by Eric Nylund
And they were building. Hundreds of flimsy white dome-shaped tents were being erected, atmosphere pits for the methane-breathing Grunts. Farther back were the odd polyhedral huts of the Elite units, guarded by a long line of dozens of beetlelike Wraith tanks. Guard towers punctuated the valley; they spiraled up from mobile treaded bases, ten meters tall and topped with plasma turrets.
The rules had indeed changed. In more than a hundred battles Fred had never seen the Covenant set up encampments of such magnitude. All they did was kill.
Floating behind all this activity, almost brushing against the far hills, the Covenant cruiser sat thirty meters off the ground. It looked like a great bloated fish with stubby stabilizing fins. Its gravity lift was in operation, a tube of scintillating energy that moved matter to and from the ground. Stacks of purple crates gently floated down from the craft. In the afternoon light he could see its weapons bristling along its length, casting spiderlike shadows across its hull.
Their Banshees leveled out, and Fred dropped back to tighten his formation with Kelly and Joshua.
He glanced again at the enemy ship and the guard towers. One good hit from those weapons could take them out.
Fred saw other Banshee patrols circling the valley. He frowned. If they passed them, the enemy pilots would almost certainly demand to know their business…and there was no way of knowing what the established patrol routes were. That meant he’d have to take an alternate flight path: straight down the middle, and straight over the Covenant horde.
They’d only need one run to do this. They’d probably only get one run.
He activated a COM frequency. “Go.”
Kelly hit the acceleration and glided toward the cruiser. Fred fell in behind her. He armed the fuel rod gun built into the Banshee.
They were six kilometers from the cruiser when Kelly achieved the maximum speed of her flier. Grunts and Jackals in the fields below craned their necks as the Spartans flashed over them.
They had to go faster. Fred felt every Covenant eye watching them. He dived, trading his altitude for acceleration, and Joshua and Kelly did the same.
Communication symbols flashed across his Banshee’s windshield display. The UNSC software built into their armor worked only with some of the spoken Covenant languages—not their written words. Odd, curling characters scrolled across the Banshee’s displays.
Fred hit one of the response symbols.
There was a pause, the display cleared, and dozens more symbols flashed, twice as fast.
Fred clicked the display off.
Three kilometers to go, and his heart beat so hard he heard it thunder in his ears.
Kelly pulled slightly ahead of them. She was now thirty meters off the ground, gaining as much speed as she could, driving straight for the cruiser’s gravity lift.
The nearest guard tower tracked her; its plasma cannon flared and fired.
Kelly’s flier climbed and banked to evade the enemy fire. The bolt of superheated ionized gas brushed against her starboard fuselage. Energy spray melted the Banshee’s front faring, and her ship slowed.
A dozen plasma turrets turned to track them.
Fred banked and opened fire. Energy bursts from the Banshee’s primary weapon strafed the guard tower. Joshua did the same, and a river of fire streaked toward the towers.
Fred hit the firing stud for the Banshee’s heavy weapon, and a sphere of energy arced into the base of the tower. It began a gradual tilt, then collapsed.
Kelly hadn’t fired. Fred glanced her way and saw that she now stood in a low crouch atop her racing Banshee. She had one foot under the duct tape that had secured the nuke and now held the bomb in her hand, cocking it back to throw.
A shard of jagged crystal, a round from a Covenant needler, pinged off Fred’s port shield. He snapped a look below.
Covenant Grunts and Jackals boiled in agitation—a hundred badly aimed shots arced up after him; glistening clouds of crystalline needles and firefly plasma bolts swarmed through the air and chipped away at his Banshee’s fuselage.
Fred jinked his Banshee left and right, and dodged plasma bolts from the three guard towers tracking him. He lined up for a second strafing run, and the Banshee’s lighter energy weapons sent Grunts scattering.
A hundred meters to go.
Kelly leaned back, coiled her body, and readied to throw the nuclear device as if it were a shotput.
The Covenant cruiser came to life, and its weapons tracked the Banshees. A dozen fingers of plasma ripped the air; white-blue arcs of fire reached for them.
One bolt connected with Joshua’s vehicle. The Banshee’s improvised shields overloaded and vanished. The canards of the flier melted and bent. The alien flier lurched into a spin as its control surfaces warped, and Joshua fell behind Fred and Kelly just as they entered the gravity lift of the craft.
Fred keyed his COM to raise Joshua but got only static. Time seemed to slow inside the beam of purple light that ferried goods and troops to and from the belly of the ship. The strange glow surrounded them and made his skin tingle as if it were asleep.
Their Banshees rose toward an opening in the underside of the carrier. They weren’t riding into the ship, though; they were traveling too fast and would cross the beam before they were three quarters of the way to the top.
Fred snapped around. He didn’t see Joshua anywhere. Plasma beams hit the well and were deflected as if it were a giant glass lens.
Kelly hurled the nuke straight up into the gullet of the cruiser.
Fred wrenched the Banshee’s controls and arced the craft under the edge of the ship; Kelly was right behind him. The light vanished, and they emerged on the far side of the Covenant vessel.
Behind them, distorted through the gravity lift, Fred saw Covenant troops firing their weapons into the sky. He heard ten thousand voices screaming for blood.
Fred pinged Joshua on the COM, but his acknowledgment light remained dark.
He wanted to slow and turn back for him, but Kelly dived, accelerating toward the ground, and she entered the forest that carpeted the mountainside. Fred followed her. They were scant meters above the ground; they dodged trees and blasted through tangles of foliage. A handful of stray shots flashed overhead. They flew at top speed and didn’t look back.
They emerged from the tree line and over the powdered snow of the mountaintop. They arced over a granite ridge, came about, and throttled back. The Banshees drifted slowly to the ground.
The sky turned white. Fred’s faceplate polarized to its darkest setting. Thunder rolled though his body. Fire and molten metal blossomed over the ridge, boiled skyward, and rained back into the valley. The granite top of the intervening mountain shattered into dust and the snow on their side melted in muddy rivulets.
Fred’s visor slowly depolarized.
Kelly leaned across her Banshee. Blood oozed from her armor’s left shoulder joint. She fumbled for her helmet seal, caught it, and peeled it off her head. “Did we get ’em?” she panted. Blood foamed from the corner of her mouth.
“I think so,” Fred told her.
She looked around. “Joshua?”
Fred shook his head. “He got hit on the way in.”
It had been easy for him to fly into the face of certain death moments ago. Saying those words was a hundred times harder.
Kelly slumped and dropped her head back against her Banshee.
“Stay here, I’m going up to take a look.” Fred powered up his Banshee and rose parallel with the ridgeline. He nudged the craft up a little farther and got his first look into the valley.
It was a sea of flame. Hundreds of fires dotted the cracked, glassy ground. Where the Big Horn River had snaked along, there was now only a long steaming furrow. There was no trace of the cruiser or the Covenant troops that had filled the valley moments ago. All that remained was a field of smoldering, twisted bone and metal. At the edge of this carnage stood blackened sticks—the remnants of the forest—all leaning away from the center of the exp
losion.
Ten thousand Covenant deaths. It wasn’t worth losing Joshua or any of the other Spartans, but it was something. Perhaps they had bought enough time for the orbital MAC guns to tip the battle overhead in the Fleet’s favor. Maybe their sacrifices would save Reach. That would be worth it.
He looked up into the sky. The steam made it difficult to see anything, but there was motion overhead: Faint shadows glided over the clouds.
Kelly’s Banshee appeared alongside his, and their canards bumped.
The shadows overhead sharpened; three Covenant cruisers broke through the clouds and drifted toward the generator complex. Their plasma artillery flickered and glowed with energy.
Fred snapped open his COM channel and boosted the signal strength to its maximum. “Delta Team: Fall back. Fall back now!”
Static hissed over the channel, and several voices overlapped. He heard one of his Spartans—he couldn’t tell who—break through the static.
“Reactor complex seven has been compromised. We’re falling back. Might be able to save number three.” There was a pause as the speaker shouted orders to someone else: “Set off those charges now!”
Fred switched to FLEETCOM and broadcast: “Be advised, Pillar of Autumn, groundside reactors are being taken. Orbital guns at risk. Nothing we can do. Too many. We’ll have to use the nukes. Be advised, orbital MAC guns will most likely be neutralized. Pillar of Autumn, do you read? Acknowledge.”
More voices crowded the channel, and Fred thought he heard Admiral Whitcomb’s voice, but whatever orders he issued were incomprehensible. Then there was only static, and then the COM went dead.
The cruisers fired salvos of plasma that burned the sky. Distant explosions thumped, and Fred strained to see if there was any return fire—any sign that his Spartans were fighting or retreating. Their only hope was movement; the enemy firepower would shred a fixed position.
“Fall back,” he hissed. “Now, damn it.”
Kelly tapped him on the shoulder and pointed up.
The clouds parted like a curtain drawn as a fireball a hundred meters across roared over their position. He saw the faint outlines of dozens of Covenant battleships in low orbit.
“Plasma bombardment,” Fred whispered.
He’d seen this before. They all had. When the Covenant conquered a human world they fired their main plasma batteries at the planet—fired until its oceans boiled and nothing was left but a globe of broken glass.
“That’s it,” Kelly murmured. “We’ve lost. Reach is going to fall.”
Fred watched as the plasma impacted upon the horizon and the sky turned white, then faded to black as millions of tons of ash and debris blotted out the sun.
“Maybe,” Fred said. He gunned his Banshee. “Maybe not. Come on, we’re not done yet.”
Section I
Threshold
Chapter Five
1637 Hours, September 22, 2552 (Military Calendar)
Aboard Longsword Fighter, Soell System,
Halo Debris Field. Three Weeks Later.
The Master Chief settled into the pilot’s seat of the Longsword attack craft. He didn’t fit. The contoured seat had been engineered to mate with a standard-issue Navy flight suit, not the bulky MJOLNIR armor.
He scratched his scalp and breathed deeply. The air tasted odd—it lacked the metallic quality of his suit’s air scrubbers. This was the first quiet moment he’d had to sit, think, and remember. First there was the satisfaction after the successful space op at Reach, which went sour after Linda was killed and the Covenant glassed the planet…and Red Team. Then the time spent in a Pillar of Autumn cryotube, the flight from Reach, and the discovery of Halo.
And the Flood.
He stared out from the front viewport and fought down his revulsion at the memory of the Flood outbreak. Whoever had constructed Halo had used it to contain the sentient, virulent xenoform that had nearly claimed them all. The rapidly healing wound in his neck, inflicted by a Flood Infection Form during the final battle on Halo’s surface, still throbbed.
He wanted to forget it all…especially the Flood. Everything inside him ached.
The system’s moon, Basis, was a silver-gray disk against the darkness of space, and beyond it was the muted purple of the gas giant Threshold. Between them lay a glistening expanse of debris—metal, stone, ice, and everything else that had once been Halo.
“Scan it again,” the Master Chief told Cortana.
“Already completed,” her disembodied voice replied. “There’s nothing out there. I told you: just dust and echoes.”
The Master Chief’s hand curled into a fist, and for a moment he felt the urge to slam it into something. He relaxed, surprised at his frayed temper. He’d been exhausted in the past—and without a doubt the fight on Halo had been the most harrowing of his career—but he’d never been prone to such outbursts.
The struggle against the Flood must have gotten to him, more than he’d realized.
With effort he banished the Flood from his mind. Either there’d be time to deal with it later…or there wouldn’t. Worrying about it now served no useful purpose.
“Scan the field again,” he repeated.
Cortana’s tiny holographic figure appeared on the projection pad mounted between the pilot’s and system-ops seats. She crossed her arms over her chest, visibly irritated with the Master Chief’s request.
“If you don’t find something out there we can use,” he told her, “we’re dead. This ship has no Slipspace drive, and no cryo. There’s no way to get back and report. Power, fuel, air, food, water—we only have enough for a few hours.
“So,” he concluded as patiently as he could manage. “Scan. Again.”
Cortana sighed explosively, and her hologram dissolved. The scanner panel activated, however, and mathematical symbols crowded the screen.
A moment later the scanner panel dimmed and Cortana said, “There’s still nothing, Chief. All I’m picking up is a strong echo from the moon…but there are no transponder signals, and no distress calls.”
“You’re not doing an active scan?”
Her tiny hologram appeared again, and this time static flashed across her figure. “There are trillions of objects out there. If you want I can start to scan and identify each individual piece. If we sit here and do nothing else, that would take eighteen days.”
“What if someone’s out there but they turned off their transponder? What if they don’t want to be found?”
“That’s highly un—” Cortana froze for a split second. The static around her vanished, and she stared off into space. “Interesting.”
“What?”
Cortana looked distracted, then seemed to snap out of it. “New data. That signal echo’s getting stronger.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” she replied, “it’s not an echo.”
The scanner panel hummed back to life as Cortana activated the Longsword’s long-range detection gear. “Uh-oh,” she said, a moment later.
The Chief peered at the scan panel as Cortana identified the contact. The distinctive, bulbous silhouette of a Covenant cruiser edged into view as it moved around the moon’s far side.
“Power down,” he snapped. “Kill everything except passive scanners and minimal power to keep you online.”
The Longsword darkened; Cortana’s hologram flickered and faded as she killed power flow to the holosystem.
The cruiser moved into the debris field, prowling like a hungry shark. Another cruiser appeared, then another, and then three more.
“Status?” he whispered, his hands hovering over the weapons controls. “Have they spotted us?”
“They’re using the same scanning frequencies as our system,” Cortana said in his helmet speaker. “How strange. No mention of this phenomenon in any of the UNSC or ONI files on the Covenant. Why do you suppose they’d use the same frequencies?”
“Never mind that,” the Chief said. “They’re here and looking for something. Like I sai
d before, if there are survivors out there, they’d be powered down.”
“I can listen to their echoes,” Cortana said, her voice flat and oddly procedural. Operating at lower power levels seemed to limit her more colorful behavior. “Process active: analyzing Covenant signals. Piggybacking their scans. Diverting more runtime to the task. I’m building a multiplex filtering algorithm. Customizing the current shape-signature recognition software.”
Another ship rounded the horizon of Basis. It was larger than any Covenant ship the Master Chief had seen. It had the sleek three-pronged shape of one of their destroyers, but it must have been three kilometers long. Seven plasma turrets were mounted on universal joints—enough firepower to gut any ship in the UNSC fleet.
“Picking up encrypted transmissions from new contact,” Cortana whispered. “Descrambling…lots of chatter…orders being given to the cruisers. It appears to be directing the Covenant fleet operations in the system.”
“A flagship,” the Chief murmured. “Interesting.”
“Scan still in progress, Chief. Stand by.”
John got out of the sys-ops seat. He had no intention of just “standing by” with seven Covenant warships in the system.
He drifted to the aft compartment of the Longsword fighter. He’d assess what equipment was on board. He might get lucky and find a few of those Shiva nuclear-tipped missiles.
As he had seen when he first boarded the ship, the cryotube had been removed. He wasn’t sure why, but maybe, like everything else on the Pillar of Autumn, the ship had been stripped down and upgraded for their original high-risk mission.
Where the cryo unit was supposed to be there was a new control panel. The Chief examined it and discovered it was a Moray space-mine laying system. He didn’t power it on. The Moray system could dispense up to three dozen free-floating mines. The mines had tiny chemical-fuel drives that allowed them to keep a fixed position or move to track specific targets. These would come in handy.