by Eric Nylund
dangled limply over Kelly’s head. The guard she had dragged in lay at her feet. She was already running a cracking program on the lock, using her data pad. John retrieved his MA2B and covered her. Fred and Linda entered and slipped out of their coveralls,
then donned their helmets. “Nav marker is moving,” Linda reported. “Mark 270, elevation ten meters, twenty . . . thirty-five and holding. I’d say that’s the top floor.”
Sam entered, pulled the door shut behind him, and then jammed the lock. “All clear out there.” The inner door clicked. “Door’s open,” Kelly said. John, Kelly, and Sam slipped out of their coveralls as Fred and Linda covered them. John activated the
motion and thermal displays in his helmet. The target sight glowed as he raised his MA2B. “Go,” John said. Kelly pushed open the door. Linda stepped in and to the right. John entered and took the left. Two guards were seated behind the lobby’s reception desk. Another man, without a uniform, stood in
front of the desk, waiting to be helped; two more uniformed men stood by the elevator. Linda shot the three near the desk. John eliminated the targets by the elevator. Five rounds—five bodies hit the floor. Fred entered and policed the bodies, dragging them behind the counter. Kelly moved to the stairwell, opened the door, and gave the all-clear signal. The elevator pinged and its doors opened. They all wheeled, rifles leveled . . . but the car was empty. John exhaled, then motioned them to take the stairs; Kelly took point. Sam brought up the rear. They
silently went up nine double flights of stairs. Kelly halted on an upper landing. She pointed to the interior of the building, then pointed up. John detected faint blurs of heat on the twelfth floor. They’d have to pick a better route, a way in that no
one would expect. John opened the door. There was an empty hallway. No targets. He went to the elevator doors and pried them open. Then he turned on his black suit’s cooling elements
to mask his thermal signature. The others did the same . . . and faded from his thermal imaging display. John and Sam climbed up the elevator cable. John glanced down: a thirty-meter plunge into darkness. He might survive that fall. His bones wouldn’t break, but there would be internal damage. And it would certainly compromise their mission. He tightened his grip on the cable and didn’t look down again.
When they had climbed up the last three floors, they braced themselves in the corners by the closed elevator door. Kelly and Fred snaked up the cable after them. They braced in the far corners to overlap their fields of fire. Linda came up last. She climbed as far as she could, hooked her foot on a cross brace, and hung upside down.
John held up three fingers, two, then one, and then he and Sam silently pulled open the elevator doors.
There were five guards standing in the room. They wore light body armor and helmets and carried older-model HMG-38 rifles. Two of them turned.
Kelly, Fred, and Linda opened fire. The walnut paneling behind the guards became pockmarked with bullet holes and was spattered with blood.
The team slid inside the room, moving quickly and quietly. Sam policed the guards’ weapons.
There were two doors. One led to a balcony; the other featured a peephole. Kelly checked the balcony, then whispered over the channel in their helmets: “This overlooks the alley between buildings. No activity.”
John checked the nav marker. The blue triangles flashed a position directly behind the other door.
Sam and Fred flanked the door. John couldn’t get any reading on motion or thermal. The walls were shielded. There were too many unknowns and not enough time.
The situation wasn’t ideal. They knew there were at least three men inside—the ones who had carried the crate upstairs. And there might be more guards . . . and to complicate the situation, their target had to be taken alive.
John kicked the door in.
He took in the entire situation at a glance. He was standing on the threshold of a sumptuous apartment. There was a wet bar boasting shelves of amber-filled bottles. A large, round bed dominated the corner, decorated with shimmering silk sheets. Windows on all sides had sheer white curtains—John’s helmet automatically compensated for the glare. Red carpet covered the floor. The crate with the cigars and champagne sat in the center of the room. It was black and armored, sealed tight against the vacuum of space.
There were three men standing behind the armored crate, and one man crouched behind them. Colonel Robert Watts—their “package.”
John didn’t have a clear shot. If he missed, he could hit the Colonel.
The three men, however, didn’t have that problem. They fired.
John dove to his left. He caught three rounds in his side—knocking the breath from his body. One bullet penetrated his black suit. He felt it ping off his ribs and pain slashed through him like a red-hot razor.
He ignored the wound and rolled to his feet. He had a clear line of fire. He squeezed the trigger once—a three-round burst caught the center guard in the forehead.
Sam and Fred wheeled around the door frame, Sam high, Fred low. Their silenced weapons coughed and the remaining pair of guards went down.
Watts remained behind the crate. He brandished his pistol. “Stop!” he screamed. “My men are coming. You think I’m alone? You’re all dead. Drop your weapons.”
John crawled to the wet bar and crouched there. He willed the pain inside his stomach to go away. He signaled Sam and Fred and held up two fingers, then pointed the fingers over his head.
Sam and Fred fired a burst of rounds over Watts. He ducked.
John vaulted over the bar and leaped onto his quarry. He grabbed the pistol and wrenched it out of his hand, breaking the man’s index finger and thumb. John snaked his arm around Watts’s neck and choked the struggling man into near-unconsciousness.
Kelly and Linda entered. Kelly took out a syringe and injected Watts—enough polypseudomorphine to keep him sedated for the better part of a day.
Fred fell back to cover the elevator. Sam entered and crouched by the windows, watching the street below for any signs of trouble.
Kelly went to John and peeled back his black suit. Her gloves were slick with his blood. “The bullet is still inside,” she said, and bit her lower lip. “There’s a lot of internal bleeding. Hang on.” She dug a tiny bottle from her belt and inserted the nozzle into the bullet hole. “This might sting a little.”
The self-sealing biofoam filled John’s abdominal cavity. It also stung like a hundred ants crawling through his innards. She pulled the bottle out and taped up the hole. “You’re good for a few hours,” she said, and then gave him a hand up.
John felt shaky, but he’d make it. The foam would keep him from bleeding to death and stave off the shock . . . for a while, at least.
“Incoming vehicles,” Sam announced. “Six men entering the building. Two taking up position
outside . . . but just the front.” “Get our package inside that crate and seal it up,” John ordered. He left the room, got his duffel, and went to the balcony. He secured a rope and tossed it down twelve
stories into the alley. He rappelled down, took a second to scan the alley for threats, then clicked his
throat mike once—the all-clear signal. Kelly snapped a descent rig on the crate and pushed it off the balcony. It zipped down the line and thudded to a halt at the bottom.
A moment later the rest of the team glided down the rope. They quickly donned their coveralls. Sam and Fred carried the crate as they entered the adjacent
building. They exited on the street a half block down and walked as quickly as they could back to the docks. Dozens of uniformed men ran from the dock toward the city. No one challenged them. They reentered the now-deserted public showers. “Everyone check your seals,” John said. “Sam, you go ring the doorbell. Meet us on the dropship.” Sam nodded and sprinted out of the building, both packs of C-12 looped around his shoulder. John took out the panic button. He triggered the green-mode transmission and tossed it into an empty
locker. I
f they didn’t make it out, at least the UNSC fleet would know where to find the rebel base.
“Your suit is breached,” Kelly reminded John. “We better get to the ship now, before Sam sets off his fireworks.” Linda and Fred checked the seals on the crate then carried it out. Kelly took point and John brought up
the rear.
They boarded the Pelican dropship and John sized up her armaments—dented and charred armor, a pair of old, out-of-date 40mm chain guns. The rocket pods had been removed. Not much of a warhorse. There was a flash of lightning at the far end of the dock. The thunder roiled through the deck, and then
through John’s stomach. While John watched, a gaping hole materialized in the airlock door amid a cloud of smoke and shattered
metal. Black space loomed beyond. With an earsplitting roar, the atmosphere held in the docks abruptly transformed into a hurricane. People, crates, and debris were blasted out of the ragged tear.
John pulled himself inside the dropship and prepared to seal the main hatch. He watched as emergency doors descended over the breached airlock. There was a second explosion, and the drop door paused, then fell and clattered to the deck, crushing a light transport vessel underneath.
Behind them, large bay doors closed, sealing the docks off from the city. Dozens of workers still on the
docks ran for their lives, but didn’t make it. Sam sprinted across the deck, perfectly safe inside his sealed black suit. He cycled through the Pelican’s emergency airlock.
“Back door’s open,” he said with a grin.
Kelly fired up the engines. The Pelican lifted, maneuvered through the dock, and then out through the blasted hole and into open space. She pushed the throttle to maximum burn. Behind them, the insurgent base looked like any other rock in the asteroid belt . . . but this rock was
venting atmosphere and starting to rotate erratically.
After five minutes at full power, Kelly eased the engines back. “We’ll hit the extraction point in two hours,” she said. “Check on our prisoner,” John said. Sam popped open the crate. “The seals held. Watts is still alive and has a steady pulse,” he said. “Good,” John grunted. He winced as the throbbing pain in his side increased. “Something bothering you?” Kelly asked. “How’s that biofoam holding up?” “It’s fine,” he said without even looking at the hole in his side. “I’ll make it.” He knew he should feel elated—but instead he just felt tired. Something didn’t sit right about the
operation. He wondered about all the dead dockworkers and civilians back there. None of them were
designated targets. And yet, weren’t they all rebels on that asteroid? On the other hand, it was like the Chief said—he had followed his orders, completed his mission, and gotten his people out alive. What more did he want?
John stuffed his doubts deep in the back of his mind.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, and squeezed Kelly’s shoulder. John smiled. “What could be wrong? We won.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
0600 Hours, November 2, 2525 (Military Calendar) / Epsilon Eridani System, Reach UNSC Military Complex, planet Reach
John wondered who had died. The Spartans had been called to muster in their dress uniforms only once before: funeral detail.
The Purple Heart awarded to him after his last mission glistened on his chest. He made sure it was polished to a high sheen. It stood out against the black wool of his dress jacket. Occasionally John would look at it, and make sure it was still there.
He sat in the third row of the amphitheater and faced the center platform. The other Spartans sat quietly on the concentric rings of risers. Spotlights flicked on the empty stage.
He had been in Reach’s secure briefing chamber before. This is where Dr. Halsey had told them they were going to be soldiers. This is where his life had changed and he had been given a purpose.
Chief Mendez entered the room and marched to the center platform. He wore his black dress uniform as well. His chest was covered with Silver and Bronze Stars, three Purple Hearts, the Red Legion of Honor award, and a rainbow of campaign ribbons. He had recently shaved his head.
The Spartans rose and stood at attention.
Dr. Halsey entered. She looked older to John, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth more pronounced, streaks of gray in her dark hair. But her blue eyes were as sharp as ever. She wore gray slacks, a black shirt, and her glasses hung about her neck on a gold chain.
“Admiral on deck,” Mendez announced.
They all snapped straighter.
A man ten years Dr. Halsey’s senior strode to the stage. His short silver hair looked like a steel helmet. His gait had a strange lope to it—what crewmen called “space walk”—from spending too much time in microgravity. He wore a simple, unadorned black dress UNSC uniform. No medals or campaign ribbons. The insignia on the forearm of his jacket, however, was unmistakable: the single gold star of a Rear Admiral.
“At ease, Spartans,” he said. “I’m Admiral Stanforth.” The Spartans took their seats in unison. Dust swirled onstage and collected into a robed figure. Its face was obscured within the shadows of its
hood. John could discern no hands at the end of its sleeves.
“This is Beowulf,” Admiral Stanforth said as he gestured to the ghostly creature. Stanforth’s voice was calm, but distaste was evident on his face. “He is our AI attaché with the Office of Naval Intelligence.” He turned away from the AI. “We have several important issues to cover this morning, so let’s get
started.” The lights dimmed. An amber sun appeared in the center of the room with three planets in close orbit. “This is Harvest,” he said. “Population of approximately three million. Although on the periphery of
UNSC-controlled space, this world is one of our more productive and peaceful colonies.”
The holographic view zoomed in on the surface of the world and showed grasslands and forests and a thousand lakes swarming with schools of fish. “As of military calendar February 3, at 1423 hours, the Harvest orbital platform made long range radar
contact with this object.”
A blurry outline appeared over the stage. “Spectroscopic analysis proved inconclusive,” Admiral Stanforth said. “The object is constructed of material unknown to us.” A molecular absorption graph appeared on a side screen, spikes and jagged lines indicating the relative
proportions of elements.
Beowulf raised a cloaked arm and the image darkened. The words CLASSIFIED—EYES ONLY appeared over the blackened data. Admiral Stanforth shot a glare at the AI. “Contact with Harvest,” he continued, “was lost shortly thereafter. The Colonial Military Administration
sent the scout shipArgo to investigate. That ship arrived in-system on April twentieth, but other than a
brief transmission to confirm their exit Slipstream position, no further reports were made. “In response, Fleet Command assembled a battle group to investigate. The group consisted of the destroyerHeracles , commanded by Captain Veredi, as well as the frigatesArabia andVostok . They
entered the Harvest System on October seventh and discovered the following.”
The holograph of the planet Harvest changed. The lush fields and rolling hills transformed, morphing into a cratered, barren desert. Thin gray sunlight reflected off a glassy crust. Heat wavered from the surface. Isolated regions glowed red.
“This is what was left of the colony.” The Admiral paused for a moment to stare at the image, and then continued. “We assume that all inhabitants are lost.”
Three million lives lost. John couldn’t fathom the raw force it had taken to kill so many—for a moment he was torn between horror and envy. He glanced at the Purple Heart pinned to his chest and remembered his lost comrades. How did one simple bullet wound compare with so many wasted lives? He was suddenly no longer proud of the decoration.
“And this is what theHeracles battlegroup found in orbit,” Admiral Stanforth told them.
The blurry outline that was still visib
le, hanging in the air, sharpened into crisp focus. It looked smooth and organic, and the hull possessed an odd, opalescent sheen—it looked more like the carapace of an exotic insect than the metal hull of a spacecraft. Recessed into the aft section were pods that pulsed with a purple-white glow. The prow of the craft was swollen like the head of a whale. John thought it possessed an odd, predatory beauty.
“The unidentified vessel,” the Admiral said, “launched an immediate attack against our forces.”
Blue flashes strobed from the ship. Red motes of light then appeared along its hull. Bolts of energy coalesced into a fiery smear against the blackness of space. The deadly flashes of light impacted on theArabia , splashed across its hull. Its meter of armor plating instantly boiled away, and a plume of ignited atmosphere burst from the breach in the ship’s hull. “Those were pulse lasers,” Admiral Stanforth explained, “and—if this record is to be believed—some kind of self-guided, superheated plasma weapon.”
TheHeracles andVostok launched salvos of missiles toward the craft. The enemy’s lasers shot half before they reached their target. The balance of the missiles impacted, detonated into blossoms of fire . . . that quickly faded. The strange ship shimmered with a semitransparent silver coating, which then vanished.
“They also seem to have some reflective energy shield.” Admiral Stanforth took a deep breath and his features hardened into a mask of grim resolve. “TheVostok andArabia were lost with all hands. TheHeracles jumped out of the system, but due to the damage she sustained, it took several weeks for Captain Veredi to make it back to Reach.
“These weapons and defensive systems are currently beyond our technology. Therefore . . . this craft is of nonhuman origin.” He paused, then added, “The product of a race with technology far in advance of our own.”
A murmur buzzed through the chamber.
“We have, of course, developed a number of first contact scenarios,” the Admiral continued, “and Captain Veredi followed our established protocols. We had hoped that contact with a new race would be peaceful. Obviously this was not the case—the alien vessel did not open fire until our task force attempted to initiate communications.”