Halo. Flood

by William C. Dietz

  Then, just when he had nearly given up hope, he saw a few centimeters of olive drab tubing protruding from under a dead combat form. He rolled the ex-Elite over, and felt a rising sense of excitement. Was the launcher loaded? If so, he was in luck.

  A quick check revealed that the weapon was loaded, and as if to prove that luck comes in threes, the Spartan found additional ammunition only a few meters away.

  Armed with the launcher, he was ready to go to work. The Wraith represented the most significant threat, so he decided to deal with that first. It took time to make his way back across the face of the pyramid to a point where he could get a clear shot, but he did. The monster was dangerously close as he put a pair of rockets into the mortar tank, and watched it explode.

  He ejected the spent rocket tubes, slammed fresh ammunition home, and shifted his aim. Two more rockets lanced ahead, and detonated in clusters of Covenant soldiers. He fell back and slung the rocket launcher; he had a limited supply of rockets, and once they were gone, he had no choice but to go down onto the valley floor and finish the job the hard way.

  He crept up on the pair of Elites who stood guard near a Banshee. They went down from deadly, spine-cracking blows and he stepped past their fallen corpses. He examined the Banshee’s controls while Cortana ensured the machine was fully operational.

  He boarded the aircraft, and activated its power plant. He wondered why the aliens hadn’t used the Banshee against him, was thankful that they hadn’t, and eyed the instrument panel. The Master Chief recognized the very alien yet very familiar interface. The takeoff was rough, but it wasn’t long before the Banshee started to climb.

  It was dark, and snow continued to fall, which meant that visibility was poor. He kept a close eye on both the nav point Cortana had projected onto his HUD and the instrument panel. The design was different, but an alien turn and bank indicator still looked like what it was, and helped the human maintain his orientation.

  The Banshee made good speed, and the valleys were quite close together, so it wasn’t long before the Spartan spotted the well-lit platform which jutted out from the face of the cliff, as well as the enemy fire which lashed up to greet him. The word was out, it seemed—and the Covenant didn’t want any visitors.

  Rather than put down under fire, he decided to carry out a couple of strafing runs first. He swooped low and used the Banshee’s plasma and fuel rod cannons to sweep the platform clear of sentries before decelerating for what he hoped would be an unopposed landing.

  The Banshee crunched into the platform, bounced once, then ground to a halt. The Chief dismounted, passed through a hatch, and entered the tunnel beyond.

  “We need to interrupt the pulse generator’s energy stream,” Cortana informed him. “I have adjusted your shield system so that it will deliver an EMP burst and disrupt the generator . . . but you’ll have to walk into the beam to trigger it.”

  The Master Chief paused just shy of the next hatch. “I’ll have to do what?”

  “You’ll have to walk into the beam to trigger it,” the AI repeated matter-of-factly. “The EMP blast should neutralize the generator.”

  “Should?” the Chief demanded. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours,” Cortana replied firmly. “We’re in this together—remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” the Spartan growled. “But you’re not the one with the bruises.”

  The AI chose to remain silent as the Chief passed through a hatch, paused to see if anyone would attempt to cancel his ticket, and followed the nav indicator to the chamber located at the center of the room.

  Once he was there the pulse generator was impossible to miss. It was so intensely white that his visor automatically darkened in order to protect his eyes. Not only that, but the Chief could feel the air crackle around him as he approached the delta-shaped guide structures, and prepared to step in between them. “I have to walk into that thing?” the Chief inquired doubtfully.

  “You’ll be fine,” Cortana replied soothingly. “I’m almost sure of it.”

  The Spartan took note of the “almost,” clenched his teeth, and pushed himself into the blindingly intense light. The response was nearly instantaneous. There was something akin to an explosion, the light started to pulsate, and the floor shook in response. The Chief hurried to disengage, felt a bit of suction, but managed to pull free. As he did so he noticed that his shields had been drained. His skin felt sunburned.

  “The pulse generator’s central core is offline,” Cortana said. “Well done.”

  Another squadron of Sentinels arrived. They swooped into the cramped pulse-generator chamber like vultures, fanned out, and seared the area with ruby-red energy beams. Not only did the Monitor take exception to the damage—he was after the Index too.

  But the Chief knew how to deal with the mechanical killers, and proceeded to dodge their lasers as he destroyed one after another. Finally, the air thick with the stench of ozone, he was free to withdraw. He went back through the same tunnel to the platform where the Banshee waited.

  “The second pulse generator is located in an adjacent canyon,” Cortana announced easily. “Move out and I’ll mark the nav point when we get closer.”

  The Master Chief sent the Banshee into a wide bank, and toward the next objective.

  Minus the refrigeration required to preserve them, the bodies laid out on the metal tables had already started to decay, and the stench forced Silva to breathe through his mouth as he entered the makeshift morgue and waited for McKay to begin her presentation.

  Six heavily armed Helljumpers were lined up along one wall ready to respond if one or more of the Flood suddenly came back to life. It seemed unlikely given the level of damage each corpse had sustained, but the creatures had proven themselves to be extremely resilient, and had an alarming tendency to reanimate.

  McKay, who was still trying to deal with the fact that more than fifteen Marines under her command had lost their lives in a single battle, looked pale. Silva understood, even sympathized, but couldn’t allow that to show. There was simply no time for grief, self-doubt, or guilt. The Company Commander would have to do what he did, which was to suck it up and keep on going. He nodded coolly.

  “Lieutenant?”

  McKay swallowed in an attempt to counter the nausea she felt. “Sir, yes sir. Obviously there’s still a great deal that we don’t know, but based on our observations during the fight, and information obtained from Covenant POWs, here’s the best intelligence we have. It seems that the Covenant came here searching for ‘holy relics’—we think that means useful technology—and ran into a life form they refer to as ‘the Flood.’ ” She gestured at the fallen creatures on the slab. “Those are Flood.”

  “Charming,” Silva muttered.

  “As best we can figure out,” McKay said, “the Flood is a parasitic life form which attacks sentient beings, damages their minds, and takes control. Wellsley believes that Halo was constructed to house them, to keep them under control, but we have no direct evidence to support that. Perhaps Cortana or the Chief can confirm our findings when we’re able to make contact with them again.

  “The Flood manifests in various forms starting with these things,” McKay said, using her combat knife to prod a flaccid infection form. “As you can see, it has tentacles in place of legs, plus a couple of extremely sharp penetrators, which they use to invade the victim’s central nervous system and take control of it. Eventually they work their way inside the host body and take up residence there.”

  Silva tried to imagine what that might feel like and felt a shiver run down his spine. Outwardly he was unchanged. “Please continue.”

  McKay said, “Yes, sir,” and moved to the next table. “This is what the Covenant call a ‘combat form.’ As you can see from what remains of its face, this one was human. We think she was a Navy weapons tech, based on the tattoos still visible on her skin. If you peek through the hole in her chest you can see the remains of the infection form that deflated itself enough t
o fit in around her heart and lungs.”

  Silva didn’t want to look, but felt he had to, and moved close enough to see the wrinkled scalp, to which a few isolated clumps of filthy hair still clung. His eyes catalogued a parade of horrors: the sickly looking skin; the alarmingly blue eyes which still bulged, as if in response to some unimaginable pain; the twisted, toothless mouth; the slightly puckered 7.62mm bullet hole through the right cheekbone; the lumpy, penetrator-filled neck; the bony chest, now split down the middle so that the woman’s flat breasts hung down to either side; the grossly distorted torso, punctured by three overlapping bullet wounds; the thin, sinewy arms; and the strangely graceful fingers, one of which still bore a silver ring.

  The Major didn’t say anything, but his face must have telegraphed what he felt, because McKay nodded. “It’s pretty awful, isn’t it, sir? I’ve seen death before, sir—” she swallowed and shook her head, “—but nothing like this.

  “For what it’s worth Covenant victims don’t look any better. This individual was armed with a pistol, her own probably, but the Flood seem to pick up and use any weapon they can lay their hands on. Not only that, but they pack a very nasty punch, which can be lethal.

  “Most combat forms appear to be derived from humans and Elites,” McKay continued, as she moved to the last table. “We suspect that Grunts and Jackals are deemed too small for first-class combat material, and are therefore used as a sort of nucleus around which carrier forms can grow. It’s hard to tell by looking at the puddle of crap on the table in front of you, but at one time this thing contained four of the infection forms you saw earlier, and when it popped the resulting explosion had enough force to knock Sergeant Lister on his can.”

  That, or the mental picture that it conveyed, was sufficient to elicit nervous grins from the Helljumpers who lined the back wall. Apparently they liked the idea of something that could put Lister on his ass.

  Silva frowned. “Does Wellsley have scans of this stuff?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. Nice job. Have the bodies burned, send these troops up for some fresh air, and report to my office in an hour.”

  McKay nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Zuka ‘Zamamee lay belly down on the hard-packed dirt and used his monocular to scan the Pillar of Autumn. It wasn’t heavily guarded; the Covenant was stretched too thin for that, but the Council had reinforced the security force subsequent to the human raid, and evidence of that was visible in the Banshees, Ghosts, and Wraiths that patrolled the area around the downed ship. Yayap, who lay next to the Elite, had no such device and was forced to rely on his own vision.

  “This plan is insane,” ‘Zamamee said out of the side of his mouth. “I should have killed you a long time ago.”

  “Yes, Commander,” the Grunt agreed patiently, knowing that the talk was just that. The truth was that the officer was afraid to return to the Truth and Reconciliation, and now had very little choice but to accept Yayap’s plan, especially in light of the fact that he had been unable to come up with one of his own.

  “Give it to me one more time,” the Elite demanded, “so I’ll know that you won’t make any mistakes.”

  Yayap eyed the readout on his wrist. He had two, maybe two and a half units of methane left, before his tanks were empty and he would suffocate, a problem which didn’t seem to trouble the Elite at all. It was tempting to pull his pistol, shoot ‘Zamamee in the head, and implement the strategy on his own. But there were advantages to being in company with the warrior—plus a giddy sense of power that went with having threatened the warrior and survived. With that in mind Yayap managed to suppress both his panic and a rising sense of resentment.

  “Of course, Commander. As you know, simple plans are often best, which is why there is a good chance this one will work. On the possibility that the Council of Masters is actively looking for Zuka ‘Zamamee, you will choose one of the commandos who died on the human encampment, and assume that individual’s identity.

  “Then, with me at your side, we will report to the officer in charge of guarding the alien ship, explain that we were taken prisoner in the aftermath of the raid, but were subsequently able to escape.”

  “But what then?” the Elite inquired warily. “What if he submits my DNA for a match?”

  “Why would he do that?” the Grunt countered patiently. “He’s shorthanded, and here, as if presented by the great ones themselves, is a commando Elite. Would you run the risk of having such a find reassigned? No, I think not. Under circumstances such as these you would seize the opportunity to add such a highly capable warrior to your command, and give thanks for the blessing.”

  It sounded good, especially the “highly capable warrior” part, so ‘Zamamee agreed. “Fine. What about later?”

  “Later, if there is a later,” Yayap said wearily, “we will have to come up with another plan. In the meantime this initiative will assure us of food, water, and methane.”

  “All right,” ‘Zamamee said, “let’s jump on the Banshee and make our appearance.”

  “Are you sure that’s the best idea?” the Grunt inquired tactfully. “If we arrive on a Banshee, the commanding officer might wonder why we were so slow to check in.”

  The Elite eyed what looked like a long, hard walk, sighed, and acquiesced. “Agreed.” A hint of his former arrogance resurfaced. “But you will carry my gear.”

  “Of course,” Yayap said, scrambling to his feet. “Was there ever any doubt?”

  The inmate had attempted suicide twice, which was why the interior of his cell was bare, and under round-the-clock surveillance. The creature that had once been Private Wallace A. Jenkins sat on the floor with both wrists chained to an eyebolt located just over his head.

  The Flood mind, which the human continued to think of as “the other,” had been quiet for a while, but was present nonetheless, and glowered in what amounted to a cognitive corner, angry but weak. Hinges squealed as the metal door swung open. Jenkins turned to look, and saw a male noncom enter the room followed by a female officer.

  The private felt an almost overwhelming sense of shame—and did what he could to turn away. Earlier, before the guards secured his wrists to the wall, Jenkins had used pantomime to request a mirror. A well-meaning Corporal brought one in, held it up in front of the soldier’s devastated face, and was frightened when he tried to scream. The initial suicide attempt followed thirty minutes later.

  McKay took a look at the prisoner’s dry, parched lips and guessed that he might be thirsty. She called for some water, accepted a canteen, and started across the cell. “With respect, ma’am, I don’t think you should do that,” the Sergeant said cautiously. “These suckers are incredibly violent.”

  “Jenkins is a Private in the UNSC Marine Corps,” McKay replied sternly, “and will be referred to as such. And your concern has been noted.”

  Then, like a teacher dealing with a recalcitrant child, she held the canteen out where Jenkins could see it. “Look!” she said, sloshing the water back and forth. “Behave yourself and I’ll give you a drink.”

  Jenkins tried to warn her, tried to say “No,” but heard himself gabble instead. Thus encouraged, McKay unscrewed the canteen’s lid, took three steps forward, and was just about to lean over when the combat form attacked. Jenkins felt his left arm break as the chain brought it up short—and fought to counter the other’s attempt to grab the officer in a scissor lock.

  McKay stepped back just in time to evade the flailing legs.

  There was a clacking sound as the guard pumped a shell into the shotgun’s receiver and prepared to fire. McKay shouted, “No!” and held up her hand. The noncom obeyed but kept his weapon aimed at the combat form’s head.

  “Okay,” McKay said, looking into the creature’s eyes, “have it your way. But, like it or not, we’re going to have a talk.”

  Silva had entered the cell by then and stood behind the Lieutenant. The Sergeant saw the Major nod, and backed into a corner with his weapon still held at the
ready.

  “My name is Silva,” the Major began, “and you already know Lieutenant McKay here. First, let me say that both of us are extremely sorry about what happened to you, we understand how you feel, and will make sure that you receive the best medical care that the UNSC has to offer. But first we have to fight our way off this ring. I think I know how we can do that—but it will take some time. We need to hold this butte until we’re ready to make our move. That’s where you come in. You know where we are now—and you know how the Flood move around. If you had my job, if you had to defend this base against the Flood, where would you focus your efforts?”

  The other used his right hand to grab his left, jerked hard, and exposed a shard of broken bone. Then, as if hoping to use that as a knife, the combat form lunged forward. The chains brought the creature up short. Jenkins felt indescribable pain, began to lose consciousness, but fought his way back.

  Silva looked at McKay and shrugged. “Well, it was worth a try, but it looks like he’s too far gone.”

  Jenkins half expected the other to lunge forward again, but having shared in the human’s pain, the alien consciousness chose that moment to retreat. The human surged into the gap, made hooting sounds, and used his good hand to point at Silva’s right boot.

  The officer looked down at his boot, frowned, and was about to say something when McKay touched his arm. “He isn’t pointing at your boot, sir, he’s pointing down. At the area under the butte.”

  Silva felt something cold trickle into his veins. “Is that right, son? The Flood could be directly below us?”

  Jenkins nodded emphatically, rolled his eyes, and made inarticulate gagging sounds.

  The Major nodded and came to his feet. “Thank you, Private. We’ll check the basement and be back to speak with you some more.”

  Jenkins didn’t want to talk, he wanted to die, but nobody cared. The guards left, the door clanged shut, and the Marine was left with nothing but a broken arm and the alien inside his head. Somehow, without actually dying, he had been sentenced to hell.