Halo. Flood

by William C. Dietz

  “It’s done,” Cortana said somberly. “I have the code. We should go. We need to get back to the Pillar of Autumn. Let’s go back to the shuttle bay and find a ride.”

  As if summoned by the lethargic beast that stood in front of the ship’s controls, a host of Flood poured into the room, all of whom were clearly determined to kill the heavily armored invader. A flying wedge comprised of carrier and combat forms stormed the platform, pushed the human back, and soaked up his bullets as if eager to receive them.

  Finally, more by chance than design, the Spartan backed off the command deck and plummeted to the deck below. That bought a moment of respite. There wasn’t much time, though, just enough to hustle up out of the channel that ran parallel to the platform above, reload both of his weapons, and put his back into a corner.

  The horde really came for him then, honking, gibbering, and gurgling, climbing up over the bodies that were mounded in front of them, careless of casualties, willing to pay whatever price he required.

  The storm of gunfire put out by the MJOLNIR-clad soldier was too powerful, too well aimed, and the Flood started to wilt, stumble, and fall, many giving up their lives only centimeters from the Spartan’s blood-drenched boots, clawing at his ankles. He breathed a sigh of relief as the last combat form collapsed, relished the silence that settled over the room, and took a moment to reload both of his weapons.

  “Are you okay?” Cortana asked hesitantly, both grateful and amazed by the fact that the Chief was still on his feet.

  He thought of Captain Keyes.

  “No,” the Spartan replied. “Let’s get the hell out of here and finish these bastards off.”

  He was numb from creeping exhaustion, hunger, and combat. The planned escape route back to the shuttle bay was littered with Flood and Covenant alike. The Spartan moved almost as if he was on autopilot—he simply killed and killed and killed.

  The bay was filled with Covenant forces. A dropship had deployed fresh troops into the bay and bugged out. A pair of amped-up Elites patrolled near the Banshee at the base of the bay.

  All the possibilities raced through his weary mind. What if that particular machine was in for repairs? What if an Elite took over the Shade and gunned him down? What if some bright light decided to close the outer doors?

  But none of those fears were realized as the aircraft came to life, turned toward the planet that hung outside the bay doors, and raced into the night. Energy beams followed, and tried to bring the Banshee down, but ultimately fell short. They were free once more.

  SECTION VI

  THE MAW

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  D +76:18:56 (SPARTAN 117 MISSION CLOCK) / COMMANDEERED BANSHEE, ON APPROACH TO THE PILLAR OF AUTUMN.

  The Banshee screamed through a narrow valley and out over an arid wasteland. The vehicle’s shadow raced ahead as if eager to reach the Pillar of Autumn first. The Master Chief felt the slipstream fold in behind the aircraft’s nose and tug at his armor. It felt good to be out of twisting corridors and cramped compartments if only for a short while.

  The first sign of the ship’s presence on the ringworld’s surface was the hundred-meter-deep trench the Autumn’s hull had carved into Halo’s skin. It started where the cruiser had first touched down, vanished where the vessel had bounced into the air, and reappeared a half klick farther on. From there the depression ran straight as an arrow to the point where the starship had finally come to rest with its blunt bow protruding out over the edge of a massive cliff. There were other aircraft in the area as well, all of which belonged to the Covenant, and they had no reason to suspect the incoming Banshee. Not yet, at any rate.

  The Spartan, who was eager to make his approach look normal, chose one of the many empty lifeboat bays that lined the starship’s starboard side, and bored in. Unfortunately the engine cut out at the last moment, the Banshee hit the Autumn’s hull, and although the Spartan was able to bail out, the alien vehicle fell to the rocks below. Not the low visibility arrival he had hoped for. Still, given Cortana’s plans for the vessel, his presence wouldn’t remain secret for long anyway.

  “We need to get to the bridge,” Cortana said. “From there we can use the Captain’s neural implants to initiate an overload of the ship’s fusion engines. The explosion should damage enough systems below it to destroy the ring.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” the Chief commented as he made his way toward the tiny air lock. “I don’t know who’s better at blowing things up—you or me.”

  The moment he stepped outside he saw a cluster of red dots appear on his motion detector and knew some nasties were lurking off to his left. The only question was, which hostiles did he face—the Covenant or the Flood? Given a choice, he’d take the Covenant. Maybe, just maybe, the Flood hadn’t located the ship yet.

  The passageway ended to the right, which meant he had little choice but to turn left. But, rather than run into the Covenant or the Flood, the Spartan came under attack from a flock of Sentinels.

  “Uh-oh,” Cortana said as the noncom opened fire, “it looks like the Monitor knows where we are.”

  I wonder if he knows what we’re up to, the Chief mused.

  A Sentinel exploded, another hit the deck with a loud clang, and the Master Chief shifted fire to a third. “Yeah, he’s after my head, but it’s you that he really wants.”

  The AI made no reply as the third machine exploded—and the Chief made his way down the hall using the lifeboat bays for cover. Two additional Sentinels appeared, were blown out of the air, and turned into scrap.

  Soon after that they arrived at the end of the corridor, took a right, and spotted an open maintenance hatch. Not ideal, since he didn’t relish the thought of having to negotiate such tight quarters, but there didn’t seem to be any other choice. So he ducked inside, found himself in a maze, and blundered about for a while before spotting a hatch set flush into the deck in front of him. That’s when a group of infection forms swarmed up out of the hole, and the Chief’s question was answered. It appeared that the Flood had located the Autumn—and already taken up residence there.

  He swore under his breath, backed away, and hosed the Flood with bullets. He eased forward and looked down through the floor hatch. He saw a carrier form, and knew there were bound to be more. He dropped a plasma grenade down through the hole, backed away, and took a certain amount of pleasure in the ensuing explosion.

  The maintenance tunnels didn’t seem to be taking him where he needed to go, so he dropped through the hole, crushed a handful of infection forms, and shot two more. The blood-splattered corridor was messy but well lit. He pried open a wall-mounted locker, and was pleased to find four frag grenades and spare ammo. He quickly stowed them, and moved on.

  Two Sentinels nosed around a corner, opened fire with their lasers, and got what they deserved. “They might have been looking for us,” Cortana observed, “but it’s my guess that they were assigned to Flood control.”

  The theory made sense, but didn’t really help much as the Master Chief was forced to fight the Sentinels, the Flood, and the Covenant, while he made his way through a series of passageways and into the ship’s heavily damaged mess, where a large contingent of Elites and Grunts were waiting to have him for lunch.

  There were a lot of them, too many to handle with the assault weapon alone, so he served up a couple of grenades. One of the Elites was blown to pieces by the overlapping explosions, another lost a leg, and a Grunt was thrown halfway across the room.

  They’d come full circle—he’d blasted Covenant troops apart before the crash landing, and here he was again. The enemy just didn’t learn, he thought.

  There was a survivor, however, a tough Elite who threw a plasma grenade of his own, and missed by a matter of centimeters. The Master Chief ran and was clear of the blast zone by the time the device went off. The Elite charged, took the better part of a full clip, and finally slammed into the deck, dead.

  It was a short distance to the burned-out brid
ge, where a Covenant security team was on duty. Word had been passed: They knew the human was on his way, and opened fire the moment they saw him.

  Once again the Spartan made use of a grenade to even the odds—then crushed the head of an Elite with his fist. The alien’s head was turned to pulp and its body collapsed like a puppet with no strings. The armor gave him enough strength to flip a Warthog over. Then, just when he thought the battle was done, a Grunt shot him in the back. The audible went off as his armor sought to recharge itself. A second shot, delivered with sufficient speed, would kill him.

  Time seemed to slow as the Master Chief turned toward his right.

  The Grunt, who had been hiding inside an equipment cabinet, froze as the armored alien not only survived what should have been a fatal shot, but turned to face him. They were only an arm’s length away from each other, which meant that the Master Chief could reach out, rip the breather off his assailant’s face, and close the door on him.

  There was a loud click followed by wild hammering as the Chief made his way forward to the spot where Captain Keyes had issued his orders. Cortana appeared over the control panel in front of him. Everywhere the AI looked she saw burned-out equipment, bloodstained decks, and smashed viewports.

  She shook her head sadly. “I leave home for a few days, and look what happens.”

  Cortana brought a hand up to her semitransparent forehead. “This won’t take long— There, that should give us enough time to make it to the lifeboat, and put some distance between ourselves and Halo before detonation.”

  The next voice the Chief heard belonged to 343 Guilty Spark. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

  Cortana groaned. “Oh, hell.”

  The Chief brought his weapon up but saw no sign of the Monitor or his Sentinels. That didn’t prevent the construct from babbling in his ears, though—the AI had tapped into his comm system. “Ridiculous! That you would imbue your warship’s AI with such a wealth of knowledge. Wouldn’t you worry that it might be captured? Or destroyed?”

  Cortana frowned. “He’s in my data arrays—a local tap.”

  Though nowhere near the bridge, the Monitor was on board, and flitted from one control panel to the next, sucking information out of Cortana’s nonsentient subprocessors with the ease of someone vacuuming a set of drapes. “You can’t imagine how exciting this is! To have a record of all our lost time. Oh, how I will enjoy every moment of categorization. To think that you would destroy this installation, as well as this record . . . I am shocked. Almost too shocked for words.”

  “He stopped the self-destruct sequence,” Cortana warned.

  “Why do you continue to fight us, Reclaimer?” Spark demanded. “You cannot win! Give us the construct—and I will endeavor to make your death relatively painless and—”

  The rest of 343 Guilty Spark’s words were chopped off as if someone had thrown a switch. “At least I still have control over the comm channels,” Cortana said.

  “Where is he?” the Chief asked.

  “I’m detecting taps throughout the ship,” Cortana replied. “Sentinels most likely. As for the Monitor—he’s in Engineering. He must be trying to take the core offline. Even if I could get the countdown restarted . . . I don’t know what to do.”

  The Spartan stared at the hologram in surprise. This was a first—and it made her seem more human somehow. “How much firepower would you need to crack one of the engine shields?”

  “Not much,” Cortana replied, “a well-placed grenade perhaps. But why?”

  He produced a grenade, tossed the device into the air, and caught it again.

  The AI’s eyes widened and she nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”

  The Spartan turned and started to leave.

  “Chief!” Cortana said. “Sentinels!”

  In unison, the machines attacked.

  Major Silva stood at what amounted to parade rest, feet spread, hands clasped behind his back, as he looked out over the landing pads while the men and women under his command made final preparations for the assault on the Covenant ship Truth and Reconciliation.

  Fifteen Banshees, all scrounged from different sites across Halo’s embattled surface, sat waiting for the order to launch.

  Pelicans, three of the four that the humans had left, squatted ramps down as heavily loaded Marines filed aboard. Each of the surviving 236 leathernecks was armed with weapons appropriate to the mission at hand. No long-range stuff, like rocket launchers or sniper rifles, just assault weapons, shotguns, and grenades, all of which were lethal within enclosed spaces, and would be effective against both the Covenant and the Flood.

  Naval personnel, and there were seventy-six of them, were armed with Covenant plasma rifles and pistols, which, thanks to their light weight, and the fact that there was no need to tote additional ammo, left the swabbies free to carry tools, food, and medical supplies. They had orders to avoid combat, if possible—and concentrate on running the ship. Some, a group of sixteen individuals, had skills considered to be so critical that each one had been given two Marine bodyguards.

  Assuming that Cortana and the Master Chief were able to complete their mission, they would take one of the Autumn’s remaining lifeboats and rendezvous with the Truth and Reconciliation out in space. Annoying though she sometimes was, the officer knew Cortana would be able to pilot the alien vessel, and get them home.

  Failing that, Silva hoped that Wellsley, with help from the Naval personnel, would be able to take the cruiser through Slipspace, following protocol, and eventually arriving back at Earth. An event he had already planned for, right down to what he would wear, and a short but moving speech for the media.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, Wellsley chose that moment to intrude on the officer’s reverie. The AI, who rode in an armored matrix slung from Silva’s shoulder, was characteristically unapologetic. “Lieutenant McKay called in, Major. Force One is in place.”

  Silva nodded, and said, “Good. Now, if they can lay low for the next couple of hours, we’ll be in good shape.”

  “I have every confidence in the Lieutenant,” the AI replied plainly.

  The implication was obvious. While Wellsley had faith in McKay, the AI had concerns where the Lieutenant’s superior was concerned. Silva sighed. Had the artificial intelligence been human, the officer would have put him in his place long ago. But Wellsley wasn’t human, couldn’t be manipulated in the same fashion that flesh-and-blood subordinates could, and like the human on whom he had modeled himself, tended to speak his mind. “All right,” the Major said reluctantly, “what’s the problem?”

  “The ‘problem,’ ” Wellsley began, “is the Flood. If the plan is successful, and we manage to take the Truth and Reconciliation, there will almost certainly be Flood forms on board. In fact, based on what Cortana and I have been able to piece together, that’s the only reason the vessel remains where it is. All of the necessary repairs have been made, and Covenant forces are trying to sterilize the ship’s interior prior to lifting off.”

  “Which answers your question,” Silva said, struggling to contain his impatience. “By the time we take over, most of the Flood will be dead. Once underway, I will dispatch hunter-killer teams to find the survivors. With the exception of a few specimens which I will place under heavy guard, the rest will be ejected into space. There, are you satisfied?”

  “No,” Wellsley replied firmly. “Were a carrier form to escape onto Earth’s surface, the entire planet could fall. This threat is as dangerous as, if not more so than, the Covenant. Cortana and I agree—no Flood form can be allowed to leave this system.”

  Silva took a quick look around to make sure no one was close enough to hear him and let the anger enter his voice. “Both you and Cortana have a tendency to forget one very important fact—I’m in command here and you are not. And I defy you to find anywhere in my orders that identifies a threat to Earth bigger than the goddamned Covenant!

  “Your role is to provide advice. Mine is to make decisions. It�
��s my belief that we could find better ways to combat the Flood if our scientists had live specimens with which to work. More than that, our people need to see this new enemy, know how dangerous they are, and believe that they can be conquered.”

  Wellsley considered taking the debate one step further, by pointing out that Silva’s ambitions might well have clouded his judgment, but knew it would be a waste of time. “That’s your final decision?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Then God help you,” the AI replied gravely, “because if your plan fails, no one else will have the power to do so.”

  The compartment, a space untouched by the fighting, had once served as a ready room for the ship’s Longsword, Pelican, and shuttle pilots. Now, with no modifications other than the installation of some crude sleeping accommodations, a back table with some food on it, and crates of supplies, the room functioned as an unofficial HQ for Covenant forces stationed aboard the Pillar of Autumn.

  The command staff, or what was left of it, sat slumped in the uncomfortably alien chairs, many too tired to move, and stared up at their leader. His name was ‘Ontomee, and he was confused, frustrated, and secretly frightened. The situation aboard the Autumn had deteriorated dramatically. In spite of all the efforts to stop them, Flood forms continued to trickle into the ship.

  The disgusting filth had even managed to seize control of the ship’s engineering spaces before a new enemy, one which was inimical to Covenant and Flood form alike, sent an army of Sentinels into the ship and took control of the Engine Room.

  Now, as if to prove that ‘Ontomee was truly cursed, still another threat had arrived on the scene, and he was reluctant to share the news with the already exhausted Elites arrayed in front of him.

  “So,” ‘Ontomee began lamely, “it seems that a human crashed a Banshee into the side of the ship, and is now on board.”

  A veteran named ‘Kasamee frowned. “ ‘A human’? As in, a single human? With respect, Commander, one human more or less will hardly make a difference.”