. She pushed the corpse away, her face impassive. The rest of the passengers were too shocked to do or say anything at all.

  The Captain calmly dropped the clip from the gun, ejected the round in the chamber, and handed the weapon back to the stunned corporal.

  “Thanks,” Keyes said. “That thing works pretty well. Don’t forget to reload it.”

  SECTION II

  HALO

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  DEPLOYMENT +00 HOURS:03 MINUTES:24 SECONDS (MAJOR SILVA MISSION CLOCK) / COMMAND HEV, IN COMBAT DROP TO SURFACE OF HALO.

  Consistent with standard UNSC insertion protocols, Major Antonio Silva’s HEV accelerated once it was launched so that it was among the first to enter Halo’s atmosphere. There were a number of reasons for this, including the strongly held belief that officers should lead rather than follow, be willing to do anything their troops were asked to do, and expose themselves to the same level of danger.

  There were still other reasons, however, beginning with the need to collect, sort, and organize the troops the moment their boots touched ground. Experience demonstrated that whatever the Helljumpers managed to accomplish during the first so-called golden hour would have a disproportionate effect on the success or failure of the entire mission. Especially now, as the Marines dropped onto a hostile world without any of the intel briefings, virtual reality sims, or environment-specific equipment mods they would normally receive prior to such an insertion. To offset this, the command pod was equipped with a lot of gear that the regular “eggs” weren’t, including some high-powered imaging gear, and the Class C military AI required to operate it.

  This particular intelligence had been programmed with a male persona, the name Wellsley—after the famous Duke of Wellington—and a personality to match. Though he was a good deal less capable than a top-level AI like Cortana, all of Wellsley’s capabilities were focused on things military, which made him extremely useful if somewhat narrow-minded.

  The HEV shook violently and flipped end for end as the interior temperature rose to 98 degrees. Sweat poured down Silva’s face.

  “So,” Wellsley continued, his voice coming in via the officer’s ear plugs, “based on the telemetry available from space, plus my analysis, it appears that the structure tagged as HS2604 will meet your needs.” The AI’s tone changed slightly as a conversational subroutine kicked in. “Perhaps you would like to call it ‘Gawilghur,’ after the fortress I conquered in India?”

  “Thanks,” Silva croaked as the pod inverted a second time, “but no thanks. First: you didn’t take the fortress, Wellington did. Second: There weren’t any computers in 1803. Third: none of my troops would be able to pronounce ‘Gawilghur.’ The designator ‘Alpha Base’ will do just fine.”

  The AI is
sued a passable rendition of a human sigh. “Very well, then. As I was saying, ‘Alpha Base’ is located at the top of this butte.” The curvilinear screen located just centimeters from the end of the Marine’s nose seemed to shiver and the video morphed into a picture of a thick, pillarlike formation topped by a mesa with some variegated flat-roofed structures located at one end.

  That was all Silva got to see before the HEV’s skin started to slough away revealing the alloy crash cage that contained the officer and his equipment. The air turned cold and ripped at his clothes. A moment later, the braking-chute system engaged. Silva winced as the pod decelerated with a bone-rattling jerk. His harness bit into his shoulders and chest.

  Wellsley sent an electronic signal to the rest of the Helljumpers. The remains of their HEVs turned in whatever direction was necessary in order to orient themselves on the command pod and follow it down through the atmosphere.

  All except for Private Marie Postly, who heard a snap as her main chute tore away. There was a sickening moment of freefall, then a jolt as the back-up chute deployed. A red light flashed on the instrument panel in front of her. She started to scream on freq two, until Silva cut her off. He closed his eyes. It was the death that every Helljumper feared, but none of them talked about. Somewhere, down toward Halo’s surface, Postly was about to dig her own grave.

  Silva felt his HEV stabilize and took another look at the butte. It was tall enough to provide anyone who owned it with a good view of the surrounding countryside, plus the sheer cliffs would force attackers to either come by air or fight their way up along narrow paths. As a bonus, the structures located on top would provide his Marines with defensible shelter. “It looks good. I like it.”

  “I thought you would,” Wellsley replied smugly. “There is one little problem, however.”

  “What’s that?” Silva shouted as the last section of the HEV’s skin peeled away and the slipstream tore at his mask.

  “The Covenant owns this particular piece of real estate,” the AI replied, calmly, “and if we want it, we’ll have to take it.”

  DEPLOYMENT +00 HOURS:02 MINUTES:51 SECONDS (SPARTAN 117 MISSION CLOCK) / LIFEBOAT LIMA FOXTROT ALPHA 43, IN EMERGENCY DESCENT TO SURFACE OF HALO.

  The Master Chief watched the ring open up in front of him as the pilot guided the lifeboat in past a thick silvery edge, and down “under” the construct’s inner surface, before putting the tiny ship into a shallow dive calculated to place it on the strange landscape below. As he looked forward, he saw mountains, hills, and a plain that curved up and eventually out of focus as the ring swooped upward to complete itself somewhere over his head. The sight was beautiful, strange, and disorienting all at the same time.

  Then the sightseeing was over as the ground came up to meet them. The Master Chief couldn’t tell whether the lifeboat took enemy fire, suffered an engine failure, or nicked an obstacle on final approach. It really didn’t matter; the result was the same.

  The pilot had time to yell, “We’re coming in too fast!” A moment later, the hull bounced off something solid, and the Spartan was knocked off his feet.

  Pain stabbed through his temples as his helmet slammed into the bulkhead on his way to the deckplates—followed by clinging blackness . . .

  “Chief . . . Chief . . . Can you hear me?” Cortana’s voice echoed in his head.

  The Spartan opened his eyes and found himself facing the overhead light panels. They flickered and sparked. “Yes, I can hear you,” he replied. “There’s no need to shout.”

  “Oh, really?” the AI replied in an arch tone. “Maybe you’d like to file a complaint with the Covenant. The crash triggered a lot of radio traffic and it’s my guess that the welcome wagon is on the way.”

  The Master Chief struggled to his feet and was just about to answer in kind when he saw the bodies. The impact of the crash had ripped the boat open and mangled the unprotected people within. No one else had survived.

  There was no time to dwell on that, not if he wanted to stay alive, and keep Cortana from falling into enemy hands.

  He hurried to gather as much ammo, grenades, and supplies as he could carry. He had just finished checking the pins on a quartet of frag grenades when Cortana piped up in alarm: “Warning—I’ve detected multiple Covenant dropships on approach. I recommend moving into those hills. If we’re lucky, the Covenant will believe that everyone aboard the lifeboat died in the crash.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Cortana’s plan made sense. The Spartan surveyed the area for threats, then hurried across the canyon floor and the bridge that crossed it. The span was devoid of safety railings, and was constructed from a strange, burnished metal. Beneath the bridge, a towering waterfall thundered down a massive drop-off.

  The rest of the world arched high overhead. Large outcroppings of weather-smoothed gray rock rose ahead, and a scattering of what looked like conifers reminded him of the forests he’d trained in on Reach.

  There were differences, however, like the way the ring tapered up from the horizon, the manner in which its shadow fell upon the land, and the crisp, clean air that came in through his filters. It was beautiful, breathtakingly so, but potentially dangerous as well.

  “Alert—Covenant dropship inbound.” Cortana’s voice was calm but insistent.

  The prophecy soon proved correct as a large shadow floated over the far end of the bridge and the ship’s engines screamed a warning. There was very little doubt that the Spartan had been spotted, so he made plans to deal with it.

  He reached the end of the bridge, saw a likely-looking boulder off to his left, and hurried to take advantage of it. He skirted the cliff edge, ignoring the long drop. Careful to watch his footing, the Master Chief circled the rock and found a crevice where the boulder touched the cliff. Now, with his back to the wall, he had a chance to defend himself.

  He checked his motion tracker, and realized that a pair of Covenant Banshees were practically on top of him. The alien aircraft boasted plasma cannon and fuel rod guns. Though not especially fast, they were still dangerous, especially against ground troops.

  Combined with air support, the Grunts and Elites that dropped from the fork-shaped alien troop carrier were a serious threat.

  He steadied his aim and sighted on the nearest Banshee. Careful not to fire early, the Spartan waited for the Banshee to come within range, then squeezed the trigger. The first assault ship came straight at him, which made it relatively easy to stay on target. Bullet impacts sparked on the Banshee’s hull as his ammo counter dwindled.

  The ship shuddered as at least some of the armor-piercing rounds penetrated the fuselage, pulled up out of its dive, and started to trail smoke.

  The Master Chief was in no position to appreciate the results of his efforts, however, as the second Banshee swooped out of the sun and pounded the area around him with plasma fire. His shield display dropped, then pulsed red. An alarm whined in his helmet speakers.

  The Master Chief returned fire. Without pause, he thumbed the magazine release and slammed a fresh clip into the receiver.

  He crouched, searched the sky for targets, and spotted Banshee number one in the nick of time. He braced himself for another assault. The Spartan allowed the enemy aircraft to approach, took a slight lead, and squeezed the trigger again. The Covenant ship ran into the stream of bullets, exploded into flames, and slammed into the cliff wall.

  The second ship was still up there, flying in lazy circles, but the Spartan knew better than to stand around and watch it. A half dozen red dots had appeared on his motion sensors. Each blip represented a potential assailant and most were located to his rear.

  The Master Chief waited for his shields to return to their full charge, then turned, jumped up onto the boulder, and took a quick look around. The Covenant dropship had deposited a clutch of Grunts on the far side of the canyon where they were busy examining the wreckage of his lifeboat.

  But that wasn’t all. To his left, on his side of the bridge, another group of Grunts
was working its way through the trees, moving in his direction. They were still a ways off, however—which gave him a few seconds to prepare.

  Though not armed with the standard S2 AM Sniper’s Rifle, his weapon of choice for this sort of situation, the Spartan was packing the M6D pistol that Keyes had given him. It was equipped with a 2X scope and, in the hands of an expert, it could reach out and touch someone.

  The Master Chief drew the sidearm, turned to the group gathered around the wreckage, and placed the targeting circle over the nearest Grunt. In spite of the fact that they were of no immediate threat, the aliens on the other side of the canyon were in an ideal position to flank him, which meant he would deal with them first. Twelve shots rang out, and seven Grunts fell.

  Satisfied that his right flank was reasonably secure, he slammed a fresh clip into the pistol and shifted his attention to the enemy troops that were emerging from the trees. This group of Grunts was closer now, much closer, and they opened fire. The Master Chief chose to target the most distant alien first, thereby ensuring that he would still get a crack at the others, even if they turned and tried to escape.

  The pistol shots came in quick succession. The Grunts barked, hooted, and gurgled as the well-aimed bullets hurled their lifeless carcasses down the reverse slope.

  When there were no more targets to fire at, the Master Chief took a moment to reload the handgun, clicked on the safety, and returned the weapon to its holster. He jumped off the boulder and crouched under an outcropping of rock.

  He eyed the Banshee above. It was still there, circling well out of range, waiting to pounce should he emerge from cover. That meant he could sit there and wait for more ground forces to arrive, or he could abandon his hiding place and attempt to slip away.

  The Spartan had never been one for standing around, so he readied his assault rifle and slid forward over the rock. Once on open ground it was a short dash past the scattering of dead Grunts. He crouched beneath the cover offered by a copse of trees.