by Eric Nylund
Naval Intelligence officers had come aboard theIroquois immediately after the battle. They congratulated Captain Keyes on his performance . . . and then copied and purged every single bit of data they had intercepted from the Covenant planetside transmission.
Of course, the ONI spooks left without offering any explanation.
Keyes toyed with his pipe, replaying the battle in his mind. No. The Covenant had lost because they were really after something else on Sigma Octanus IV—and the intercepted message was the key.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Dominique said. “Incoming orders from FLEETCOM.”
“Put it through to my station, Lieutenant,” Captain Keyes said as he sat in his command chair. The computer scanned his retina and fingerprints and then decoded the message. He read on the small monitor:
United Nations Space Command Priority Transmission 09872H-98
Encryption Code:Red
Public Key:file /lightning-matrix-four/
From:Admiral Michael Stanforth, Commanding Officer, UNSCLeviathan / USNC Sector Three
Commander/ (UNSC Service Number: 00834-19223-HS)
To:Captain Jacob Keyes, Commanding officer UNSCIroquois / (UNSC Service Number: 01928-19912
JK)
Subject:ORDERS FOR YOUR IMMEDIATE CONSIDERATION
Classification:SECRET (BGX Directive)
/start file/
Keyes,
Drop whatever you’re doing and head back to the barn. We’re both wanted for immediate debriefing by
ONI at REACH Headquarters ASAP. Looks like the spooks at Naval Intelligence are up to their normal cloak-and-dagger tricks. Cigars and brandy afterward. Regards, Stanforth “Very well,” he muttered to himself. “Lieutenant Dominique: send Admiral Stanforth my compliments.
Ensign Lovell, generate a randomized vector as per the Cole Protocol, and make ready to leave system. Take us out for an hour in Slipstream space, then we’ll reorient and proceed to the REACH Military Instillation.”
“Aye, sir. Randomized jump vector ready—our tracks are covered.”
“Lieutenant Hall: start organizing shore leave for the crew. We’re heading back for repairs and some well-deserved R and R.”
“Amen to that,” Ensign Lovell said.
That wasn’t technically in his orders, but Captain Keyes would make sure his crew got the rest they deserved. That was the least he could do for them.
TheIroquois slowly accelerated on an out-system vector.
Captain Keyes took one long last look at Sigma Octanus IV. The battle was over . . . so why did he feel like he was headed into another fight?
TheIroquois plowed through a haze of titanium dust—condensed from a UNSC battleplate vaporized by Covenant plasma. The fine particles caught the light from Sigma Octanus and sparkled red and orange, making it look like the destroyer sailed through an ocean of blood.
When there was time, a HazMat team would sweep the area and clean up. In the meantime, junk— ranging in size from microscopic up to thirty-meter sections ofCradle —still drifted in the system.
One piece of debris in particular floated near theIroquois .
It was small, almost indistinguishable from any of a thousand other softball-sized blobs that cluttered radar scopes and polluted thermal sensors.
If anyone had been looking close enough, however, they would have seen that this particular piece of metal drifted in the opposite direction from all the other masses nearby. It trailed behind the acceleratingIroquois . . . and edged closer, moving with purpose.
When it was close enough, it extended tiny electromagnets that guided it to the baffles at the base of theIroquois ’ number-three engine shield. It blended in perfectly with the other vanadium steel components.
The object opened a single photo eye and gazed at the stars, collecting data to reference its current position. It would continue to do this for several days. During that time it would slowly build up a charge. When it reached critical energy, a tiny sliver of thallium nitride memory crystal would be ejected at nearly the speed of light, and a minute Slipstream field would generate around it. If its trajectory was perfect, it would intercept a Covenant receiver located at precise coordinates in the alternate space.
. . . and the tiny automated probe would reveal to the Covenant every place theIroquois had been.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
1100 Hours, August 12, 2552 (Military Calendar) / Epsilon Eridani System, Reach UNSC Military Complex, planet Reach, Camp Hathcock
The Master Chief steered the Warthog to the fortified gate and ignored the barrel of the chain-gun that was not quite pointed in his direction. The guard on duty, a Marine Corporal, saluted smartly when John handed over his identification card.
“Sir! Welcome to Camp Hathcock,” the Corporal said. “Follow this road to the inner guardpost and present your credentials there. They’ll direct you to the main compound.”
John nodded. The Warthog’s tires crunched on gravel as the massive metal gate swung open.
Nestled in the Highland Mountains of Reach’s northern continent, Camp Hathcock was a top-level retreat; heads of state, VIPs, and top brass were the facility’s normal occupants—these and a division of veteran, battle-hardened Marines.
“Sir, please follow the Blue Road to this point here,” the Corporal at the inner gate instructed, gesturing at a point on a wall-mounted map, “and park in the Visitors’ Parking area.”
Minutes later, the main facility was in sight. John parked the Warthog and strode across the pleasantly familiar compound. He and the other Spartans had covertly made their way up here during their training. John suppressed a smile as he remembered how many times the young Spartans had commandeered food and supplies from the base. He inhaled deeply, smelling piñon pines and sage. He missed this place. He had been away from REACH for far too long.
Reach was one of the few places that John considered “safe” from the Covenant. There were a hundred ships and twenty Mark V MAC guns on the orbital stations overhead. Those guns were powered by fusion generators, buried deep within REACH. Each Mark V could propel a projectile so massive, and with such velocity, he doubted if even Covenant shields could withstand a single salvo from them.
His home would not fall.
Tall fences and razor wire encircled the inner compound of Camp Hathcock. The Master Chief stopped at the inner gate and saluted the MP there.
The Marine MP looked over the Master Chief in his dress uniform. He snapped to attention—his mouth dropped open and he stared unblinkingly. “They’re waiting for you, Master Chief, sir. Please go right on in.”
The guard’s reaction to the Master Chief—and the medals on his chest—was not uncommon.
First word of the Spartans and their accomplishments had spread despite the cloak of secrecy ONI had tried to surround them with. Three years ago the information had gone public at Admiral Stanforth’s insistence—for morale purposes.
It was hard to mistake the Master Chief for anything other than a Spartan. He stood just over two meters tall and weighed in at 130 kilos of rock-hard muscle and iron-dense bone.
There was a special insignia on his uniformed as well: a golden eagle poised with its talons forward— ready to strike. The bird clutched a lightning bolt in one talon and three arrows in the other.
The Spartan insignia was not the only thing about his dress uniform that called attention to him. Campaign ribbons and medals covered the left side. Chief Mendez would have been proud of him, but John had long ago stopped keeping track of the honors that had been heaped upon him.
He didn’t like the flashy ornamentation. He and the other Spartans preferred to be inside their MJOLNIR armor. Without it, he felt exposed somehow, like he’d left his quarters without his skin. He had grown used to the enhanced speed and strength, to his thought and actions melding instantaneously.
The Master Chief marched into the main building. Outwardly, it had been designed to look like a simple log cabin, albeit a large one. Its inner walls were
lined with Titanium-A armor plate, and underground were bunkers and plush conference rooms that extended a hundred meters below the earth and into the mountain of rock.
He rode the elevator to Subbasement III. There, he was instructed by the Military Police attendant to wait in the debriefing lounge for the committee to summon him.
Corporal Harland sat in the lounge, reading a copy ofSTARS magazine, nervously tapping his foot. He immediately stood and saluted as the Master Chief entered the room.
“At ease, Corporal,” the Master Chief said. He glanced disapprovingly at the thickly padded couches and decided to stand.
The Corporal stared at the Master Chief’s uniform, nervous. Finally he straightened and said, “May I ask you a question, sir?”
The Master Chief nodded.
“How do you get to be a Spartan? I mean—” His gaze fell to the floor. “I mean, if someone wanted to join your outfit. How would they do that?”
Join? The Master Chief pondered the word. How hadhe joined? Dr. Halsey had picked him and the other Spartans twenty-five years ago. It had been an honor . . . but he had never actuallyjoined . In fact, he had never seen any other Spartans other than his class. Once, shortly after he’d “graduated” from the training, he had overheard Dr. Halsey mention that Chief Mendez was training another group of Spartans. He had never seen them—or the Chief.
“You don’t join,” he finally told the Corporal. “You are selected.”
“I see,” Corporal Harland said, and wrinkled his brow. “Well, sir, if anyone ever asks, tell them to sign me up.”
The Military Police attendant appeared. “Corporal Harland? They’re ready for you now.” A set of double doors opened on the far wall. Harland gave John another salute, and nodded.
As the Corporal got up and strode toward the doors, he passed an older man on his way out. He wore the uniform of a UNSC Naval officer, a Captain. John sized the man up quickly—polished shoulder insignia, new material. The man was a newly ordained Captain.
John stood at attention and snapped a precision salute. “Officer on the deck,” John barked.
The Captain paused, and looked John up and down. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he returned the salute. “As you were, Master Chief.”
John stood at ease. The Captain’s name—Keyes, J.—was embroidered on the dress-gray tunic. John recognized the name immediately: Captain Keyes, the hero of Sigma Octanus.At least, he thought,one of the surviving heroes.
Keyes glanced at the Master Chief’s uniform. His eyes lingered on the Spartan insignia, and then on the Master Chief’s serial-number tag just under the stripes of his rank emblem. A faint smile appeared on the Captain’s face. “It’s good to see you again, Chief.”
“Sir?” The Master Chief had never met Captain Keyes. He had heard of his tactical brilliance at Sigma Octanus, but he had never met the man face-to-face.
“We met a very long time ago. Dr. Halsey and I—” He stopped. “Hell. I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
“Of course, sir. I understand.”
The Military Police attendant appeared in the hallway. “Captain Keyes, you’re wanted topside by Admiral Stanforth.”
The Captain nodded to the attendant. “In a moment,” he said. He stepped closer to the Master Chief and whispered, “Be careful in there. The ONI brass are—” He searched for the right word. “—irritated by the end results of our encounter with the Covenant at Sigma Octanus. I’d keep my head down in there.” He glanced back toward the debriefing-chamber doors.
“Irritated, sir?” John asked, genuinely puzzled. He would have thought the UNSC top brass would be elated by the victory, despite its cost. “But we won.”
Captain Keyes took a step back and cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “Didn’t Dr. Halsey ever teach you that winning isn’t everything, Master Chief?” He saluted. “You’ll excuse me.”
John saluted. He was so confused by Captain Keyes’ statement that he kept saluting as the Captain walked out of the room.
Winningwas everything. How could someone with Captain Keyes’ reputation think otherwise?
The Master Chief tried to recall if he had ever read anything like that in any military history or philosophy texts. What else was there other than winning? The only other obvious choice was losing . . . and he had long been taught that defeat was an unacceptable alternative. Certainly, Captain Keyes didn’t mean that they should havelost at Sigma Octanus?
Unthinkable.
He stood silently for ten minutes mulling this over. Finally the Military Police attendant entered the waiting room. “They’re ready for you now, sir.”
The double doors opened and Corporal Harland came out. The young man’s eyes were glazed and he trembled slightly. He looked worse than he had looked when the Master Chief had found him on Sigma Octanus IV.
The Master Chief gave a curt nod to the Corporal and then entered the debriefing chamber. The doors closed behind him.
His eyes instantly adjusted to the dark room. A large, curved desk dominated the far end of the rectangular room. A domed ceiling curved over his head, cameras, microphone, and speakers positioned like constellations.
A spotlight snapped on and tracked the Master Chief as he approached the desk.
A dozen men and women in Navy uniforms sat in the shadows. Even with his enhanced eyesight, the Master Chief could barely make out their scowling features and the glistening brass oak leaves and stars through the glare of the overhead light.
He stood at attention and saluted. The debriefing panel ignored the Master Chief and spoke among themselves. “The transmission that Keyes intercepted only makes sense translated this way,” a man in the shadows
said. A holotank hummed into operation. Tiny geometric symbols danced in the air above it: squares, triangles, bars, and dots.
To the Master Chief, they looked like either Morse code or ancient Aztec hieroglyphics. “I will concede that point,” a woman’s voice in the darkness replied. “But translation software comes up empty. It’s not a new Covenant dialect that we’ve discovered.”
“Or a Covenant dialect at all,” someone else said. Finally one of the officers deigned to notice the Master Chief. “At ease, soldier,” he said. The Master Chief let his arm fall. “Spartan 117, reporting as ordered, sirs.” There was a pause, then the woman’s voice spoke up, “We would like to congratulate you on your
successful mission, Master Chief. You’ve certainly given us plenty to consider. We would like to pin
down a few details of your mission.” There was something in her voice that made John nervous. Not scared. But it was the same feeling he had going into combat. The same feeling he got when bullets started flying.
“Youdo know, Master Chief,” the first male voice said, “that not answering truthfully—or omitting any
relevant details will lead to a court-martial?” John bristled. As if he could ever forget his duty. “I will answer to the best of my abilities, sir,” he replied stiffly.
The holotank hummed again and images from a Spartan helmet recorder sprang into view. John noted the camera ID—it was his own. The images blurred forward, then stopped. A three-dimensional image of the floating creatures he had seen in Côte d’Azur hung in the air, motionless.
“Playback, loop bookmarks one through nine, please,” the woman’s voice called out.
Instantly, the holographic image animated—the alien quickly took apart and then reassembled a car’s
electric motor. “This creature,” she continued. “During the mission, did you see any other Covenant species—Grunts or Jackals—interact with them?”
“No, ma’am. As far as I could see, they were left alone.”
“And this one,” she said. The image changed to his firefight with the gigantic armored aliens. “At any time did you see these things interact with the other Covenant species?” “No, ma’am—” The Master Chief reconsidered. “Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. If you could
review the record
ing at time minus two minutes from this frame, please.” The holo paused and then blurred backward. “There,” he said. The video played forward as the Master Chief and Fred examined the crushed Jackal in
the museum. “That impression in this Jackal’s back,” he said. “I believe it is the armored alien’s bootprint.” “What do you mean, son?” a new man asked. His voice was older and rough. “I can only offer my opinion, sir. I am not a scientist.” “Offer it, Master Chief,” the same scratchy voice said. “I, for one, would be very interested to hear what
someone with firsthandexperience has to say . . . for a change.” There was a rustle of papers in the shadows, then silence. “Well, sir—it looks to me like this Jackal simply got in the larger creature’s way. There’s no attempt to
move it, and no deviation in the path of the following footfalls. It simply walked over the smaller alien.” “Evidence of a hierarchical caste structure perhaps?” the old man murmured. “Let’s move on,” the woman again spoke, her voice now laced with irritation. The holo image changed yet again. A stone object appeared—the rock the Master Chief recovered from
the museum.
“This stone,” she said, “is a typical igneous granite specimen but with an unusual concentration of aluminum oxide inclusions—specifically rubies. It is a match for the mineral specimens recovered from grid thirteen by twenty-four.
“Master Chief,” she said, “you recovered this rock—” She paused. “From an optical scanner. Is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. The aliens had placed the rock in a red metallic box. Visible spectrum lasers were scanning the specimen.”
“And the infrared pulse laser transmitter was hooked up to this scanner?” she asked. “You are certain?”
“Absolutely, ma’am. My thermal imagers caught a fraction of the transmission scattered by the ambient dust.”
The woman continued. “The rock sample is roughly pyramidal. The inclusions in the igneous matrix are unusual in that all possible crystalline morphologies for corundum are present: bipyramidal, prismatic, tabular, and rhombohedral. Scanning from the tip to the base with neutron imagers, we produce the following pattern.”