by Eric Nylund
snapped his right foot out, caught the back of the next Jackal’s head, crushing its skull.
The remaining aliens spun, glistening energy shields interposed between them and him. There were three coughs from silenced MA5Bs. Alien blood—black in the harsh blue-white light—
spattered across the inner surfaces of the energy shields as the silenced rounds found their marks. The Jackals toppled to the ground. The Master Chief policed their plasma pistols and retrieved the shield generators clamped on their
forearms. He had standing orders to collect intact specimens of Covenant technology. The Office of Naval Intelligence had not been able to replicate the Covenant’s shield technology. But they were getting close.
In the meantime, the Spartans would use these.
The Master Chief strapped the curved piece of metal to his forearm. He touched one of the two large buttons on the unit and a scintillating film appeared before him. He handed the other shield devices to his teammates. He pressed the second button and the shield collapsed. “Don’t use these unless you have to,” he said. “The humming and their reflective surfaces might give us
away . . . and we don’t know how long they last.” He got three acknowledgment lights. Kelly and Fred took up positions on either side of the open door. She gave him a thumbs-up. Kelly took point and the Spartans moved, single file, up a circular stairwell. She paused a full ten seconds at the doorway to the main floor. She waved them ahead and they emerged
on the main level of the museum. The skeleton of a blue whale was suspended over the main foyer. The dead hulk reminded the Master
Chief of a Covenant starship. He turned away from the distraction and slowly moved over the black marble tiles. Oddly, there were no more Jackal patrols. There were a hundred Jackals outside guarding the place . . .
but none inside. The Master Chief didn’t like it. It didn’t feel right . . . and Chief Mendez had told him a thousand times to trust his instincts. Was it a trap?
The Spartans staggered their line and moved cautiously into the east wing. There were displays of the local flora and fauna: gigantic flowers and fist-sized beetles. But their motion sensors were cold.
Fred halted . . . and then, with a quick hand signal, waved John to move up to his position.
He stood by a case of pinned butterflies. On the floor, facedown in front of that case, was a Jackal. It was dead, crushed flat. There was an imprint of a large boot where the creature’s back had been. Whatever had done this had easily weighed a ton.
The Master Chief spotted a few blood-smeared prints leading away from the Jackal . . . and into the west wing.
He flipped on his infrared sensors and took a long look around—no heat sources here or in the nearby rooms.
The Master Chief followed the footprints and signaled the team to follow.
The west wing held scientific displays. There were static electric generators and quantum field holograms on the walls, a tapestry of darting arrows and wriggling lines. A cloud chamber sat in the corner with subatomic tracers zipping through its misty confines—the Master Chief noted it was unusually active. This place reminded him of Déjà’s classroom on Reach.
A branch opened to another wing. The word GEOLOGY was carved on the entry arch.
Through that arch there was a strong infrared source, a razor-thin line that shot straight up and out of the building. The Master Chief only caught a glimpse of the thing—a wink and a blink then it was gone again . . . it was so bright his IR sensors overloaded and automatically shut down.
He waved James to take the left side of the arch. He had Kelly and Fred drop back to cover their flanks, and the Master Chief edged to the right of the arch.
He sent a fiber-optic probe ahead, bent it slightly, and poked it around the corner.
The room contained display cases of mineral specimens. There were sulfur crystals, raw emeralds, and rubies. There was a monolith of unpolished pink quartz in the center of the room, three meters wide and six tall.
Off to one side, however, were two creatures. The Master Chief hadn’t seen them at first—because they were so motionless . . . and so massive. He had no doubt that one of them had crushed the Jackal that had gotten in its way.
The Master Chief got scared all the time. He never showed it, though. He usually mentally acknowledged the apprehension, put it aside, and continued . . . just as he’d been trained to do. This time, however, he couldn’t easily dismiss the feeling.
The two creatures were vaguely man-shaped. They stood two and a half meters tall. It was difficult to make out their features; they were covered from head to toe with a dull blue-gray armor, similar to the hull of a Covenant ship. Blue, orange, and yellow highlights were visible on the few patches of exposed skin the creatures sported. They had slits where their eyes should be. The articulation points looked impregnable.
On their left arms they hefted large shields, thick as starship battleplate. Mounted on their right arms were massive, wide-barreled weapons, so large that the arm beneath seemed to blend into the weapon.
They moved with slow deliberation. One took a rock from the display case and set it inside a red metal case. It bent over the case while the other turned and touched the control panel of a device that looked like a small pulse laser turret. The laser pointed straight up—and out through the shattered glass dome overhead.
That had been the source of the infrared radiation. The laser must have intermittently scattered off the dust in the air—flashed enough energy into his sensors to burn them out. Something that powerful could beam a message straight out into space.
The Master Chief made a slow fist—the signal for his team to freeze. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he signaled the Spartans to stay alert and get ready.
He waved Fred and Kelly forward.
Fred crept closer to him. Kelly slid up next to James.
The Master Chief then held up two fingers and made a sideways cut, motioning them into the room.
Acknowledgment lights winked on.
He went in first, sidestepped to the right, with Fred at his side.
James and Kelly took the left flank.
They opened fire.
Armor-piercing rounds pinged off the aliens’ body armor. One of them turned and brought its shield in front of it—covering its partner, the red case, and the laser beacon.
The Spartan bullets didn’t even leave a scratch on the armor. The alien raised its arm slightly and pointed at Kelly and James. A flash of light blinded the Master Chief. There was a deafening explosion and a wave of heat. He
blinked for a full three seconds before he recovered his vision.
Where Kelly and James had been there was a burning crater that fanned backward . . . nothing but charcoal and ash remained of the Science Chamber behind them. Kelly had moved in time; she crouched five meters deeper into the room, still firing. James was nowhere
to be seen. The other massive creature turned to face the Master Chief. He hit the button on the shield generator on his arm and brought it up just in time—the nearest alien’s
weapon flashed again.
The air in front of the Master Chief shimmered and exploded—he flew backward, crashing through the wall, and skidded for ten meters before slamming into the wall of the next room. The Jackal shield generator was white-hot. The Master Chief ripped the melted alien device off and
threw it away.
Those plasma bolts were like nothing he had seen before. They seemed almost as powerful as the stationary plasma cannons the Jackals used. The Master Chief sprang to his feet and charged back into the chamber. If the aliens’ weapons were similar to Covenant plasma guns, they would need to be recharged. He
hoped the Spartans had enough time to take those things out.
The Master Chief still felt the fear—it was stronger than it had been before . . . but his team was still in there. He had to take care of them first before he could indulge in the luxury of feelings. Kelly and Fred circled the creatu
res, their silenced weapons firing quick bursts. They ran out of
ammunition and switched clips. This wasn’t working. They couldn’t take them out. Maybe a Jackhammer missile at point-blank range would penetrate their armor.
The Master Chief’s gaze was drawn to the center of the room. He stared for a moment at the monolith of
pink quartz. Over the COM channel he ordered, “Switch to shredder rounds.” He changed ammunition and then opened fire—at the floor underneath the enormous creatures’ feet.
Kelly and Fred changed rounds and fired, too. Marble tiles shattered and the wood underneath splintered into toothpicks. One of the creatures raised its arm again, preparing to fire. “Keep shooting,” John yelled. The floor creaked, buckled, and then fell away; the two massive aliens plunged into the basement below. “Quick,” the Master Chief said. He slung his rifle and moved to the back of the quartz monolith. “Push!” Kelly and Fred leaned their weight against the stone and grunted with effort. The slab moved a tiny bit. James sprinted forward, slammed into the stone, put his shoulder alongside theirs . . . andpushed . His
left arm had been burned away from the elbow down, but he didn’t even whimper.
The monolith moved; it inched toward the hole . . . then tilted and went over. It landed with a dull thud and a crunching noise. The Master Chief peered over the edge. He saw an armored left leg, and on the other side of the stone
slab, an arm struggling underneath. The things were still alive. Their motions slowed, but they didn’t cease. The red case was balanced precariously on the edge the hole. It teetered—no way to reach it in time. He turned to Kelly—the fastest Spartan—and yelled: “Grab it!” The box fell—
—and Kelly leaped. In a single bound, she caught the rock as the case dropped, she tucked, rolled, and got to her feet, the rock safely held in one hand. She handed it to the Master Chief.
The rock was a piece of granite and glittered with a few jewel-like inclusions. What was as so special about it? He stuffed it into his ammunition sack and then kicked over the Covenant transmission beacon. Outside, the Master Chief heard the clattering and squawking of the army of Jackals and Grunts.
“Let’s get out of here, Spartans.” He threw his arm around James and helped him along. They ran into the basement, making sure to give the pinned giants under the stone a wide berth, then jumped through the storm drain and into the sewers.
They jogged thought the muck and didn’t stop until they had cleared the drain system and emerged in the rice paddies on the edge of Côte d’Azur.
Fred rigged the ground-return relay to the pipes overhead and ran a crude antenna outside. The Master Chief looked back at the city. Banshee fliers circled through the skyscrapers. Spotlights from the hovering Covenant transport ships bathed the streets in blue illumination. The Grunts were going crazy; their barks and screams rose to an impenetrable din.
The Spartans moved toward the coast and followed the tree line south. James collapsed twice along the way and then finally slipped into unconsciousness. The Master Chief slung him over him shoulder and carried him.
They paused and hid when they heard a patrol of a dozen Grunts. The aliens ran past them—they either
didn’t see the Spartans, or they didn’t care. The animals sprinted as fast as they could back to the city. When they were a click away from the rendezvous point, the Master Chief opened the COM link. “Green Team Leader, we’re on your perimeter, and coming in. Signaling with blue smoke.”
“Ready and waiting for you, sir,”Linda replied.“Welcome back.” The Master Chief set off one of his smoke grenades and they marched into the clearing. The Pelican was intact. Corporal Harland and his Marines stood post, and the rescued civilians were
safely inside the ship. Blue and Red Teams were hidden in the nearby brush and trees. Linda approached them. She motioned for her team to take James and get him onto the Pelican. “Sir,”
she said. “All civilians on board and ready for liftoff.”
The Master Chief wanted to relax, sit down, and close his eyes. But this was often the most dangerous part of any mission . . . those last few steps when you might let down your guard. “Good. Take one more look around the perimeter. Let’s make double sure nothing followed us back.”
“Yes, sir.” Corporal Harland approached and saluted. “Sir? How did you do it? Those civilians said you got them out of the city—past an army of Covenant, sir. How?”
John cocked his head quizzically. “It was our mission, Corporal,” he said. The Corporal stared at him and then at the other Spartans. “Yes, sir.” When Green Team Leader reported that the perimeter was clear, the last of the Spartans boarded the
Pelican. James had regained consciousness. Someone had removed his helmet and propped his head on a folded survival blanket. His eyes watered from the pain, but he managed to salute the Master Chief with his left
hand. John gestured at Kelly; she administered a dose of painkiller, and James lapsed into unconsciousness. The Pelican lifted into the air. In the distance, the suns were warming the horizon, and Côte d’Azur was
outlined against the dawn. The dropship suddenly accelerated at full speed straight up, and then angled away to the south. “Sir,”the pilot said over the COM channel.“We’re getting multiple incoming radar contacts . . . about
two hundred Banshees inbound.”
“We’ll take care of it, Lieutenant,” John replied. “Prepare for EMP and shock wave.” The Master Chief activated his remote radio transceiver. He quickly keyed in the final fail-safe code, then sent the coded burst transmission on its way. A third sun appeared on the horizon. It blotted out the light of the system’s stars, then cooled—from
amber to red—and darkened the sky with black clouds of dust. “Mission accomplished,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
0500 Hours, July 18, 2552 (Military Calendar) / UNSCIroquois , military staging area in orbit around Sigma Octanus IV
Captain Keyes leaned against the brass railing on the bridge of theIroquois and surveyed the devastation. The space near Sigma Octanus IV was littered with debris: the dead hulks of Covenant and UNSC ships spun lazily in the vacuum, surrounded by clouds of wreckage: jagged pieces of decimated armor plate, shattered single-ship fuselages, and heat-blackened metal fragments created a million radar targets. The debris field would clutter this system and make for a navigational hazard for the next decade.
They had recovered nearly all the bodies from space.
Captain Keyes’ gaze caught the remnants of theCradle as the blasted space dock spun past. The kilometer-wide plate was now safely locked in a high orbit around the planet. She was slowly being torn apart from her own rotation; girders and metal plates warped and bent as the gravitational stresses on the ship increased.
The Covenant plasma weapons had burned through ten decks of super-hard metal and armor like so many layers of tissue paper. Thirty volunteers on the repair station had died piloting the unwieldy craft.
Admiral Stanforth had gotten his “win” . . . but at a tremendous cost.
Keyes brought up the casualty figures and damage estimates on his data pad. He scowled as the data scrolled across his screen.
The UNSC had lost more than twenty ships, and those that survived had all suffered heavy damage; most would require months of time-consuming repair at a shipyard. Nearly one thousand people were killed in the battle, and hundreds more were wounded, many critically. Add to that the sixteen hundred Marine casualties on the surface—and the three hundred thousand civilians murdered in Côte d’Azur at the hands of the Covenant.
Some “win,” Keyes thought bitterly.
Côte d’Azur was now a smoldering crater—but Sigma Octanus IV was still a human-held world. They had saved everyone else on the planet, nearly thirteen million souls. So perhaps it had been worth it.
So many lives and deaths had been measured in this battle. Had the balance of the odds tipped slightly against them—everything could have been lost
. That was something he had never taught any of his students at the Academy—how much victory depended on luck as well as skill.
Captain Keyes saw the last of the Marine dropships returning from the planet surface. They docked with theLeviathan , and then the huge carrier turned and accelerated out of the system.
“Sensor sweep complete,” Lieutenant Dominique reported. “I think that was the last of the lifeboats we picked up, sir.”
“Let’s make certain, Lieutenant,” Keyes replied. “One more pass through the system please. Ensign Lovell, plot a course and take us around again.”
“Yes, sir,” Lovell wearily replied.
The bridge crew was exhausted, physically and emotionally. They had all pulled extended shifts as they searched for survivors. Captain Keyes would rotate shifts after this next pass.
As he looked at this crew he noticed that something was different. Lieutenant Hikowa’s movements were crisp and determined, as if everything she did now would decide their next battle; it made a startling contrast to her normally lethargic efficiency. Lieutenant Hall’s false exuberance had been replaced by genuine confidence. Dominique almost seemed happy—his hands lightly typing a report to FLEET- COM. Even Ensign Lovell, despite his exhaustion, stepped lively.
Maybe Admiral Stanforth was right. Maybe the fleet needed this win more than he had realized.
They had beaten the Covenant. Although not widely known, there had been only three small engagements in which the UNSC fleet had decisively defeated the Covenant. And not since Admiral Cole had retaken Harvest colony had there been an engagement on this scale. A complete victory—a world saved.
It would show everyone that winning was possible, that there was hope.
But, he mused, was there really? They won because they had gotten lucky—and had twice as many ships as the Covenant. And, he suspected, they had beaten the Covenant because the Covenant’s real objective hadn’t been to win.