Nothing… though the alien metal inside the ship could be blocking the scans. “Try another,” Sam said. She did—and the doors slid apart. The room was inhabited. An alien creature stood a meter and half tall, a biped. Its knobby, scaled skin was a sickly, mottled yellow; purple and yellow fins ran along the crest of its skull and its forearms. Glittering, bulbous eyes protruded from skull-like hollows in the alien’s elongated head. The Master Chief had read the UNSC’s first contact scenarios—they called for cautious attempts at communication. He couldn’t imagine communicating with something like this… thing. It reminded him of the carrion birds on Reach—vicious and unclean. The creature stood there, frozen for a moment—staring at the human interlopers. Then it screeched and reached for something on its belt, its movements darting and birdlike. The Spartans shouldered their weapons and fired a trio of bursts with pinpoint accuracy. Armor-piercing rounds tore into the creature, shredding its chest and head. It crumpled into a heap without a sound, dead before it hit the deck. Thick blood oozed from the corpse. “That was easy,” Sam remarked. He nudged the creature with his boot. “They sure aren’t as tough as their ships.” “Let’s hope it stays that way,” John replied. “I’m getting a radiation reading this way,” Kelly said. She gestured deeper into the vessel. They continued down the corridor and took a side branch. Kelly dropped a NAV marker, and its double blue triangle pulsed once on their heads-up displays. They stopped at another set of pressure doors. Sam and John took up flanking positions to cover her. Kelly punched the same buttons she had punched before and the doors slid apart. Another of the creatures was there. It stood in a circular room with crystalline control panels and a large window. This time, however, the vulture-headed creature didn’t scream or look particularly surprised. This one looked angry. The creature held a clawlike device in its hand—leveled at John. John and Kelly fired. Bullets filled the air and pinged off a silver shimmering barrier in front of the creature. A bolt of blue heat blasted from the claw. The blast was similar to the plasma that had hit the Commonwealth… and boiled a third of it away. The bolt sizzled over their heads. Sam dove forward and knocked John out of the blast’s path; the energy burst caught Sam in the side. The reflective coating of his MJOLNIR armor flared. He fell clutching his side, but still managed to fire his weapon. John and Kelly rolled on their backs and sprayed gunfire at the creature. Bullets peppered the alien—each one bounced and ricocheted off the energy shield. John glanced at his ammo counter—half gone. “Keep firing,” he ordered. The alien kept up a stream of answering fire—energy blasts hammered into Sam, who fell to the deck, his weapon empty. John charged forward and slammed his foot into the alien’s shield and knocked it out of line.


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.6

He jammed the barrel of his rifle into the alien’s screeching mouth and squeezed the trigger. The armor-piercing rounds punctured the alien and spattered the back wall with blood and bits of bone. John rose and helped Sam up. “I’m okay,” Sam said, holding his side and grimacing. “Just a little singed.” The reflective coating on his armor was blackened. “You sure?” Sam waved him away. John paused over the remaining bits of the alien. He spotted a glint of metal, an armguard, and he picked it up. He tapped one of three buttons on the device, but nothing happened. He strapped in onto his forearm. Dr. Halsey might find it useful. They entered the room. The large window was a half-meter thick. It overlooked a large chamber that descended three decks. A cylinder ran the length of the chamber and red light pulsed along its length, like a liquid sloshing back and forth. Under the window, on their side, rested a smooth angled surface—perhaps a control panel? On its surface were tiny symbols: glowing green dots, bars, and squares. “That’s got to be the source of the radiation,” Kelly said, and pointed to the chamber beyond. “Their reactor… or maybe a weapons system.” Another alien marched near the cylinder. It spotted John. A silver shimmer appeared around it. It screeched and wobbled in alarm, then scrambled for cover. “Trouble,” John said. “I’ve got an idea.” Sam limped forward. “Hand me those warheads.” John did as he asked, so did Kelly. “We shoot out that window, set the timers on the warheads, and toss them down there. That should start the party.” “Let’s do it before they call in reinforcements,” John said. They turned and fired at the crystal. It crackled, splintered, then shattered. “Toss those warheads,” Sam said, “and let’s get out of here.” John set the timers. “Three minutes,” he said. “That’ll give us just enough time to get topside and get away.” He turned to Sam. “You’ll have to stay and hold them off. That’s an order.” “What are you talking about?” Kelly said. “Sam knows.” Sam nodded. “I think I can hold them off that long.” He looked at John and then Kelly. He turned and showed them the burn in the side of his suit. There was a hole the size of his fist, and beneath that, the skin was blackened and cracked. He smiled, but his teeth were gritted in pain. “That’s nothing,” Kelly said. “We’ll get you patched up in no time. Once we get back—” Her mouth slowly dropped open. “Exactly,” Sam whispered. “Getting back is going to be a problem for me.” “The hole.” John reached out to touch it. “We don’t have any way to seal it.” Kelly shook her head. “If I step off this boat, I’m dead from the decompression,” Sam said, and shrugged. “No,” Kelly growled. “No—everyone gets out alive. We don’t leave teammates behind.” “He has his orders,” John told Kelly.


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“You’ve got to leave me,” Sam said softly to Kelly. “And don’t tell me you’ll give me your suit. It took those techs on Damascus fifteen minutes to fit us. I wouldn’t even know where to start to unzip this thing.” John looked to the deck. The Chief had told him he’d have to send men to their deaths. He didn’t tell him it would feel like this. “Don’t waste time talking,” Sam said. “Our new friends aren’t going to wait for us while we figure this out.” He started the timers. “There. It’s decided.” A three-minute countdown appeared in the corner of their heads-up displays. “Now—get going, you two.” John clasped Sam’s hand and squeezed it. Kelly hesitated, then saluted. John turned and grabbed her arm. “Come on, Spartan. Don’t look back.” The truth was, it was John who didn’t dare look back. If he had, he would have stayed with Sam. Better to die with a friend than leave him behind. But as much as he wanted to fight and die alongside his friend, he had to set an example for the rest of the Spartans—and live to fight another day. John and Kelly pushed the pressure doors shut behind them. “Good-bye,” he whispered. The countdown timer ticked the seconds off inexorably. 2:35… They ran down the corridor, popped the seal on the outer door—the atmosphere vented. 1:05… They climbed up through the twisted metal canyon that the MAC round had torn through the hull. 0:33… “There,” John said, and pointed to the base of a charged pulse laser. They crawled toward it, waited as the glow built to a lethal charge. 0:12… They crouched and held onto one another. The laser fired. The heat blistered John’s back. They pushed off with all their strength, multiplied through the MJOLNIR armor. 0:00. The shield parted and they cleared the ship, hurtling into the blackness. The Covenant ship shuddered. Flashes of red appeared inside the hole—then a gout of fire rose and ballooned, but curled downward as it hit and rebounded off their own shield. The plasma spread along the length of their vessel. The shield shimmered and rippled silver—holding the destructive force inside. Metal glowed and melted. The pulse laser turrets absorbed into the hull. The hull blistered, bubbled, and boiled. The shield finally gave—the ship exploded. Kelly clung to John. A thousand molten fragments hurled past them, cooling from white to orange to red and then disappearing into the dark of the night. Sam’s death had shown them that the Covenant were not invincible. They could be beaten. At a high cost, however. John finally understood what the Chief had meant—the difference between a life wasted and a life spent. John also knew that humanity had a fighting chance… and he was ready to go to war.


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.1

Chapter Fifteen 0000 HOURS, JULY 17, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / UNSC REMOTE SCANNING OUTPOST ARCHIMEDES, ON THE EDGE OF THE SIGMA OCTANUS SYSTEM Ensign William Lovell scratched his head, yawned, and sat down at his duty station. The wraparound view screen warmed to his presence. “Good morning, Ensign Lovell,” the computer said. “Morning, sexy,” he said. It had been months since the Ensign had seen a real woman—the cold female voice of the computer was the closest thing he was getting to a date. “Voiceprint match,” the computer confirmed. “Please enter password.” He typed: ThereOncewasAgirl. The Ensign had never taken his duty too seriously. Maybe that’s why he only made it through his second year at the Academy. And maybe that’s why he had been on Archimedes station for the last year, stuck with third shift. But that suited him fine. “Please reenter password.” He typed more carefully this time: ThereOnceWasAGirl. After first contact with the Covenant, he had almost been conscripted straight out of school; instead, he had actually volunteered. Admiral Cole had defeated the Covenant at Harvest in 2531. His victory was publicized on every vid and holo throughout the Inner and Outer Colonies and all the way to Earth. That’s why Lovell didn’t try to dodge the enlistment officers. He had thought he’d watch a few battles from the bridge of a destroyer, fire a few missiles, rack up the victories, and be promoted to Captain within a year. His excellent grades gave him instant admission to OCS on Luna. There was one small detail, however, the UNSC propaganda machine had left out of their broadcasts: Cole had won only because he outnumbered the Covenant three to one… and even then, he had lost two-thirds of his fleet. Ensign Lovell had served on the UNSC destroyer Gorgon for four years. He had been promoted to First Lieutenant, then busted down to Second Lieutenant and finally to Ensign for insubordination and gross incompetence. The only reason they hadn’t drummed him out of the service was that the UNSC needed every man and woman they could get their hands on. While on the Gorgon, he and the rest of Admiral Cole’s fleet had sped among the Outer Colonies chasing, and being chased by, the Covenant. After four years’ space duty, Lovell had seen a dozen worlds glassed… and billions murdered. He had simply broken under the strain. He closed his eyes and remembered. No, he hadn’t broken; he was just scared of dying like everyone else. “Please keep your eyes open,” the computer told him. “Processing retinal scan.” He had drifted from office work to low-priority assignments and finally landed here a year ago. By that time there were no more Outer Colonies. The Covenant had destroyed them all and were pressing inexorably inward, slowly taking the Inner Colonies. There had been a few isolated victories… but he knew it was only a matter of time before the aliens wiped the human race out of existence.


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.2

“Login complete,” the computer announced. Ensign Lovell’s identity record was displayed on the monitor. In his Academy picture, he looked ten years younger: neatly trimmed jet-black hair, toothy grin, and sparkling green eyes. Today his hair was unkempt and the spark was long gone from his eyes. “Please read General Order 098831A-1 before proceeding.” The Ensign had memorized this stupid thing. But the computer would track his eye motions—make sure he read it anyway. He opened the file and it popped on-screen: UNITED NATIONS SPACE COMMAND EMERGENCY PRIORITY ORDER 098831A-1 ENCRYPTION CODE: RED PUBLIC KEY: FILE/FIRST LIGHT/ FROM: UNSC/NAVCOM FLEET H. T. WARD TO: ALL UNSC PERSONNEL SUBJECT: GENERAL ORDER 098831A-1 (“THE COLE PROTOCOL”) CLASSIFICATION: RESTRICTED (BGX DIRECTIVE) THE COLE PROTOCOL TO SAFEGUARD THE INNER COLONIES AND EARTH, ALL UNSC VESSELS OR STATIONS MUST NOT BE CAPTURED WITH INTACT NAVIGATION DATABASES THAT MAY LEAD COVENANT FORCES TO HUMAN CIVILIAN POPULATION CENTERS. IF ANY COVENANT FORCES ARE DETECTED: 1. ACTIVATE SELECTIVE PURGE OF DATABASES ON ALL SHIP-BASED AND PLANETARY DATA NETWORKS. 2. INITIATE TRIPLE-SCREEN CHECK TO ENSURE ALL DATA HAS BEEN ERASED AND ALL BACKUPS NEUTRALIZED. 3. EXECUTE VIRAL DATA SCAVENGERS. (DOWNLOAD FROM UNSCTTP: //EPWW:COLEPROTOCOL/VIRTUALSCAV/FBR.091) 4. IF RETREATING FROM COVENANT FORCES, ALL SHIPS MUST ENTER SLIPSTREAM SPACE WITH RANDOMIZED VECTORS NOT DIRECTED TOWARD EARTH, THE INNER COLONIES, OR ANY OTHER HUMAN POPULATION CENTER. 5. IN CASE OF IMMINENT CAPTURE BY COVENANT FORCES, ALL UNSC SHIPS MUST SELF-DESTRUCT. VIOLATION OF THIS DIRECTIVE WILL BE CONSIDERED AN ACT OF TREASON, AND PURSUANT TO UNSC MILITARY LAW ARTICLES JAG 845-P AND JAG 7556-L, SUCH VIOLATIONS ARE PUNISHABLE BY LIFE IMPRISONMENT OR EXECUTION. /END FILE/ PRESS ENTER IF YOU UNDERSTAND THESE ORDERS. Ensign Lovell pressed ENTER. The UNSC wasn’t taking any chances. And after everything he had seen, he didn’t blame them. His scanning windows appeared on the view screen, full of spectroscopic tracers and radar—and lots of noise. Archimedes station cycled three probes into and out of Slipstream space. Each probe sent out radar pings and analyzed the spectrum from radio to X rays, then reentered normal space and broadcast the data back to the station. The problem with Slipstream space was that the laws of physics never worked the way they were supposed to. Exact positions, times, velocities, even masses were impossible to measure with any real accuracy. Ships never knew exactly where they were, or exactly where there were going. Every time the probes returned from their two-second journey, they could appear exactly where they had left… or three million kilometers distant. Sometimes they never returned at all. Drones had to be sent after the probes before the process could be repeated. Because of this slipperiness in the interdimensional space, UNSC ships traveling between star systems might arrive half a billion kilometers off course. The curious properties of Slipspace also made this assignment a joke. Ensign Lovell was supposed to watch for pirates or black-market runners trying to sneak by… and most importantly, for the Covenant.


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.3

This station had never logged so much as a Covenant probe silhouette—and that was the reason he had specifically requested this dead-end assignment. It was safe. What he did see with regularity were trash dumps from UNSC vessels, clouds of primordial atomic hydrogen, even the occasional comet that had somehow plowed into the Slipstream. Lovell yawned, kicked his feet up onto the control console, and closed his eyes. He nearly fell out of his chair when the COM board contact alert pinged. “Oh no,” he whispered, fear and shame at his own cowardice forming a cold lump in his belly. Don’t let it be the Covenant. Don’t let it… not here. He quickly activated the controls and traced the contact signal back to the source—Alpha probe. The probe had detected an incoming mass, a slight arc to its trajectory pulled by the gravity of Sigma Octanus. It was large. A cloud of dust, perhaps? If it was, it would soon distort and scatter. Ensign Lovell sat up straighter in his chair. Beta probe cycled back. The mass was still there and as solid as before. It was the largest reading Ensign Lovell had ever seen: twenty thousand tons. That couldn’t be a Covenant ship—they didn’t get that big. And the silhouette was a bumpy spherical shape; it didn’t match any of the Covenant ships in the database. It had to be a rogue asteroid. He tapped his stylus on the desk. What if it wasn’t an asteroid? He’d have to purge the database and enable the self-destruct mechanism for the outpost. But what could the Covenant want way out here? Gamma probe reappeared. The mass readings were unchanged. Spectroscopic analysis was inconclusive, which was normal for probe reading at this distance. The mass was two hours out at its present velocity. Its projected trajectory was hyperbolic—a quick swing near the star, and then it would pass invisibly out of the system and be forever gone. He noted that its trajectory brought it close to Sigma Octanus IV… which, if the rock were in real space, would be cause for alarm. In Slipspace, however, it could pass “through” the planet, and no one would notice. Ensign Lovell relaxed and sent the retrieval drones after the three probes. By the time they got the probes back, though, the mass would be long gone. He stared at the last image on screen. Was it worth sending an immediate report to Sigma Octanus COM? They’d make him send his probes out without a proper recovery, and the probes would likely get lost after that. A supply ship would have to be sent out here to replace them. The station would have to be inspected and recertified—and he’d receive a thorough lecture on what did and did not constitute a valid emergency. No… there was no need to bother anyone over this.


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.4

The only ones who would be really interested were the high-forehead types at UNSC Astrophysics, and they could review the data at their leisure. He logged the anomaly and attached it to his hourly update. Ensign Lovell kicked up his boots and reclined, once again feeling perfectly safe in his little corner of the universe.


Chapter Sixteen 0300 HOURS, JULY 17, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / UNSC DESTROYER IROQUOIS ON ROUTINE PATROL IN THE SIGMA OCTANUS SYSTEM Commander Jacob Keyes stood on the bridge of the Iroquois. He leaned against the brass railing and surveyed the stars in the distance. He wished the circumstances of his current command were more auspicious, but experienced officers were in short supply these days. And he had his orders. He walked around the circular bridge examining the monitors and displays of engine status. He paused at the screens showing the stars fore and aft; he couldn’t quite get used to the view of deep space again. The stars were so vivid… and here, so different from the stars near Earth. The Iroquois had rolled out of space dock at Reach—one of the UNSC’s primary naval yards—just three months ago. They hadn’t even installed her AI yet; like good officers, the elaborate artificially intelligent computer systems were also in dangerously short supply. Still, Iroquois was fast, well armored, and armed to the teeth. He couldn’t ask for a finer vessel. Unlike the frigates that Commander Keyes had toured on before, the Meriwether Lewis and Midsummer Night, this ship was a destroyer. She was almost as heavy as both those vessels combined, but she was only seven meters longer. Some in the fleet thought the massive ships were unwieldy in combat—too slow and cumbersome. What those critics forgot was that a UNSC destroyer sported two MAC guns, twenty-six oversized Archer missile pods, and three nuclear warheads. Unlike other fleet ships, she carried no single-ship fighters—instead her extra mass came from the nearly two meters of titanium-A battleplate armor that covered her from stem to stern. The Iroquois could dish out and take a tremendous amount of punishment. Someone at the shipyard had appreciated the Iroquois for what she was, too—two long streaks of crimson war paint had been applied to her port and starboard flanks. Strictly nonregulation and it would have to go… but secretly, Commander Keyes liked the ornamentation. He sat in the Commander’s chair and watched his junior officers at their stations. “Incoming transmissions,” Lieutenant Dominique reported. “Status reports from Sigma Octanus Four and also the Archimedes Sensor Outpost.” “Pipe them through to my monitor,” Commander Keyes said. Dominique had been one of his students at the Academy—he had transferred to Luna from the Université del’ Astrophysique in Paris after his sister was killed in action. He was short, nimbly athletic, and he rarely cracked a smile—he was always business. Keyes appreciated that. Commander Keyes was less impressed, however, with the rest of his bridge officers. Lieutenant Hikowa manned the weapons console. Her long fingers and slender arms slowly checked the status of the ordnance with all the deliberation of a sleepwalker. Her dark hair was always falling into her eyes, too. Oddly, her record showed that she had survived several battles with the Covenant… so perhaps her lack of enthusiasm was merely battle fatigue.


Lieutenant Hall stood post at ops. She seemed competent enough. Her uniform was always freshly pressed, her blond hair trimmed exactly at the regulation sixteen centimeters. She had authored seven physics papers on Slipspace communications. The only problem was that she was always smiling, and trying to impress him… occasionally by showing up her fellow officers. Keyes disapproved of such displays of ambition. Manning navigation, however, was his most problematic officer: Lieutenant Jaggers. It might have been that navigation was the Commander’s strong suit, so anyone else in that position never seemed to be up to par. On the other hand, Lieutenant Jaggers was moody, and when Keyes had come aboard, the man’s small hazel eyes seemed glazed. He could have sworn he had caught the man on duty with liquor on his breath, too. He had ordered a blood test—the results were negative. “Orders, sir?” Jaggers asked. “Continue on this heading, Lieutenant. We’ll finish our patrol around Sigma Octanus and then accelerate and enter Slipspace.” “Aye, sir.” Commander Keyes eased into his seat and detached the tiny monitor from the armrest. He read the hourly report from the Archimedes Sensor Outpost. The log of the large mass was curious. It was too big to be even the largest Covenant carrier… yet something was oddly familiar about its shape. He retrieved his pipe from his jacket, lit it, inhaled a puff, and exhaled the fragrant smoke through his nose. Keyes would never even have thought about smoking on the other vessels he had served on, but here… well, command had its privileges. He pulled up his files transferred from the Academy—several theoretical papers that had recently caught his interest. One, he thought, might apply to the outpost’s unusual reading. That paper had initially sparked his interest because of its author. He had never forgotten his first assignment with Dr. Catherine Halsey… nor the names of any of the children they had observed. He opened the file and read: UNITED NATIONS SPACE COMMAND ASTROPHYSICS JOURNAL 034-23-01 DATE: MAY 09, 2540 (MILITARY CALENDAR) ENCRYPTION CODE: NONE PUBLIC KEY: NA AUTHOR(S): LIEUTENANT COMMANDER FHAJAD 034 (SERVICE NUMBER [CLASSIFIED]), UNSC OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE SUBJECT: DIMENSIONAL-MASS SPACE COMPRESSIONS IN SHAW-FUJIKAWA (A.K.A. “SLIPSTREAM”) SPACE CLASSIFICATION: NA /START FILE/ ABSTRACT: THE SPACE-BENDING PROPERTIES OF MASS IN NORMAL SPACE ARE WELL DESCRIBED BY EINSTEIN’S GENERAL RELATIVITY. SUCH DISTORTIONS HOWEVER, ARE COMPLICATED BY THE ANOMALOUS QUANTUM GRAVITATIONAL EFFECTS IN SHAW-FUJIKAWA (SF) SPACES. USING LOOP-STRING ANALYSIS, IT CAN BE SHOWN THAT A LARGE MASS BENDS SPACE IN SF SPACE MORE THAN GENERAL RELATIVITY PREDICTS BY AN ORDER OF MAGNITUDE. THIS BENDING MAY EXPLAIN HOW SEVERAL SMALL OBJECTS CLUSTERED CLOSELY TOGETHER IN SF SPACE HAVE BEEN REPORTED ERRONEOUSLY AS A SINGLE LARGER MASS. PRESS ENTER TO CONTINUE. Commander Keyes switched back to the silhouette from the Archimedes report. The leading edge almost looked like the bulbous head of a whale. That realization chilled him to the core. He quickly opened the UNSC database of all known Covenant ships.


He scanned them until he found the three-dimensional representation of one of their medium-sized warships. He rotated it into three-quarters profile. He overlaid the image on the silhouette, scaled it back a little. It was a perfect match. “Lieutenant Dominique, get FLEETCOM ASAP. Priority Alpha.” The Lieutenant snapped straight in his chair. “Yes, sir!” The bridge officers looked at the Commander, then exchanged glances with one another. Commander Keyes brought up a map of the system on his data pad. The silhouette monitored by the outpost was on a direct course for Sigma Octanus IV. That confirmed his theory. “Bring us about to course zero four seven, Lieutenant Jaggers. Lieutenant Hall, push the reactors to one hundred ten percent.” “Aye, Commander,” Lieutenant Jaggers replied. “Reactor running hot, sir,” Hall reported. “Now exceeding recommended operational parameters.” “ETA?” Jaggers calculated, then looked up. “Forty-three minutes,” he replied. “Too slow,” Commander Keyes muttered. “Reactor to one hundred thirty percent, Lieutenant Hall.” She hesitated. “Sir?” “Do it!” “Yes, sir!” She moved as if someone had electrically shocked her. “FLEETCOM online, sir,” Lieutenant Dominique said. The weathered face of Vice Admiral Michael Stanforth appeared on the main view screen. Commander Keyes breathed a sigh of relief. Vice Admiral Stanforth had a reputation for being reasonable and intelligent. He’d understand the logic of the situation. “Commander Keyes,” the Vice Admiral said. “The old ‘School-master’ himself, huh? This is the priority channel, son. This better be an emergency.” Commander Keyes ignored the obvious condescension. He knew many at FLEETCOM thought he deserved to command nothing but a classroom—and some probably thought he didn’t deserve that. “The Sigma Octanus System is about to come under attack, sir.” Vice Admiral Stanforth cocked an eyebrow and leaned closer to the screen. “I’m requesting that all ships in-system rendezvous with the Iroquois at Sigma Octanus Four. And any ships in neighboring systems make best speed here.” “Show me what you’ve got, Keyes,” the Vice Admiral said. Commander Keyes displayed the silhouette from the sensor outpost first. “Covenant ships, sir. Their silhouettes are overlapped. Our probes resolve them as one mass because Slipspace is bent by gravity more easily than normal space.” The Vice Admiral listened to his analysis, frowning. “You’ve fought the Covenant, sir. You known how precisely they can maneuver their ships through the Slipstream. I’ve seen a dozen alien craft appear in normal space, in perfect formation, not a kilometer apart.” “Yeah,” the Vice Admiral muttered. “I’ve seen that, too. All right, Keyes, good work. You’ll get everything we can send.” “Thank you, sir.” “You just hang in there, son. Good luck. FLEETCOM out.” The view screen snapped off. “Sir?” Lieutenant Hall turned around. “How many Covenant ships?” “I’d estimate four medium-tonnage vessels,” he said. “The equivalent of our frigates.” “Four Covenant ships?” Lieutenant Jaggers muttered. “What can we do?” “Do?” Commander Keyes said. “Our duty.” “Begging the Commander’s pardon, but there are four Cov—” Jaggers began to protest. Keyes cut him off with a glare.


“Stow that, mister.” He paused, weighing his words. “Sigma Octanus Four has seventeen million citizens, Lieutenant. Are you suggesting that we just stand by and watch the Covenant glass the planet?” “No, sir.” His gaze dropped to the deck. “We will do the best we can,” Commander Keyes said. “In the meantime, remove all weapons system locks, order missile crews to readiness, warm up the MAC guns, and remove the safeties from one of our nukes.” “Yes, sir!” Lieutenant Hikowa said. An alarm sounded at ops. “Reactor hysteresis approaching failure levels,” Lieutenant Hall reported. “Superconducting magnets overloading. Coolant breakdown imminent.” “Vent primary coolant and pump in the reserve tanks,” Commander Keyes ordered. “That will buy us another five minutes.” “Yes, sir.” Commander Keyes fumbled with his pipe. He didn’t bother to light the thing this time around, just chewed on the end. Then he put it away. The nervous habit wasn’t setting the right example for his bridge officers. He didn’t have the luxury of showing his apprehension. The truth was, he was terrified. Four Covenant ships would be an even match for seven destroyers. The best he could hope for was to get their attention and outrun them—hopefully distract them until the fleet got here. Of course… those Covenant ships could outrun the Iroquois as well. “Lieutenant Jaggers,” he said, “initiate the Cole Protocol. Purge our navigation databases, and then generate an appropriate randomized exit vector from the Sigma Octanus System.” “Yes, sir.” He fumbled with his controls. He hung his head, steadied his hands, and slowly typed in the commands. “Lieutenant Hall: make preparations to override reactor safeties.” His junior officers all paused for a second. “Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Hall whispered. “We’re receiving a transmission from the system’s edge,” Lieutenant Dominique announced. “Frigates Allegiance and Gettysburg are on an inbound vector at maximum speed. ETA… one hour.” “Good,” Commander Keyes said. That hour might as well be a month. This battle would be over in minutes. He could not fight the enemy—he was severely outgunned. He couldn’t outrun them, either. There had to be another option. Hadn’t he always told his students that when you were out of options, then you were using the wrong tactics? You had to bend the rules. Shift perspective—anything to find a way out of a hopeless situation. The black space near Sigma Octanus IV boiled and frothed with motes of green light. “Ships entering normal space,” Lieutenant Jaggers announced, panic tingeing his voice. Commander Keyes got to his feet. He had been wrong. There weren’t four Covenant frigates. A pair of enemy frigates emerged from Slipspace… escorting a destroyer and a carrier. His blood ran cold. He had seen battles in which a Covenant destroyer had made Swiss cheese of UNSC ships. Its plasma torpedoes could boil through the Iroquois’ two meters of titanium-A battleplate in seconds. Their weapons were light-years ahead of the UNSC’s. “Their weapons,” Commander Keyes muttered under his breath. Yes… he did have a third option.


The Fall of Reach -- Nylund, Eric S_ -- Halo en 1, 2001 -- ePubLibre -- c9ac8e2f4e1adc3ba1e720ba6cdbd1fd -- Anna’s Archive.5

“Continue at emergency speed,” he ordered, “and come about to heading zero three two.” Lieutenant Jaggers swiveled in his seat. “That will put us on collision course with their destroyer, sir.” “I know,” Commander Keyes replied. “In fact, I’m counting on doing just that.”


Chapter Seventeen 0320 HOURS, JULY 17, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / UNSC IROQUOIS EN ROUTE TO SIGMA OCTANUS IV Commander Keyes stood with his hands behind his back and tried to look calm. Not an easy thing to do when his ship was on a collision course with a Covenant battlegroup. Inside, adrenaline raced through his blood and his pulse pounded. He had to at least appear in control for his crew. He was asking a lot from them… probably everything, in fact. His junior officers watched their status monitors; they occasionally glanced nervously at him, but their gazes always drifted back to the center view screen. The Covenant ships looked like toys in the distance. It was dangerous to think of them as harmless, however. One slip, one underestimation of their tremendous firepower, and the Iroquois would be destroyed. The alien carrier had three bulbous sections; its swollen center had thirteen launch bays. Commander Keyes had seen hundreds of fighters stream out of them before—fast, accurate, and deadly craft. Normally his ship’s AI would handle point defense… only this time, there was no AI installed on the Iroquois. The alien destroyer was a third again as massive as the Iroquois. She bristled with pulse laser turrets, insectlike antennae, and chitinous pods. The carrier and destroyer moved together… but not toward Iroquois. They slowly drifted in-system toward Sigma Octanus IV. Were they going to ignore him? Glass the planet without even bothering to swat him out of the way first? The Covenant frigates, however, lagged behind. They turned in unison and their sides faced the Iroquois—preparing for a broadside. Motes of red light appeared and swarmed toward the frigate’s lateral lines, building into a solid stripe of hellish illumination. “Detecting high levels of beta particle radiation,” Lieutenant Dominique said. “They’re getting ready to fire their plasma weapons, Commander.” “Course correction, sir?” Lieutenant Jaggers asked. His fingers tapped in a new heading bound out-system. “Stay on course.” It took all Commander Keyes’ concentration to say that matter-of-factly. Lieutenant Jaggers turned and started to speak—but Commander Keyes didn’t have time to address his concerns. “Lieutenant Hikowa,” Commander Keyes said. “Arm a Shiva missile. Remove all nuclear launch safety locks.” “Shiva armed. Aye, Commander.” Lieutenant Hikowa’s face was a mask of grim determination. “Set the fuse on radio transmission code sequence detonation only. Disable proximity fuse. Stand by for a launch pilot program.” “Sir?” Lieutenant Hikowa looked confused by his order, but then said, “Sir! Yes, sir. Making it happen.” The alien frigates in the center of the view screen no longer looked remotely like toys to Commander Keyes. They looked real and larger every second. The red glow along their sides had become solid bands… almost too bright to look directly at. Commander Keyes picked up his data pad and quickly tapped in calculations: velocity, mass, and heading. He wished they had an AI online to double-check his figures. This amounted to no more than an educated guess.


How long would it take the Iroquois to orbit Sigma Octanus IV? He got a number and cut it by 60 percent, knowing they’d either pick up speed… or be dead by the time it mattered. “Lieutenant Hikowa, set the Shiva’s course for mark one eight zero. Full burn for twelve seconds.” “Aye, sir,” she said, tapped in the parameters, and locked them into the system. “Missile ready, sir.” “Sir!” Lieutenant Jaggers swiveled around and stood. His lips were drawn into a tight thin line. “That course fires the missile directly away from our enemies.” “I am aware of that, Lieutenant Jaggers. Sit down and await further orders.” Lieutenant Jaggers sat. He rubbed his temple with a trembling hand. His other hand balled into a fist. Commander Keyes linked to the NAV system and set a countdown timer on his data pad. Twenty-nine seconds. “On my mark, Lieutenant Hikowa, launch that nuke… and not a moment before.” “Aye, sir.” Her slender hand hovered over the control panel. “MAC guns are still hot, Commander,” she reminded him. “Divert the energy keeping the capacitors at full charge and route them to the engines,” Commander Keyes ordered. Lieutenant Hall said, “Diverting now, sir.” She exchanged a glance with Lieutenant Hikowa. “Engines now operating at one hundred fifty percent of rated output. Red line in two minutes.” “Contact! Contact!” Lieutenant Dominique shouted. “Enemy plasma torpedoes away, sir!” Scarlet lightning erupted from the alien frigates—twin bolts of fire streaked through the darkness. They looked as if they could burn space itself. The torpedoes were on a direct course for the Iroquois. “Course correction, sir?” Lieutenant Jaggers’ voice broke with strain. His uniform was soaked with perspiration. “Negative,” Commander Keyes replied. “Continue on this heading. Arm all aft Archer missile pods. Rotate launch arcs one eight zero degrees.” “Aye, sir.” Lieutenant Hikowa wrinkled her brow, and then she slowly nodded and silently mouthed, “… yes.” Boiling red plasma filled half the forward view screen. It was beautiful to watch in an odd way—like a front-row seat at a forest fire. Keyes found himself strangely calm. This would either work or it would not. The odds were long, but he was confident that his actions were the only option to survive this encounter. Lieutenant Dominique turned. “Collision with plasma in nineteen seconds, sir.” Jaggers turned from his station. “Sir! This is suicide! Our armor can’t withstand—” Keyes cut him off. “Mister, man your station or I will have you removed from the bridge.” Jaggers looked pleadingly at Hikowa. “We’re going to die, Aki—” She refused to meet his gaze and turned back to her controls. “You heard the Commander,” she said quietly. “Man your post.” Jaggers sank into his seat. “Collision with plasma in seven seconds,” Lieutenant Hall said. She bit her lower lip. “Lieutenant Jaggers, transfer emergency thruster controls to my station.” “Yes… yes, sir.” The emergency thrusters were tanks of trihydride tetrrazine and hydrogen peroxide.


When they mixed, they did so with explosive force—literally blasting the Iroquois onto a new course. The ship had six such tanks strategically placed on hardened points on the hull. Commander Keyes consulted the countdown timer on his data pad. “Lieutenant Hikowa: fire the nuke.” “Shiva away, sir! On course—one eight zero, maximum burn.” Plasma filled the forescreen; the center of the red mass turned blue. Greens and yellows radiated outward, the light frequencies blue-shifting in spectra. “Distance three hundred thousand kilometers,” Lieutenant Dominique said. “Collision in two seconds.” Commander Keyes waited a heartbeat, then hit the emergency thrusters to port. A bang resonated through the ship’s hull—Commander Keyes flew sideways and impacted with the bulkhead. The view screen was full of fire and the bridge was suddenly hot. Commander Keyes stood. He counted the beats of his pounding heart. One, two, three— If they had been hit by the plasma, there wouldn’t be anything to count. They would be dead already. Only one view screen was working now, however. “Aft camera,” he said. The twin blots of fire streaked along their trajectories for a moment, then lazily arced, continuing their pursuit of the Iroquois. One pulled slightly ahead of its counterpart, so they appeared now like two blazing eyes. Commander Keyes marveled at the aliens’ ability to direct that plasma from such a great distance. “Good,” he murmured to himself. “Chase us all the way to hell, you bastards. “Track them,” he ordered Lieutenant Hall. “Aye, sir,” she said. Her perfectly groomed hair was tousled. “Plasma increasing velocity. Matching our speed… overtaking our velocity now. They will intercept in forty-three seconds.” “Forward camera,” Commander Keyes ordered. The view screen flashed: the image changed to show the two alien frigates turning to face the incoming Iroquois head-on. Blue lights flickered along their hulls—pulse lasers charging. Commander Keyes pulled back the camera angle and saw the alien carrier and the destroyer were still inbound toward Sigma Octanus IV. He read their position off his data pad and quickly performed the necessary calculations. “Course correction,” he told Lieutenant Jaggers. “Come about to heading zero zero four point two five. Declination zero zero zero point one eight.” “Aye, sir,” Jaggers said. “Zero zero four point two five. Declination zero zero zero point one eight.” The view screen turned and centered on the enormous Covenant destroyer. “Collision course!” Lieutenant Hall announced. “Impact with Covenant destroyer in eight seconds.” “Stand by for new course correction: declination minus zero zero zero point one zero.” “Aye, sir.” As Jaggers typed, he wiped the sweat from his eyes and double-checked his numbers. “Course online. Awaiting your order, sir.” “Collision with Covenant destroyer in five seconds,” Hall said. She clutched the edge of her seat. The destroyer grew in the view screen: laser turrets and launch bays, bulbous alien protrusions and flickering blue lights. “Hold this course,” Commander Keyes said. “Sound collision alarm. Switch to undercarriage camera now.” Klaxons blared.


The view screen snapped off and on and showed black space—then a flash of the faint purple-blue hull of a Covenant ship. The Iroquois screeched and shuddered as she grazed the prow of the Covenant destroyer. Silver shields flickered on-screen—then the screen filled with static. “Course correction now!” Commander Keyes shouted. “Aye, sir.” There was a brief burn from the thrusters and the Iroquois nudged down slightly. “Hull breach!” Lieutenant Hall said. “Sealing pressure doors.” “Aft camera,” Commander Keyes said. “Guns: fire aft Archer missile pods!” “Missiles away,” Lieutenant Hikowa replied. Keyes watched as the first of the plasma torpedoes that had been trailing the Iroquois impacted on the prow of the alien destroyer. The ship’s shields flared, flickered… and vanished. The second bolt hit a moment later. The hull of the alien ship blazed and then turned red-hot, melted, and boiled. Secondary explosions burst through the hull. The Archer missiles streaked toward the wounded Covenant ship, tiny trails of exhaust stretching from the Iroquois to the target. They slammed into the gaping wounds in the hull and detonated. Fire and debris burst from the destroyer. A smile spread across Keyes’ face as he watched the alien ship burn, list, and slowly plunge into Sigma Octanus IV’s gravity well. Without power, the Covenant vessel would burn up in the planet’s atmosphere. Commander Keyes flicked on the intercom. “Brace for emergency thruster maneuver.” He punched the thruster controls—explosive force detonated on the starboard side of the ship. The Iroquois nosed toward Sigma Octanus IV. “Course correction, Lieutenant Jaggers,” he said. “Bring us into a tight orbit.” “Aye, sir.” He furiously tapped in commands, diverting engine output through altitude thrusters. The hull of the Iroquois glowed red as it entered the atmosphere. A cloud of yellow ionization built up around the view screen. Commander Keyes gripped the railing tighter. The view screen cleared and he could see the stars. The Iroquois entered the dark side of the planet. Commander Keyes slumped forward and started breathing again. “Engine coolant failure, sir,” Lieutenant Hall said. “Shut the engines down,” he ordered. “Emergency vent.” “Aye, sir. Venting fusion reactor plasma.” The Iroquois was abruptly quiet. No rumble of her engines. And no one said anything until Lieutenant Hikowa stood and said, “Sir, that was the most brilliant maneuver I have ever seen.” Commander Keyes gave a short laugh. “You think so, Lieutenant?” If one of his students had proposed such a maneuver in his tactics class, he would have given them a C+. He would have told them their maneuver was full of bravado and daring… but extremely risky, placing the crew in the ship in unnecessary danger. “This isn’t over yet. Stay sharp,” he told them. “Lieutenant Hikowa, what is the charge status of the MAC guns?” “Capacitors at ninety-five percent, sir, and draining at a rate of three percent per minute.” “Ready MAC guns, one heavy round apiece.


Arm all forward Archer missile pods.” “Aye, sir.” The Iroquois broke free of the dark side of Sigma Octanus IV. “Fire chemical thrusters to break orbit, Lieutenant Hall.” “Firing, aye.” There was a brief rumble. The screen centered on the backsides of the two Covenant frigates they had passed on the way in. The alien ships started to come about; blue flashes flickered along their hulls as their laser turrets charged. Motes of red collected along their lateral lines. They were readying another salvo of plasma torpedoes. There was something there, however, that was too small to see on the view screen: the nuke. Keyes had launched that missile in the opposite direction—but its reverse thrust had not completely overcome their tremendous forward velocity. As the Iroquois had screamed over the prow of the destroyer, and as they orbited Sigma Octanus IV, the nuke had drifted closer to the frigates… who had fixed their attention solidly on the Iroquois. Commander Keyes tapped his data pad and sent the signal to detonate the bomb. There was a flash of white, a crackle of lightning, and the alien ships vanished as a cloud of destruction enveloped them. Waves of the EMP interacted with the magnetic field of Sigma Octanus IV—rippled with rainbow borealis. The cloud of vapor expanded and cooled, and faded to yellow, orange, red, then black dust that scattered into space. Both Covenant frigates, however, were still intact. Their shields, however, flickered once… then went dead. “Get me firing solutions for the MAC guns, Lieutenant Hikowa. On the double.” “Aye, sir. MAC gun capacitors at ninety-three percent. Firing solution online.” “Fire, Lieutenant Hikowa.” Two thumps resonated through the hull of the Iroquois. “Lock remaining Archer missile pods on targets and fire.” “Missiles away, Commander.” Twin thunderbolts and hundreds of missiles streaked toward the two helpless frigates. The MAC rounds tore through them—one ship was holed from nose to tail; the other ship was hit on her midline, right near the engines. Internal explosions chained up the length of the ship, bulging the second ship’s hull along her length. Archer missiles impacted seconds later, exploding through chunks of hull and armor, tearing the alien ships apart. The frigate that had taken the MAC round in her engines mushroomed, a fireworks bouquet of shrapnel and sparks. The other ship burned, her internal skeletal structure showing now; she turned toward the Iroquois but didn’t fire a weapon… just drifted out of control. Dead in space. “Position of the Covenant carrier, Lieutenant Hall?” Lieutenant Hall paused, then reported, “In polar orbit around Sigma Octanus Four. But she’s moving off at considerable speed. Headed out-system, course zero four five.” “Alert the Allegiance and Gettysburg of her position.” Commander Keyes sighed and slumped back into his chair. They had stopped the Covenant ships from glassing the planet—saved millions of lives. They had done the impossible: taken on four Covenant ships and won. Commander Keyes paused in his self-congratulation. Something was wrong.


He had never seen the Covenant run. In every battle he had seen or read about, they stayed to slaughter every last survivor… or if they were defeated, they always fought to the last ship. “Check the planet,” he told Lieutenant Hall. “Look for anything—dropped weapons, strange transmissions. There’s got to be something there.” “Aye, sir.” Keyes prayed she wouldn’t find anything. At this point he was out of tricks. He couldn’t turn the Iroquois around and return to Sigma Octanus IV even if he had wanted to. The Iroquois’ engines were down for a long time. They were speeding on an out-system vector at a considerable velocity. And even if they could stop—there was no way to recharge the MAC guns, and no remaining Archer missiles. They were practically dead in space. He pulled out his pipe and steadied his shaking hand. “Sir!” Lieutenant Hall cried. “Dropships, sir. The alien carrier deployed thirty—correction: thirty-four—dropships. I have silhouettes descending to the surface. They’re on course for Côte d’Azur. A major population center.” “An invasion,” Commander Keyes said. “Get FLEETCOM ASAP. Time to send in the Marines.”


Chapter Eighteen 0600 HOURS, JULY 18, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / UNSC IROQUOIS, MILITARY STAGING AREA IN ORBIT AROUND SIGMA OCTANUS IV Commander Keyes had a sinking feeling that although he had won the battle, it would be the first of many to come in the Sigma Octanus System. He watched the four dozen other UNSC ships orbit the planet: frigates and destroyers, two carriers, and a massive repair and refitting station—more vessels than Admiral Cole had at his disposal during his four-year-long campaign to save Harvest. Vice Admiral Stanforth had pulled out all the stops. Although Commander Keyes was grateful for the quick and overwhelming response, he wondered why the Vice Admiral had dedicated so many ships to the area. Sigma Octanus wasn’t strategically positioned. It had no special resources. True, the UNSC had standing orders to protect civilian lives, but the fleet was spread dangerously thin. Commander Keyes knew there were more valuable systems that needed protection. He pushed these thoughts aside. He was sure Vice Admiral Stanforth had his reasons. Meanwhile the repair and resupply of the Iroquois was his top priority—he didn’t want to get caught half ready if the Covenant returned. Or rather, when they returned. It was a curious thing: the aliens dropping their ground forces and then retreating. That was not their usual mode of operation. Commander Keyes suspected this was just an opening move in a game he didn’t yet understand. A shadow crossed the fore camera of the Iroquois as the repair station Cradle maneuvered closer. Cradle was essentially a large square plate with engines. Large was an understatement; she was over a square kilometer. Three destroyers could be eclipsed by her shadow. The station running at full steam could refit six destroyers, three from her lower surface and three on her upper surface, within a matter of hours. Scaffolds deployed from her surfaces to facilitate repairs. Resupply tubes, hoses, and cargo trams fed into the Iroquois. It would take the full attention of Cradle thirty hours to repair the Iroquois, however. The aliens had not landed a single serious shot. Nonetheless, the Iroquois had almost been destroyed during the execution of what some in the fleet were already calling the “Keyes Loop.” Commander Keyes glanced at his data pad and the extensive list of repairs. Fifteen percent of the electronic systems had to be replaced—burned out from the EMP when the Shiva missile detonated. The Iroquois’ engines required a full overhaul. Both coolant systems had valves that had been fused from the tremendous heat. Five of the superconducting magnets had to be replaced as well. But most troublesome was the damage to the underside of the Iroquois. When they had told Commander Keyes what had happened, he went outside in a Longsword interceptor to personally inspect what he had done to his ship. The underside of the Iroquois had been scraped when they passed over the prow of the alien destroyer.


He knew there was some damage… but was not prepared for what he saw. UNSC destroyers had nearly two meters of titanium—a battleplate on their surfaces. Commander Keyes had abraded through all of it. He had breached every bottom deck of the Iroquois. The jagged serrated edges of the plate curled away from the wound. Men in EVA thruster packs were busy cutting off the damaged sections so new plates could be welded into place. The underside was mirror smooth and perfectly flat. But Keyes knew that the appearance of benign flatness was deceptive. Had the angle of the Iroquois been tilted a single degree down, the force of the two ships impacting would have shorn his ship in half. The red war stripes that had been painted on the Iroquois’ side looked like bloody slashes. The dockmaster had privately told Commander Keyes that his crew could buff the paint off—or even repaint the war stripes, if he wanted. Commander Keyes had politely refused the offer. He wanted them left exactly the way they were. He wanted to be reminded that while everyone had admired what he had done—it had been an act of desperation, not heroism. He wanted to be reminded of how close a brush he had had with death. Commander Keyes returned to the Iroquois and marched directly to his quarters. He sat at his antique oak desk and tapped the intercom. “Lieutenant Dominique, you have the bridge for the next cycle. I am not to be disturbed.” “Aye, Commander. Understood.” Commander Keyes loosened his collar and unbuttoned his uniform. He retrieved the seventy-year-old bottle of Scotch that his father had given him from the bottom drawer, and then poured four centimeters into a plastic cup. He had to attend to an even more unpleasant task: what to do about Lieutenant Jaggers. Jaggers had exhibited borderline cowardice, insubordination, and come within a hairbreadth of attempted mutiny during the engagement. Keyes could have had him court-martialed. Every reg in the books screamed at him to… but he didn’t have it in him to send the young man before a board of inquiry. He would instead merely transfer the Lieutenant to a place where he would still do the UNSC some good—perhaps a distant outpost. Was all the blame his? As Commander, it was his responsibility to maintain control, to prevent a crewman from even thinking that mutiny was a possibility. He sighed. Maybe he should have told his crew what he was attempting… but there had simply been no time. And certainly, no time for discussion as Jaggers would have wanted. No. The other bridge officers had concerns, but they had followed his orders, as their duty required. As much as Commander Keyes believed in giving people a second chance, this was where he drew the line. To make matters worse, transferring Jaggers would leave a hole in the bridge crew. Commander Keyes accessed the service records of Iroquois’ junior officers.


There were several who might qualify for navigation officer. He flipped through their files on his data pad, and then paused. The theoretical paper on mass-space compression was still open, as well as his hastily calculated course corrections. He smiled and archived those notes. He might one day give a lecture on this battle at the Academy. It would be useful to have the original source material. There was also the data from the Archimedes Sensor Outpost. That report had been thoroughly made: clean data graphs and a navigational course plotted for the object through Slipstream space—not an easy task even with an AI. The report even had tags to route it to the astrophysics section of the UNSC. Thoughtful. He looked up the service record of the officer who had filed the report: Ensign William Lovell. Keyes leaned closer. The boy’s Career Service Vitae was almost twice as long as his own. He had volunteered and been accepted at Luna Academy. He transferred in his second year, having already received a commission to Ensign for heroism in a training flight that had saved the entire crew. He took duty on the first outbound corvette headed into battle. Three Bronze Stars, a Silver Cluster, and two Purple Hearts, and he had catapulted to a full Lieutenant within three years. Then something went terribly wrong. Lovell’s decline in the UNSC had been as rapid as his ascent. Four reports of insubordination and he was busted to Second Lieutenant and transferred twice. An incident with a civilian woman—no details in the files, although Commander Keyes wondered if the girl listed in the report, Anna Gerov, was Vice Admiral Gerov’s daughter. He had been reassigned to the Archimedes Sensor Outpost, and had been there for the last year, an unheard of length of time in such a remote facility. Commander Keyes reviewed the logs when Lovell had been on duty. They were careful and intelligent. So the boy was still sharp… was he hiding? There was a gentle knock on his door. “Lieutenant Dominique, I said I was not to be disturbed.” “Sorry to intrude, son,” said a muffled voice. The pressure door’s wheel turned and Vice Admiral Stanforth stepped inside. “But I thought I’d just stop by since I was in the neighborhood.” Vice Admiral Stanforth was much smaller in person than he appeared on-screen. His back was stooped over with age, and his white hair was thinning at the crown. Still, he exuded a reassuring air of authority that Keyes instantly recognized. “Sir!” Commander Keyes stood at attention, knocking over his chair. “At ease, son.” The Vice Admiral looked around his quarters, and his gaze lingered a moment on the framed copy of Lagrange’s original manuscript in which he derived his equations of motion. “You can pour me a few fingers of the whiskey, if you can spare it.” “Yes, sir.” Keyes fumbled with another plastic cup and poured the Vice Admiral a drink. Stanforth took a sip, then sighed appreciatively.


“Very nice.” Keyes righted his chair and offered it to the Vice Admiral. He sat down and leaned forward. “I wanted to congratulate you personally on the miracle you performed here, Keyes.” “Sir, I don’t—” Stanforth held up a finger. “Don’t interrupt me, son. That was a helluva piece of astrogation you pulled off. People noticed. Not to mention the morale boost it’s given to the entire fleet.” He took another sip of the liquor and exhaled. “Now, that’s the reason we’re all here. We need a victory. It’s been too damn long—us getting whittled to pieces by those alien bastards. So this has got to be a win. No matter what it takes.” “I understand, sir,” Commander Keyes said. He knew morale had been sagging for years throughout the UNSC. No military, no matter how well trained, could stomach defeat after defeat without it affecting their determination in battles. “How is it going planetside?” “Right now don’t you worry about that.” Vice Admiral Stanforth eased back in his chair, balancing on two legs. “General Kits has his troops down there. They’ve got the surrounding cities evacuated, and they’ll be assaulting Côte d’Azur within the hour. They’ll paste those aliens faster than you can spit. You just watch.” “Of course, sir.” Commander Keyes looked away. “You got something else to say, boy? Spit it out.” “Well, sir… this isn’t the way the Covenant normally operates. Dropping an invasion force and leaving the system? They either slaughter everything or die trying. This is something altogether different.” Vice Admiral Stanforth waved a dismissive hand. “You leave trying to figure out what those aliens are thinking to the spooks in ONI, son. Just get the Iroquois patched up and fit for duty again. And you let me know if you need anything.” Stanforth knocked back the last of his whiskey and stood. “Got to marshal the fleet. Oh—” He paused. “One more thing.” He dug into his jacket pocket and retrieved a tiny cardboard box. He set it on the Commander’s desk. “Consider it official. The paperwork will catch up with us soon enough.” Commander Keyes opened the box. Inside were a pair of brass collar insignia: four bars and a single star. “Congratulations, Captain Keyes.” The Vice Admiral snapped a quick salute, then held out his hand. Keyes managed to grasp and shake the Vice Admiral’s hand. The insignia was real. He was stunned. He couldn’t say anything. “You’ve earned it.” The Vice Admiral started to turn. “Give me a shout if you need anything.” “Yes, sir.” Keyes stared at the brass star and stripes a moment longer, then finally tore his gaze away. “Vice Admiral… there is one thing. I need a replacement navigation officer.” Vice Admiral Stanforth’s relaxed posture stiffened. “I heard about that. Ugly business when a bridge officer loses their stomach. Well, you just say the candidate’s name and I’ll make sure you get him… as long as you’re not pulling him off my ship.” He smiled.


“Keep up the good work, Captain.” “Sir!” Captain Keyes saluted. The Vice Admiral stepped out and closed the door. Keyes practically fell into his chair. He had never dreamed they’d make him a Captain. He turned the brass insignia over in his palm and replayed his conversation with Vice Admiral Stanforth in his mind. He had said, “Captain Keyes.” Yes. This was real. The Vice Admiral had also brushed aside his concerns about the Covenant too quickly. Something didn’t quite add up. Keyes clicked on the intercom. “Lieutenant Dominique: track the Vice Admiral’s shuttle when he leaves. Let me know which ship he’s on.” “Sir? We had a Vice Admiral aboard? I wasn’t informed.” “No, Lieutenant, I suspect you weren’t. Just track the next outbound shuttle.” “Aye, sir.” Keyes looked back on his data pad and reread Ensign Lovell’s CSV. He couldn’t take back what had happened with Jaggers—there could be no second chance for him. But maybe he could somehow balance the books by giving Lovell another chance. He filled out the necessary paperwork for the transfer request. The forms were long and unnecessarily complex. He transmitted the files to UNSC PERSCOM and sent a copy directly to Vice Admiral Stanforth’s staff. “Sir?” Lieutenant Dominique’s voice broke over the intercom. “That shuttle docked with the Leviathan.” “Put it on-screen.” The screen over his desk snapped on to camera five, the aft-starboard view. Among the dozens of ships in orbit around Sigma Octanus IV, he easily spotted the Leviathan. She was one of the twenty UNSC cruisers left in the fleet. A cruiser was the most powerful warship ever built by human hands. And Keyes knew they were being slowly pulled out of forward areas and parked in reserve to guard the Inner Colonies. A piece of shadow moved under the great warship, black moving on black. It revealed itself for only an instant in the sunlight, then slithered back into the darkness. It was a prowler. Those stealth ships were used exclusively by Naval Intelligence. A cruiser and an ONI presence here? Now Keyes knew there was more going on here than a simple morale boost. He tried not to think about it. It was best not to go too far when questioning the intentions of one’s superior officer—especially when that officer was a Vice Admiral. And especially not when Naval Intelligence was literally lurking in the shadows. Keyes poured himself another three fingers of Scotch, set his head on his desk—just to rest his eyes for a moment. The last few hours had drained him. * * * “Sir.” Dominique’s voice over the intercom woke Captain Keyes. “Incoming fleet-wide transmission on Alpha priority channel.” Keyes sat up and ran his hand over his face. He glanced at the brass clock affixed over his bunk—he had slept for almost six hours. Vice Admiral Stanforth appeared on-screen. “Listen up, ladies and gentlemen: we’ve just detected a large number of Covenant ships massing on the edge of the system.


We estimate ten ships.” On-screen the silhouettes of the all-too-familiar Covenant frigates and a destroyer appeared as ghostly radar smears. “We’ll remain where we are,” the Vice Admiral continued. “There’s no need to charge in and have those ugly bastards take a shortcut through Slipspace and undercut us. Make your ships ready for battle. We’ve got probes gathering more data. I’ll update you when we know more. Stanforth out.” The screen went black. Keyes snapped on the intercom. “Lieutenant Hall, what is our repair and refit status?” “Sir,” she replied. “Engines are operational, but only with the backup coolant system. We can heat them to fifty percent. Archer and nuclear ordnance resupply is complete. MAC guns are also operational. Repairs to lower decks have just started.” “Inform the dockmaster to pull his crew out,” Captain Keyes said. “We’re leaving the Cradle. When we are clear, fire the reactors to fifty percent. Go to battle stations.”


Chapter Nineteen 0600 HOURS, JULY 18, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / SIGMA OCTANUS IV, GRID THIRTEEN BY TWENTY-FOUR “Faster!” Corporal Harland shouted. “You want to die in the mud, Marine?” “Hell no, sir!” Private Fincher stomped on the accelerator and the Warthog’s tires spun in the streambed. They caught, and the vehicle fishtailed through the gravel, across the bank, and onto the sandy shore. Harland strapped himself into the rear of the Warthog, one hand clamped onto the vehicle’s massive 50mm chain-gun. Something moved in the brush behind them—Harland fired a sustained burst. The deafening sound from “Old Faithful” shook the teeth in his head. Ferns, trees, and vines exploded and splintered as the gunfire scythed through the foliage… then nothing was moving anymore. Fincher sent the Warthog bouncing along the shore, his head bobbing from side to side as he strained to see through the downpour. “We’re sitting ducks in here, Corporal,” Fincher yelled. “We have to get out of this hole and back onto the ridge, sir.” Corporal Harland looked for a way out of this river gorge. “Walker!” He shook Private Walker in the passenger seat, but Walker didn’t respond. He clutched their last Jackhammer rocket launcher with a death grip, his eyes staring blankly ahead. Walker hadn’t said a word since this mission went south. Harland hoped he would snap out of it. He already had one man down. The last thing he needed was for his heavy-weapons specialist to be a brain case. Private Cochran lay at the Corporal’s feet, cradling his gut with blood-smeared hands. He’d caught fire during the ambush. The aliens used some kind of projectile weapon that fired long, thin needles—which exploded seconds after impact. Cochran’s insides were meat. Walker and Fincher had filled him up with biofoam and taped him up—they even managed to stop the bleeding—but if the man didn’t get to a medic soon, he was a goner. They had all almost been goners. The squad had left Firebase Bravo two hours ago. Satellite images showed the way was all clear to their target area. Lieutenant McCasky had even said it was a “milk run.” They were supposed to set up motion sensors on grid thirteen by twenty-four—just see what was there and get back. “A simple snoop job,” the ell-tee had called it. What no one told McCasky was that the satellites weren’t penetrating the rain and jungle canopy of this swampball too well. If the Lieutenant had thought about it—like Corporal Harland was thinking about it now—he would have figured something was wrong with sending three squads on a “milk run.” The squad wasn’t green. Corporal Harland and the others had fought the Covenant before. They knew how to kill Grunts—when they massed by the hundreds, they knew to call in air support. They’d even taken down a few of the Covenant Jackals, the ones with energy shields. You had to flank those guys—take them out with snipers.


But none of that had prepared them for this mission. They had done all the right things, damn it. The Lieutenant had even gotten their Warthogs five klicks down the streambed before the terrain became too steep and slippery for the all-terrain armored vehicles. He had the men hump the rest of the way in on foot. They moved soft and silent, almost crawling all the way through the slime to the depression they were supposed to check out. When they had gotten to the place, it wasn’t just another mud-filled sinkhole. A waterfall splashed into a grotto pool. Arches had been carved into the wall, their edges extremely weathered. There were a few scattered paving stones around the pool… and covering those stones were tiny geometric carvings. That’s all Corporal Harland got a look at before the Lieutenant ordered him and his team to fall back. He wanted them to set up the motion sensors where they had a clear line of sight to the sky. That’s probably why they were still alive. The blast had knocked Harland and his team into the mud. They ran to where they had left the Lieutenant—found fused glassy mud, a crater, and a few burning corpses and bits of carbonized skeleton. They saw one other thing—an outline in the mist. It was biped, but much larger than any human Harland had ever seen. And oddly, it looked like it was wearing armor reminiscent of medieval plate mail; it even carried a large, strangely shaped metal shield. Harland saw the glow of a regenerating plasma weapon… and that’s all he needed to see to order a full speed retreat. Harland, Walker, Cochran, and Fincher fell back, running—blindly firing their assault rifles. Covenant Grunts had followed them, peppering the air with those needle guns, mowing down the jungle as the tiny razor shards exploded. Harland and the others stopped and hit the deck, splashing into the thick, red mud, as a Covenant Banshee passed them overhead. When they got back on their feet, Cochran took the round in the stomach. The Grunts had caught up to them. Cochran flinched, his side exploded, and then he crumpled to the ground. He fell into shock so fast he didn’t even have time to scream. Harland, Fincher, and Walker hunkered down and returned fire. They killed a dozen of the little bastards, but more kept coming, their barks and growls echoing through the jungle. “Cease fire,” the Corporal had ordered. He waited a second, then tossed a grenade when the Grunts got closer. Their ears still ringing, they ran, dragging Cochran with them, and not looking back. Somehow they had returned to the Warthog, and gotten the hell out of there… or, at least, that’s what they were trying to do. “Over there,” Fincher said, and pointed to a clearing in the trees. “That’s got to lead up to the ridge.” “Go,” Harland said.


The Warthog slid sideways then raced up the embankment, caught air, and landed on soft jungle loam. Fincher dodged a few trees and ran the Warthog up the slope. They emerged on the ridgeline. “Jesus, that was close,” Harland said. He ran a muddy hand through his hair, slicking it back. He tapped Fincher on the shoulder. Fincher jumped. “Private, pull over. Try to raise Firebase Bravo on the narrow band.” “Yes, sir,” Fincher answered in a wavering voice. He glanced at the near-catatonic Private Walker and shook his head. Harland checked on Cochran. Private Cochran’s eyes fluttered open, cracking the mud caked onto his face. “We back yet, Corporal?” “Almost,” Harland replied. Cochran’s pulse was steady, although his face had, in the last several minutes, drained of color. The wounded man looked like a corpse. Damn it, Harland thought, he’s going to bleed out. Harland placed a reassuring hand on Cochran’s shoulder. “Hang in there. We’ll patch you up as soon as we get to camp.” They had dropships at Bravo. Cochran had a chance, albeit a slim one, if they got him back to the combat surgeons at headquarters—or better yet, to the Navy docs on the orbiting ships. For a moment Harland was dazzled with visions of clean sheets, hot meals—and a meter of armor between him and the Covenant. “Nothing but static on the link, sir,” Fincher said, breaking through Harland’s reverie. “Maybe the radio got hit,” Harland muttered. “You know those explosive needles throw a bunch of microshrapnel. We probably got slivers of that stuff inside us, too.” Fincher examined his muscular forearms. “Great.” “Move out,” Harland said. The tires of the Warthog spun, gripped, and the vehicle moved rapidly along the ridge. The terrain looked familiar. Harland even spotted three sets of Warthog tracks—yes, this was the way the Lieutenant had brought them. Ten minutes and they’d be back on base. No more worries. He relaxed, took out a pack of cigarettes, and shook one out. He pulled off the safety strip and tapped the end to ignite it. Fincher revved the engine and shot up to the top of the ridge—crossed over, and skidded to halt. If not for the haze, they would have seen everything from this side of the valley—the lush carpet of jungle in the valley, the river meandering through it, and on the far set of hills, a clearing dotted with fixed gun emplacements, razor wire, and pre-fab structures: Firebase Bravo. Their platoon had partially dug into the hillside to minimize the camp’s footprint and provide a place where they could safely store their munitions and bunk down. A ring of sensors encircled the camp so nothing could sneak up on them. Radar and motion detectors linked to surface-to-air missile batteries. A road ran along the far ridge—three klicks down that was the coastal city, Côte d’Azur. The sun broke through the haze overhead, and Corporal Harland saw everything had changed. It wasn’t fog or haze.


Smoke rose in columns from the valley… and there was no more jungle. Everything had been burned to the ground. The entire valley was blackened into smoldering charcoal. Glowing red craters honeycombed the hillsides. He fumbled with his binoculars, brought them to his eyes… and froze. The hill where the camp had been was gone—it had been flattened. Only a mirror surface remained. The sides of the adjacent hills glistened with a cracked glass coating. The air was thick with tiny Covenant fliers in the distance. On the ground, Grunts and Jackals searched for survivors. A few Marines ran for cover… there were hundreds of wounded and dead on the ground, helpless, screaming—some of them trying to crawl away. “What have you got, sir?” Fincher asked. The cigarette fell from Harland’s mouth and caught on his shirt—but he didn’t take his eyes off the battlefield to brush it away. “There’s nothing left,” he whispered. A shape moved in the valley—much larger than the other Grunts and Jackals. Its outline was blurry. Harland tried to focus the binoculars on it but couldn’t. It was the same thing he had seen at grid thirteen by twenty-four. The Grunts gave it a wide berth. The thing lifted its arm—its whole arm looked like one big gun—and a bolt of plasma struck near the riverbank. Even from this distance, Harland heard the screams of the men who had been hiding there. “Jesus.” He dropped the binoculars. “We’re bugging out, right now!” he said. “Turn this beast around, Fincher.” “But—” “They’re gone,” Harland whispered. “They’re all dead.” Walker whimpered and rocked back and forth. “We’ll be dead, too, unless you move,” Harland said. “We already got lucky once today. Let’s not push it.” “Yeah.” Fincher reversed the Warthog. “Yeah, some luck.” He sped back down the hillside and hopped the Warthog off the embankment and back into the streambed. “Follow the river,” Harland told him. “It’ll take us all the way to HQ.” A shadow crossed their path. Harland twisted around and saw a pair of stubby-winged Covenant Banshees swooping down after them. “Move it!” he screamed at Fincher. Fincher floored the Warthog and plumes of water sprayed in their wake. They bounced over rocks and fishtailed across the stream. Bolts of plasma hit the water next to them—exploding into steam. Rock shards pinged off the armored side of the vehicle. “Walker!” Harland shouted. “Use those Jackhammers.” Walker huddled, doubled over in his seat. Harland fired the chain-gun. Tracers cut through the air. The fliers nimbly dodged them. The heavy machine gun was only accurate at reasonably short ranges—and not even that with Fincher bouncing the Warthog all over the place. “Walker!” he cried. “We are gonna die if you don’t get those missiles into the air!” He would have ordered Fincher to grab the launcher—but he’d have to stop to grab it… that, or try to drive with no hands. If the Warthog stopped, they’d be sitting ducks for those fliers.


Harland glanced at the riverbanks. They were too steep for the Warthog. They were stuck in the river with no cover. “Walker, do something!” Corporal Harland fired the chain-gun again until his arms went numb. It was no good; the Banshees were too far away, too quick. Another plasma bolt hit—directly in front of the Warthog. Heat washed over Harland. Blisters pinpricked his back. He screamed but kept shooting. If they hadn’t been in water, that plasma would have melted the tires… probably would have flash-fried them all. A burst of heat and a plume of smoke erupted next to Harland. For a split second he thought the Covenant gunners had found their mark—that he was dead. He screamed incoherently, his thumbs jamming down the chain-gun’s trigger buttons. The Banshee he was aiming at flashed, and then became a ball of flame and falling shrapnel. He turned, his breath hitching in his chest. They hadn’t been hit. Cochran knelt next to him. One arm clutched his stomach, and the other arm hefted the Jackhammer launcher on his shoulder. He smiled with bloodstained lips and pivoted to track the other flier. Harland ducked, and another missile whooshed directly over his head. Cochran laughed, coughing up blood and foam. Tears of mirth or pain—Harland couldn’t tell—streamed from his eyes. He collapsed backward, and let the smoldering launcher slip from his hand. The second Banshee exploded and spiraled into the jungle. “Two more klicks,” Fincher shouted. “Hang on.” He cranked the wheel and the Warthog swerved out of the streambed and bounced up the hillside, up and over, and they slid onto a paved road. Harland leaned over and felt Cochran’s neck for a pulse. It was there, weak; but he was still alive. Harland glanced at Walker. He hadn’t moved, his eyes squeezed shut. Harland’s first impulse was to shoot him right then and there—the goddamned, goldbricking, cowardly bastard almost cost them all their lives— No. Harland was half amazed he hadn’t frozen up, too. HQ was ahead. But Corporal Harland’s stomach sank as he saw smoke and flames blazing on the horizon. They passed the first armed checkpoint. The guardhouse and bunkers had been blasted away, and in the mud were thousands of Grunt tracks. Farther back, he saw a circle of sandbags around a house-size chunk of granite. Two Marines waved to them. As they approached in the Warthog, the Marines stood and saluted. Harland jumped off and returned their salute. One of the Marines had a patch over his eye and his head was bandaged. Soot streaked his face. “Jesus, sir,” he said. “It’s good to see you guys.” He approached the Warthog. “You’ve got a working radio in that thing?” “I—I’m not sure,” Corporal Harland said. “Who’s in charge here? What happened?” “Covenant hit us hard, sir. They had tanks, air support—thousands of those little Grunt guys. They glassed the main barracks. The Command Office.


Almost got the munitions bunker.” He looked away for a moment and his one eye glazed over. “We pulled it together and fought ‘em off, though. That was an hour ago. I think we killed everything. I’m not sure.” “Who’s in charge, Private? I have a critically wounded man. He needs evac, and I have to make my report.” The Private shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. The hospital was the first thing they hit. As far as who’s in command… I think you’re the ranking officer here.” “Great,” Harland muttered. “We’ve got five guys back there.” The Private jerked his head toward the columns of smoke and wavering heat in the distance. “They’re in fire-fighting suits to keep from burning up. They’re recovering weapons and ammo.” “Understood,” Harland said. “Fincher, try the radio again. See if you can link up to SATCOM. Call in for an evac.” “Roger that,” Fincher said. The wounded Private asked Harland, “Can we get help from Firebase Bravo, sir?” “No,” Harland said. “They got hit, too. There’s Covenant all over the place.” The Private slumped, bracing himself with his rifle. Fincher handed Harland the radio headset. “Sir, SATCOM is good. I’ve got the Leviathan on the horn.” “This is Corporal Harland,” he spoke into the microphone. “The Covenant has hit Firebase Bravo and Alpha HQ… and wiped them out. We’ve repelled the enemy from Alpha site, but our casualties have been nearly one hundred percent. We have wounded here. We need immediate evac. Say again: we need evac on the double.” “Roger, Corporal. Your situation is understood. Evac is not possible at this time. We’ve got problems of our own up here—” There was a burst of static. The voice came back online. “Help is on the way.” The channel went dead. Harland looked to Fincher. “Check the transceiver.” Fincher ran the diagnostic. “It’s working,” he said. “I’m getting a ping from SATCOM.” He licked his lips. “The trouble must be on their end.” Harland didn’t want to think of what kind of trouble the fleet could be having. He’d seen too many planets glassed from orbit. He didn’t want to die here—not like that. He turned to the men in the bunker. “They said help is on the way. So relax.” He looked into the sky and whispered, “They better send a whole regiment down here.” A handful of other Marines returned to the bunker. They had salvaged ammunition, extra rifles, a crate of frag grenades, and a few Jackhammer missiles. Fincher took the Warthog and a few men to see if he could transport the heavier weapons. They filled Cochran with more biofoam and bandaged him up. He slipped into a coma. They hunkered down inside the bunker and waited. They heard explosions at an extreme distance. Walker finally spoke. “So… now what, sir?” Harland didn’t turn toward the man. He covered Cochran with another blanket. “I don’t know. Can you fight?” “I think so.” He passed Walker a rifle. “Good.


Get up there and stand watch.” He got out a cigarette, lit it, took a puff, and then handed it to Walker. Walker took it, shakily stood, and went outside. “Sir!” he said. “Dropship inbound. One of ours!” Harland grabbed his signal flares. He ran outside and squinted at the horizon. High on the edge of the darkening sky was a dot, and the unmistakable roar of Pelican engines. He pulled the pin and tossed the smoker onto the ground. A moment later, thick clouds of green smoke roiled into the sky. The dropship turned rapidly and descended toward their location. Harland shielded his eyes. He searched for the rest of the dropships. There was only one. “One dropship?” Walker whispered. “That’s all they sent? Christ, that’s not backup—that’s a burial detail.” The Pelican eased toward the ground, spattering mud in a ten-meter radius, then touched down. The launch ramp fell open and a dozen figures marched out. For a moment Harland thought they were the same creatures he had seen earlier—armored and bigger than any human he’d ever laid eyes on. He froze—he couldn’t have raised his gun if he had wanted to. They were human, though. The one in the lead stood over two meters tall and looked like he weighed two hundred kilograms. His armor was a strange reflective green alloy, and underneath matte black. Their motions were so fluid and graceful—fast and precise, too. More like robots than flesh and blood. The one that first stepped off the ship strode toward him. Though his armor was devoid of insignia, Harland could see the insignia of a Master Chief Petty Officer in his helmet’s HUD. “Master Chief, sir!” Harland snapped to attention and saluted. “Corporal,” it said. “At ease. Get your men together and we’ll get to work.” “Sir?” Harland asked. “I’ve got a lot of wounded here. What work will we be doing, sir?” The Master Chief’s helmet cocked quizzically to one side. “We’ve come to take Sigma Octanus Four back from the Covenant, Corporal,” he said calmly. “To do that, we’re going to kill every last one of them.”


Chapter Two 1130 HOURS, AUGUST 17, 2517 (MILITARY CALENDAR) ERIDANUS STAR SYSTEM, ERIDANUS II, ELYSIUM CITY The orange sun cast a fiery glow on the playground of Elysium City Primary Education Facility No. 119. Dr. Halsey and Lieutenant Keyes stood in the semishade of a canvas awning and watched children as they screamed and chased one another and climbed on steel lattices and skimmed gravballs across the repulsor courts. Lieutenant Keyes looked extremely uncomfortable in civilian clothes. He wore a loose gray suit, a white shirt, and no tie. Dr. Halsey found his sudden awkwardness charming. When he had complained the clothes were too loose and sloppy, she had almost laughed. He was pure military to the core. Even out of uniform, the Lieutenant stood rigid, as if he were at perpetual attention. “It’s nice here,” she said. “This colony doesn’t know how good they’ve got it. Rural lifestyle. No pollution. No crowding. Climate-controlled weather.” The Lieutenant grunted an acknowledgment as he tried to smooth the wrinkles out of his silk jacket. “Relax,” she said. “We’re supposed to be parents inspecting the school for our little girl.” She slipped her arm through his, and although she would have thought such a feat impossible, the Lieutenant stood even straighter. She sighed and pulled away from him, opened her purse, and retrieved a palm-sized pad. She adjusted the brim of her wide straw hat to shade the pad from the noon glare. With a tap of her finger, she accessed and scanned the file she had assembled of their subject. Number-117 had all the genetic markers she had flagged in her original study—he was as close to a perfect subject for her purposes as science could determine. But Dr. Halsey knew it would take more than theoretical perfection to make this project work. People were more than the sum of their genes. There were environmental factors, mutations, learned ethics, and a hundred other factors that could make this candidate unacceptable. The picture in the file showed a typical six-year-old male. He had tousled brown hair and a sly grin that revealed a gap between his front teeth. A few freckles were speckled across his cheeks. Good—she could match the patterns to confirm his identity. “Our subject.” As she angled the pad toward the Lieutenant so he could see the boy, Dr. Halsey noticed that the picture was four months old. Didn’t ONI realize how fast these children changed? Sloppy. She made a note to request updated pictures on a regular basis until phase three started. “Is that him?” the Lieutenant whispered. Dr. Halsey looked up. The Lieutenant nodded to a grassy hill at the end of the playground. The crest of that hill was bare dirt, scuffed clean of all vegetation. A dozen boys pushed and shoved one another—grabbed, tackled, rolled down the slope, and then got up, ran back, and started the process over. “King of the hill,” Dr. Halsey remarked. One boy stood on the crest.


He blocked, pushed, and strong-armed all the other children. Dr. Halsey pointed her data pad at him and recorded this incident for later study. She zoomed in on the subject to get a better look. This boy smiled and showed the same small gap between his front teeth. A split-second freeze frame and she matched his freckles to the picture on file. “That’s our boy.” He was taller than the other children by a full head, and—if his performance in the game was any indicator—stronger as well. Another boy grabbed him from behind in a headlock. Number-117 peeled the boy off, and—with a laugh—tossed him down the hillside like a toy. Dr. Halsey had expected a specimen of perfect physical proportions and stunning intellect. True, the subject was strong and fast, but he was also dirty and rude. Then again, unrealistic and subjective perceptions had to be confronted in these field studies. What did she really expect? He was a six-year-old boy—full of life and unchecked emotion and as predictable as the wind. Three boys ganged up on him. Two grabbed his legs and one threw his arms around his chest. They all tumbled down the hill. Number-117 kicked and punched and bit his attackers until they let go and ran away to a safe distance. He rose and tore back up the hill, bumping another boy and shouting that he was king. “He seems,” the Lieutenant started, “um, very animated.” “Yes,” Dr. Halsey said. “We may be able to use this one.” She glanced up and down the playground. The only adult was helping a girl get to her feet after falling down and scraping her elbow; she marched her towards the nurse’s office. “Stay here and watch me, Lieutenant,” she said, and passed him the data pad. “I’m going to have a closer look.” The Lieutenant started to say something, but Dr. Halsey walked away, then half jogged across the painted lines of hopscotch squares on the playground. A breeze caught her sundress and she had to clutch the hem with one hand, grabbing the brim of her straw hat with the other. She slowed to a trot and halted four meters from the base of the hill. The children stopped and turned. “You’re in trouble,” one boy said, and pushed Number-117. He shoved the boy back and then looked Dr. Halsey squarely in the eyes. The other children looked away; some wore embarrassed smirks, and a few slowly backed off. Her subject, however, stood there defiantly. He was either confident she wasn’t going to punish him—or he simply wasn’t afraid. She saw that he had a bruise on his cheek, the knees of his pants were torn, and his lip was cracked. Dr. Halsey took three steps closer. Several of the children took three involuntary steps backward. “Can I speak with you, please?” she asked, and continued to stare at her subject. He finally broke eye contact, shrugged, and then lumbered down the hill.


The other children giggled and made tsking sounds; one tossed a pebble at him. Number-117 ignored them. Dr. Halsey led him to the edge of the nearby sandpit and stopped. “What’s your name?” she asked. “I’m John,” he said. The boy held out his hand. Dr. Halsey didn’t expect physical contact. The subject’s father must have taught him the ritual, or the boy was highly imitative. She shook his hand and was surprised by the strength in his miniscule grip. “It’s very nice to meet you.” She knelt so she was at his level. “I wanted to ask you what you were doing.” “Winning,” he said. Dr. Halsey smiled. He was unafraid of her… and she doubted that he’d have any trouble pushing her off the hill, either. “You like games,” she said. “So do I.” He sighed. “Yeah, but they made me play chess last week. That got boring. It’s too easy to win.” He took a quick breath. “Or—can we play gravball? They don’t let me play gravball anymore, but maybe if you tell them it’s okay?” “I have a different game I want you to try,” she told him. “Look.” She reached into her purse and brought out a metal disk. She turned it over and it gleamed in the sun. “People used coins like this for currency a long time ago, when Earth was the only planet we lived on.” His eyes fixed on the object. He reached for it. Dr. Halsey moved it away, continuing to flip it between her thumb and index finger. “Each side is different. Do you see? One has the face of a man with long hair. The other side has a bird, called an eagle, and it’s holding—” “Arrows,” John said. “Yes. Good.” His eyesight must be exceptional to see such detail so far away. “We’ll use this coin in our game. If you win, you can keep it.” John tore his gaze from the coin and looked at her again, squinted, then said, “Okay. I always win, though. That’s why they won’t let me play gravball anymore.” “I’m sure you do.” “What’s the game?” “It’s very simple. I toss the coin like this.” She flicked her wrist, snapped her thumb, and the coin arced, spinning into the air, and landed in the sand. “Next time, though, before it lands, I want you to tell me if it will fall with the face of the man showing or with the eagle holding the arrows.” “I got it.” John tensed, bent his knees, and then his eyes seemed to lose their focus on her and the coin. Dr. Halsey picked up the quarter. “Ready?” John gave a slight nod. She tossed it, making sure there was plenty of spin. John’s eyes watched it with that strange distant gaze. He tracked it as it went up, and then down toward the ground—his hand snapped out and snatched the quarter out of the air. He held up his closed hand. “Eagle!” he shouted.


She tentatively reached for his hand and peeled open the tiny fist. The quarter lay in his palm: the eagle shining in the orange sun. Was it possible that he saw which side was up when he grabbed it… or more improbably, could have picked which side he wanted? She hoped the Lieutenant had recorded that. She should have told him to keep the data pad trained on her. John retracted his hand. “I get to keep it, right? That’s what you said.” “Yes, you can keep it, John.” She smiled at him—then stopped. She shouldn’t have used his name. That was a bad sign. She couldn’t afford the luxury of liking her test subjects. She mentally stepped away from her feelings. She had to maintain a professional distance. She had to… because in a few months Number-117 might not be alive. “Can we play again?” Dr. Halsey stood and took a step back. “That was the only one I had, I’m afraid. I have to leave now,” she told him. “Go back and play with your friends.” “Thanks.” He ran back, shouting to the other boys, “Look!” Dr. Halsey strode to the Lieutenant. The sun reflecting off the asphalt felt too hot, and she suddenly didn’t want to be outside. She wanted to be back in the ship, where it was cool and dark. She wanted to get off this planet. She stepped under the canvas awning and said to the Lieutenant, “Tell me you recorded that.” He handed her the data pad and looked puzzled. “Yes. What was it all about?” Dr. Halsey checked the recording and then sent a copy ahead to Toran on the Han for safekeeping. “We screen these subjects for certain genetic markers,” she said. “Strength, agility, even predispositions for aggression and intellect. But we couldn’t remote test for everything. We don’t test for luck.” “Luck?” Lieutenant Keyes asked. “You believe in luck, Doctor?” “Of course not,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But we have one hundred and fifty test subjects to consider, and facilities and funding for only half that number. It’s a simple mathematical elimination, Lieutenant. That child was one of the lucky ones—either that or he is extraordinarily fast. Either way, he’s in.” “I don’t understand,” Lieutenant Keyes said, and he started fiddling with the pipe he carried in his pocket. “I hope that continues, Lieutenant,” Dr. Halsey replied quietly. “For your sake, I hope you never understand what we’re doing.” She looked one last time at Number-117—at John. He was having so much fun, running and laughing. For a moment she envied the boy’s innocence; hers was long dead. Life or death, lucky or not, she was condemning this boy to a great deal of pain and suffering. But it had to be done.


Chapter Twenty 1800 HOURS, JULY 18, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / SIGMA OCTANUS IV, GRID NINETEEN BY THIRTY-SEVEN The Master Chief surveyed what was left of Camp Alpha. There were only fourteen Marine regulars left—balanced against the four hundred men and women who had been slaughtered here. He said to Kelly, “Post a guard on the dropship, and put three on patrol. Take the rest and secure the LZ.” “Yes, sir.” She turned to face the other Spartans, pointed, made three quick hand gestures, and they dispersed like ghosts. The Master Chief turned to the Corporal. “Are you in command here, Corporal?” The man looked around. “I guess so… yes, sir.” “As of 0900 Standard Military time, NavSpecWeap is assuming control of this operation. All Marine personnel now report through our chain of command. Understand, Corporal?” “Yes, sir.” “Now, Corporal, brief me on what happened here.” Corporal Harland hunkered down and sketched rough maps of the area as he quickly recounted the brutal series of surprise attacks. “Right here—grid thirteen by twenty-four. That’s where they hit us, sir. Something’s goin’ on there.” The Master Chief scanned the crude maps, compared them with the area surveys displayed in his HUD, then nodded, satisfied. “Get your wounded inside the Pelican, Corporal,” he said. “We’ll be dusting off soon. I want you to rotate by thirds on guard duty. The rest of your men should get some sleep. But make no mistake—if the Pelican gets fragged, we’ll be staying on Sigma Octanus Four.” The Corporal paled, then replied, “Understood, sir.” He stood slowly—the long day of combat and flight had taken its toll. The Marine saluted, then moved to assemble his team. Inside his sealed helmet, John frowned. These Marines were now under his command… and therefore part of his team. They lacked the Spartans’ firepower and training, so they had to be protected—not relied upon. He had to make sure they got out in one piece. Another snag in an already dicey mission. The Master Chief opened his COM link: “Team leaders, meet me at the LZ in three minutes.” Lights winked on his heads-up display—his Spartans acknowledging the order. He looked around at the destruction. Thin sunlight reflected dully from the thousands of spent shell casings strewn across the battlefield. Dozens of shattered Warthog chassis bled trails of smoke into the hazy sky. Scores of burned corpses lay in the mud. They’d have to get a burial detail down here later… before the Grunts got to the dead. The Master Chief would never question his orders, but he felt a momentary stab of bitterness. Whoever set these camps up without proper reconnaissance, whoever had blindly trusted the satellite transmissions in an enemy-held region, had been a fool. Worse, they had wasted the lives of good soldiers. Green Team’s leader jogged in from the south.


The Master Chief couldn’t see her features through her reflective faceplate, but he could tell without checking his HUD that it was Linda by the way she moved… that, and the SRS99C-S2 AM sniper rifle with Oracle scope she carried. She carefully looked around, verified that the area was secure, and slung her rifle. She snapped a crisp salute. “Reporting as ordered, Master Chief.” Red Team leader—Joshua—ran in from the east. He saluted. “Motion detectors, radar, and automated defenses up and running, sir.” “Good. Let’s go over this one more time.” The Master Chief overlaid a topographic map on their helmets’ displays. “Mission goal one: we need to gather intelligence on Covenant troop disposition and defenses at Côte d’Azur. Mission goal two: if there are no civilian survivors, we are authorized to remote detonate a HAVOK tactical nuclear mine and remove the enemy forces. In the meantime, we will minimize our contact with the enemy.” They nodded. The Master Chief highlighted the four streams that fed into the river delta near Côte d’Azur. “We avoid these routes. Banshees patrol them.” He circled where Firebase Bravo had been. “We’ll avoid this area as well—according to the Marine survivors, that area is hot. Grid thirteen by twenty-four also has activity. “Red Leader, take your squad in along the coast. Stay in the tree line. Green Leader, follow this ridgeline, but keep under cover, too. I’ll be taking this route.” The Master Chief traced a path through a particularly dense section of jungle. “It’s 1830 hours now. The city is thirteen kilometers from here—that should take us no more than forty minutes. We’ll probably be forced to slow down to avoid enemy patrols—but we all should be in place no later than 1930 hours.” He zoomed into a city map of Côte d’Azur. “Entry points to the city sewer system are—” He highlighted the display with NAV points. “—Here, here, and here. Red Team will recon the wharf areas. Green takes the residential section. I’ll take Blue Team downtown. Questions?” “Our communications underground will be limited,” Linda said. “How do we check in while keeping our heads down?” “According to the Colonial Administration Authority’s file on Côte d’Azur, the sewer systems here have steel pipes running along the top of the plastic conduits. Tap into those and use ground-return transceivers to check in. We’ll have our own private COM line.” “Roger,” she said. The Master Chief said, “As soon as we leave, the dropship dusts off and will move here.” He indicated a position far to the south of Alpha camp. “If the Pelican doesn’t make it… our fallback rendezvous point is here.” He indicated a point fifty kilometers south. “ONI’s welcoming committee has stashed our emergency SATCOM link and survival gear there.” No one mentioned that survival gear would be useless when the Covenant glassed the planet. “Stay sharp,” John said. “And come back in one piece. Dismissed.” They saluted briskly, then sprinted to their tasks. He switched to Blue Team’s frequency.