by Eric Nylund
Again, a series of squares, triangles, bars and dots appeared on the view screen—symbols that again reminded John of Aztec writing.
Déjà had taught the Spartans about the Aztecs—how Cortés with superior tactics and technology had nearly obliterated an entire race. Was the same thing happening between the Covenant and humans?
“Now, then,” the first male voice interjected, “this business with the detonation of a HAVOK tactical nuclear device . . . do you realize that any additional evidence of Covenant activity on Côte d’Azur has been effectively erased? Do you know what opportunities have been lost, soldier?”
“I had extremely specific orders, sir,” the Master Chief said without hesitating. “Orders that came directly from NavSpecWep, Section Three.”
“Section Three,” the woman muttered, “which is ONI . . . it figures.”
The old man in the darkness chuckled. The faint glow of a cigar tip flared near his voice, then faded. “Are you insinuating, Master Chief,” the older man said, “that the destruction of all this ‘evidence,’ as my colleges would call it, happened becausethey ordered it?”
There was no good answer to that question. Whatever the Master Chief said was sure to irritate someone here.
“No, sir. I am simply stating that the destruction—of anything, including any ‘evidence’—is a direct result of the detonation of a nuclear weapon. In full compliance with my orders. Sir.”
The first man whispered, “Jesus . . . what do you expect from one of Dr. Halsey’s windup toy soldiers?” “That’s quite enough, Colonel!” the older man snapped. “This man has earned the right to some courtesy . . . even from you.”
The older man lowered his voice. “Master Chief, thank you. We’re finished here, I think. We may wish to recall you later . . . but for now, you are dismissed. You are to treat all information you have heard or seen at this debriefing as classified.”
“Yes, sir!” The Master Chief saluted, spun on his heel, and marched to the exit. The double doors opened and then sealed behind him. He exhaled. It felt like he was being evac’d from
the battlefield. He reminded himself that these last few steps were often the most dangerous. “I hope they treated you well . . . or at least decently.” Dr. Halsey sat in an overstuffed chair. She wore a long gray skirt that matched her hair. She rose and
took his hand and gave it a small squeeze. The Master Chief snapped to attention. “Ma’am, a pleasure to see you again.” “How are you, Master Chief?” she asked. She stared pointedly at the hand pressed to his forehead in a
tight salute. Slowly, he dropped his hand. She smiled. Unlike everyone else, who greeted the Master Chief and stared at his uniform, medals,
ribbons, or the Spartan insignia, Dr. Halsey stared into his eyes. And she never saluted. John had never gotten used to that. “I’m fine, ma’am,” he said. “We won at Sigma Octanus. It was good to have a complete victory.” “Indeed it was.” She paused and glanced about. “How would you like to have another victory?” she
whispered. “The biggest we’ve ever had?” “Of course, ma’am,” he said with no hesitation. “I was counting on you to say that, Master Chief. We’ll be speaking soon.” She turned to the Military
Police attendant waiting at the entrance to the lounge. “Open these damn doors, soldier. Let’s get this over with.” “Yes, ma’am,” the MP said.
The doors swung inward. She stopped and said to the Master Chief, “I’ll be speaking to you and the other Spartans, soon.” She then entered the darkened chamber and the doors sealed behind her.
The Master Chief forgot about the debriefing and Captain Keyes’ puzzling question about not winning.
If Dr. Halsey had a mission for him and his team, it would be a good one. She had given him everything: duty, honor, purpose, and a destiny to protect humanity. John hoped she would give him one more thing: a way to win the war.
SECTION IV
MJOLNIR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
0915 Hours, August 25, 2552 (Military Calendar) / Epsilon Eridani System, Reach UNSC Military Complex, planet Reach, Omega Wing—Section Three secure facility
“Good morning, Dr. Halsey,” Déjà said. “You’re fourteen point three minutes late this morning.”
“Blame security, Déjà,” Dr. Halsey replied, gesturing absently at the AI’s holographic projection floating above her desk. “ONI’s precautions here are becoming increasingly ridiculous.”
Dr. Halsey threw her coat over the back of an antique armchair before settling behind her desk. She sighed, and for the thousandth time, wished she had a window.
The private office was located deep underground, inside the “Omega Wing” of the super-secure ONI facility, codenamed simply CASTLE.
Castle was a massive complex, two thousand meters below the granite protection of the Highland Mountains—bombproof, well defended, and impenetrable.
The security had its drawbacks, she was forced to admit. Every morning she descended into the secret labyrinth, passed through a dozen security checkpoints, and submitted to a barrage of retina, voice, fingerprint, and brainwave ID scans.
ONI had buried her here years ago when her funding had been shunted to higher profile projects. All other personnel had been transferred to other operations, and her access to classified materials had been severely restricted. Even shadowy ONI was squeamish about her experiments.
That’s all changed—thanks to the Covenant, she thought. The SPARTAN project—unpopular with the Admiralty, and the scientific community—had proven most effective. Her Spartans had proven themselves time after time in countless ground engagements.
When the Spartans started racking up successes, the Admiralty’s reticence vanished. Her meager budget had mushroomed overnight. They had offered her a corner office in the prestigious Olympic Tower at FLEETCOM HQ.
She had, of course, declined. Now the brass and VIPs that wanted to see her had to spend half the day just getting through the security barriers to her lair. She relished the irony—her banishment had become a bureaucratic weapon.
But none of that really mattered. It was just a means to an end for Dr. Halsey . . . a means to getting Project MJOLNIR back on track.
She reached for her coffee cup and knocked a stack of papers off her desk. They fell, scattered onto the floor, and she didn’t bother to retrieve them. She examined the mud-brown dregs in the bottom of the mug; it was several days old.
The office of the most important scientist in the military was not the antiseptic clean-room environment most people expected. Classified files and papers littered the floor. The holographic projector overhead painted the ceiling with a field of stars. Rich maple paneling covered the walls and hanging there were framed photographs of her SPARTAN IIs, receiving awards, and the plethora of articles about them that appeared when the Admiralty had made the project public three years ago.
They had been called the UNSC’s “super soldiers.” The military brass had assured her that the boost to morale was worth the compromised security.
At first she had protested. But ironically, the publicity had proved convenient. With all the attention on the Spartans’ heroics, no one had thought to question their true purpose—or their origin. If the truth ever came to light—abducted children, replaced by fast-grown clones; the risky, experimental surgeries and biochemical augmentations—public opinion would turn against the SPARTAN project overnight.
The recent events at Sigma Octanus had given the Spartans and MJOLNIR the final push it needed to enter its final operational phase.
She slipped on her glasses and called up the files from yesterday’s debriefing; the ONI computer system once again confirmed her retinal scan and voiceprint.
IDENTITY CONFIRMED. UNAUTHORIZED ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE UNIT DETECTED. ACCESS DENIED.
Damn. ONI grew more paranoid by the day.
“Déjà,” she said with a frustrated sigh. “The spooks are nervous. I need to power you down, or ONI won’t give me ac
cess to the files.”
“Of course, Doctor,” Déjà replied calmly.
Halsey keyed the power-down sequence on her desktop terminal, sending Déjà into standby mode. This, she thought, is Ackerson’s work, the bastard. She had fought tooth and nail to keep Déjà free from the programming shackles ONI demanded . . . and this was their petty revenge.
She scowled impatiently until the computer system finally spit out the data she’d requested. The tiny projectors in the frames of her glasses beamed the data directly to her retina.
Her eyes darted back and forth rapidly, as if she had entered REM sleep, as she scanned the documentation from the debriefing. Finally she removed her glasses and tossed them carelessly on the desk, a sardonic smirk on her face.
The overarching conclusion of the finest military experts on the debriefing committee: ONI didn’t have a clue as to what the Covenant were doing on Sigma Octanus IV.
They had learned only four solid facts from the entire operation. First, the Covenant had gone to considerable trouble to obtain a single mineral specimen. Second, the pattern of inclusions in that igneous rock sample matched the signal that had been sent—and intercepted by theIroquois . Third, the low entropy of the pattern indicated that it was not random. And fourth, and most important, UNSC translation software couldn’t match this pattern to any known Covenant dialect.
Her personal conclusions? Either the alien artifact was from a precursor to the present Covenant society . . . or it was from another, as yet undiscovered, alien culture.
When she had dropped that little bombshell of a speculation in the debriefing room yesterday, the ONI specialists had gone scrambling for cover. Especially that arrogant ass, Colonel Ackerson, she thought with a cruel smile.
The brass was not happy with either possibility. If it was old Covenant technology, it indicated they still knew virtually nothing about the Covenant culture. Twenty years of intensive study and trillions of dollars of research and they barely even understood the alien’s caste system.
And if it was the latter possibility, an artifact of another alien race . . . that could be even more problematic. Colonel Ackerson and some of the brass had immediately considered the logistics of fighting two alien enemies at once. Utterly ridiculous. They couldn’t even fight one. The UNSC could never hope to survive a war on two fronts.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. Despite the grim conclusions, there was a silver lining in all this.
After the meeting, a new mandate had become the official secret policy of Fleet Command’s Special Operations Command—the parent organization for Naval Special Warfare, the Spartans’ service branch. ONI had new marching orders: to step up funding of Intel and reconnaissance missions by an order of magnitude. Small stealth ships were to be deployed to search remote systems and find where the Covenant were based.
And Dr. Halsey had finally received the green light to unleash MJOLNIR. She had mixed feelings about it. The truth be told, she always had. It would be the culmination of her life’s greatest work. She knew the risks—like spinning a roulette
wheel, it was long odds, but the payoff was potentially huge. It meant victory against the Covenant . . . or the death of all her Spartans. The holographic crystals overhead warmed and Cortana appeared, sitting cross-legged on Dr. Halsey’s
desk—actually she sat hovering a centimeter off the table’s edge. Cortana was slender. The hue of her skin varied from navy blue to lavender, depending on her mood and the ambient lighting. Her “hair” was cropped short. Her face had a hard angular beauty. Lines of code
flickered up and down her luminous body. And if Dr. Halsey viewed her from the right angle, she could catch a glimpse of the skeletal structure inside her ghostly form. “Good morning, Dr. Halsey,” Cortana said. “I’ve read the committee’s report—” “—which was classified as Top Secret, Eyes Only.” “Hmm . . . ” Cortana mused. “I must have overlooked that.” She hopped off the desk and circled around
Dr. Halsey once. Cortana had been programmed with ONI’s best insurgency software, as well as the determination to use
those code-cracking skills. While this had been necessary for her mission, when she grew bored, she caused chaos with ONI’s own security measures . . . and she often grew bored. “I assume you have examined the classified data brought back from Sigma Octanus Four?” Halsey asked. “I might have seen that somewhere,” Cortana said matter-of-factly. “Your analysis and conclusions?” “There is much more evidence to consider than the data in the committee’s files.” She looked off into
space as if reading something.
“Oh?”
“Forty years ago a geological survey team on Sigma Octanus Four found several igneous rocks with similar—though not identical—anomalous compositions. UNSC geologists believe that these samples were introduced onto the planet via meteorite impacts—they typically are found in long-eroded impact craters on the planet surface. Isotopic dating of the site place those impact craters at present minus sixty thousand years—” Cortana paused as a hint of a smile played across her holographic features. “—though that figure may be inaccurate due to human error, of course.”
“Of course,” Dr. Halsey replied dryly.
“I have also, um . . . coordinated with UNSC’s astrophysics department and discovered some interesting bits archived in their long-range observational databases. There is a black hole located approximately forty thousand light-years from the Sigma Octanus System. An extremely powerful pulse-laser transmission back-scattered the matter in the accretion disk—essentially trapped this signal as this matter accelerated toward the speed of light. From our perspective, according to special relativity, this essentially froze the residue of this information on the event horizon.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Dr. Halsey said.
“This ‘frozen signal’ contains information that matches the sample from Sigma Octanus Four.” Cortana sighed and her shoulders slumped. “Unfortunately, all my attempts at translating the code have failed . . . so far.”
“Your conclusions, Cortana?” Dr. Halsey reminded her.
“Insufficient data for complete analysis, Doctor.”
“Hypothesize.”
Cortana bit her lower lip. “There are two possibilities. The data originates from the Covenant or another alien race.” She frowned. “If it’s another alien species, the Covenant probably wants these artifacts to scavenge their technology. Either conclusion opens several new opportunities for the NavSpecWep—”
“I am aware of that,” Dr. Halsey said, raising her hand. If she allowed the AI to continue, Cortana would talk all day. “One of those opportunities is Project MJOLNIR.”
Cortana spun around and her eyes widened. “They approved the final phase?”
“Is it possible, Cortana,” Dr. Halsey replied, amused, “that I know something you don’t?”
Cortana wrinkled her brow in frustration, then smoothed her features to their normal placid state. “I suppose that is a remote possibility. If you’d like, I can calculate those odds.”
“No, thank you, Cortana,” Halsey replied.
Cortana reminded Dr. Halsey of herself when she had been an adolescent: smarter than her parents, always reading, talking, learning, and eager to share her knowledge with anyone who would listen.
Of course, there was a very good reason why Cortana reminded Dr. Halsey of herself.
Cortana was a “smart” AI, an advanced artificial construct. Actually, the termssmart anddumb as applied to AIs, were misleading; all AIs were extraordinarily intelligent. But Cortana was special.
So-called dumb AIs were engineered to function only were misleading; within set limits of their dynamic memory-processing matrix. They were brilliant within their fields of expertise, but were lacking in “creativity.” Déjà, for example, was a “dumb” AI—incredibly useful, but limited.
Smart AIs like Cortana, however, had no limits on their dynamic memory-processor matrix. Knowledge and creativity cou
ld grow unchecked.
She would pay a price for her genius, however. Such growth eventually led to self-interference. Cortana would one day literally start thinking too much at the expense of her normal functions. It was as if a human were to think with so much of his brain that he stopped sending impulses to his heart and lungs.
Like all the other smart AIs that Dr. Halsey had worked with over the years, Cortana would effectively “die” after an operational life of seven years.
But Cortana’s mind was unique among all the other AIs Dr. Halsey had encountered. An AI’s matrix was created by sending electrical bursts through the neural pathways of a human brain. Those pathways were then replicated in a superconducting nano-assemblage. The technique destroyed the original human tissue, so they could only be obtained from a suitable candidate that had already died. Cortana, however, had to have the best mind available. The success of her mission and the lives of the Spartans would depend on it.
At Dr. Halsey’s insistence, ONI had arranged to have her own brain carefully cloned and her memories flash-transferred to the receptacle organs. Only one of the twenty cloned brains survived the process. Cortana had literally sprung from Dr. Halsey’s mind, like Athena from the head of Zeus.
So, in a way, Cortanawas Dr. Halsey.
Cortana straightened, her face eager. “When does the MJOLNIR armor become fully operational. When do I go?”
“Soon. There are a few final modifications that need to be made in the systems.”
Cortana leaped to her “feet,” turned her back to Dr. Halsey, and examined the photographs on the wall. She brushed her fingertips over the glass surfaces. “Which one will be mine?”
“Which one do you want?”
She immediately gravitated to the picture in the center of Dr. Halsey’s collection. It showed a handsome man standing at attention as Admiral Stanforth pinned the UNSC Legion of Honor upon his chest—a chest that already overflowed with citations.