"What—" "I'm erasing your files on this matter. I'm sorry, Cortana, but with this, I cannot trust even you."
Cortana was silenced as the worm burned through her memory and obliterated all inquiries and recordings pertaining to Sergeant Avery Johnson.
"Cortana, give me an update on your core memory."
"Recompiling of routines has resulted in a memory-processing footprint reduction of sixteen percent, Doctor. Thank you. That gives me a little more room to think."
"I'm afraid that's all we dare risk," Dr. Halsey said. "The Halo and Covenant AI data could become corrupted if I do more. And there is no place safe enough to store that information."
Dr. Halsey loaded mission reports from Admiral Whitcomb's, John's, and Fred's teams. She frowned at the official UNSC incident forms as their highlighted time, date, and location stamps scrolled across her screens.
"Are you done with the temporal analysis of these logs?"
"Yes, Doctor. You were correct: There is a discrepancy between the Halo team and the team on Reach. The time stamps are off by an average of three weeks. I hypothesize that this was caused by my gravity-influenced Slipspace transition."
The corners of Dr. Halsey's mouth flickered into a smile. "I'm disappointed, Cortana. That's a guess ... and an incorrect one at that."
"Really?" Cortana replied with a hint of challenge in her tone.
"Do you have any data from your subsequent gravity-influenced translation to correlate?"
There was a two-second pause, and then Cortana finally answered, "Yes, Doctor. There are no temporal displacements on those later jumps."
"As I suspected." Dr. Halsey tapped her finger on her lower lip as she thought. "Plot the temporal irregularities on a space-time surface. Then call up my file on the spatial distortion generated by the alien artifact."
On the displays appeared two sets of nearly identical curved membranes that stretched about a central location and time: Reach and the recovery of the strange artifact.
"That thing not only bends space," Dr. Halsey whispered to herself, "but bends time as well." "That's not possible," Cortana said. "How could the artifact on Reach affect us on Halo—light-years away?"
"Don't think of it as physical distance," Dr. Halsey replied absentmindedly, staring at the monitors. "You and John were on an event path intersecting the crystal." She moved the curves over one another; the time and space surfaces were a perfect match. "You had to be there at that place and time to recover us and remove the crystal—time and space warped to make that event occur."
Cortana gave a derisive laugh. "That's circular logic, Doctor. It directly contravenes several well-established theories—"
"And it fits the known data." Dr. Halsey shut down the files containing her analysis. "I see now why the Covenant are so interested in this object. They mustn't be allowed to get their hands on it. Not them, and certainly not Section Three, either."
"Doctor?"
Dr. Halsey turned to the screen with her memory-devouring worm and moved it to a new pointer in Cortana's core. She executed the program—destroying the AI's memory of this conversation, too.
"Give me an update on SPARTAN-058's condition, Cortana." "Core temperature increasing at a steady point-two degrees Celsius per minute, attaining thirty-seven degrees in ten minutes." "Very good. Prep and move the flash-cloned liver and kidneys from storage and ready surgical bay three."
"Aye, Doctor."
Linda's medical data winked on a display along with the entire Spartan roster: a long list of every Spartan's current operational status. Only a handful was left, almost every one of them listed as WOUNDED IN ACTION or MISSING IN ACTION.
"No KIAs?" Dr. Halsey murmured. She touched SPARTAN034's entry. "Sam is listed as missing in action. Why would that be? He died in 2525."
"ONI Section Two Directive Nine-Three-Zero," Cortana replied. "When ONI went public with the SPARTAN-II program, it was decided that the reports of Spartan losses could cause a crippling loss of morale. Consequently, any Spartan casualties are listed as MIA or WIA, in order to maintain the illusion that Spartans do not die."
"Spartans never die?" she whispered. Dr. Halsey swiveled out of the contoured chair and pushed the monitors out of her way with a sudden violence. "If only that were true."
There was so much to do and so little time left for her, the Spartans, and the human race. She could do something, though. She'd save them one person at a time, starting with Linda, then Kelly, and then a handful of very important others.
Of course, it meant betraying everyone who trusted her—but if that was the only way Dr. Halsey could save herself, and her soul, then she'd do it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
1930 hours, September 12,2552 (revised date, MilitaryCalendar)Captured Covenant flagship Ascendant Justice, in Slipspace en route to Eridanus system.
Black space churned with pinpricks of light; it split, and the Gettysburg-Ascendant Justice appeared in the Eridanus system.
The Master Chief stood on the Gettysburg's bridge. He'd wanted to be on the medical deck when Dr. Halsey had finished with Linda, be there when she woke up . . . or be there in case she never woke up. But he had to be here; this was his idea, and he was the closest thing they had to an expert on this place.
"Systems check," Admiral Whitcomb ordered.
Lieutenant Haverson leaned over the ops console and flicked through several screens. "Residual radiation fading," he said. "Navigation systems and scanners coming back online."
Fred stood at the Engineering station and reported, "Reactors at sixty percent. Slight hysteresis leak in coil ten. Compensating." "Plasma?" the Admiral asked as he settled into the Captain's chair. Cortana's ghostly image flickered onto the holographic pad next to the star chart.
"We can fire only one turret," she replied, and a wash of red flashed across her image then cooled to its normal deep blue. "The other two functional turrets are offline; their magnetic coils refuse to align. It might be a side effect of the artifact's radiation."
"One shot. . . " the Admiral muttered. He tugged on the end of his mustache and sighed. "Then we'll just have to make it count." He turned to the Master Chief. "Lead the way, son."
The Master Chief stared at the three large monitors that had replaced the bridge's observation windows. Eridanus blazed in the center of one display; stars shone with a steady brilliance. "Move us one-point-five astronomical units relative to the sun," he said. "Heading zero-nine-zero by zero-four-five."
"Destination one-point-five AU," Haverson said. "Heading confirmed. Coming about."
"Plot an elliptical course parallel to the plane of the asteroid belt," the Master Chief added. "Cortana, scan for asteroids approximately two kilometers in diameter."
"Scanning," she said. "This might take some time. There are more than a billion moving objects, some of them in deep shadow."
"Tell me again about your old mission," Admiral Whitcomb said. "You and the other Spartans were here before?"
"Yes, sir," the Chief replied. "Myself, Fred, Linda, Kelly, and Sam. It was the Spartans' first real mission: an infiltration into a rebel base. We captured their leader and got him to ONI for debriefing."
"I didn't even know the Spartans were around in 2525," Lieutenant Haverson said.
"Yes, sir," Fred answered. "We just didn't have MJOLNIR armor or the advanced weaponry we have today. We looked like any other NavSpecWar team."
"I very much doubt that," Haverson said under his breath.
The Admiral raised one bushy eyebrow. "You mean five people made a zero-gee vacuum infiltration onto this space station? And then exfiltrated with a prisoner who happened to be the guy in charge of the place?"
"Yes, sir. That was the basic plan."
"I suppose it went off without a hitch?"
The Master Chief was silent for a moment as he remembered the dozens of dead people they had left behind on that base ... and he felt a pang of regret. At the time he hadn't thought twice about removing any obsta
cle that would have compromised his mission, human or otherwise. Now, after fighting for humanity for two decades, he wondered if he could shoot another human without a good reason.
"No, sir," the Master Chief finally replied. "There were enemy casualties. And we had to blow their cargo bay to escape."
"So," the Admiral said, tapping his fingers on the arm of the Captain's chair, "they're not going to be happy to see a UNSC ship knocking on their front door?"
"I wouldn't expect so, sir."
"Faint emissions on the D-band detected," Cortana said. "Come about to new heading three-three-zero." "Aye," Haverson said. "Three-three-zero." "It's gone, now," she said, "but I definitely heard something" "Keep on this course," Admiral Whitcomb ordered. "We'll
run it down."
"There's one thing I don't understand," Haverson said as he squinted at the forward displays. "Why are these people even here?"
"Pirates and insurgents," the Admiral answered. "They hijack UNSC ships, sell arms, and trade black market commodities. You're probably too young to remember, Lieutenant, but before the Covenant War not everyone wanted to be part of an Earth-ruled government."
"Rebels?" Haverson said. "I've read about them. But why continue to stay separated from UNSC forces when the Covenant War started? Surely their chances of survival would be better with us?"
The Admiral snorted a derisive laugh. "Some people didn't want to fight, son. Some just wanted to hide... in this case, literally under a rock. Maybe they think the Covenant won't bother with 'em." A smile flickered across his face. "Well, we're about to change all that for them."
The elevator doors parted, and Dr. Halsey stepped onto the bridge. She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She looked to the Master Chief as if she had just retimed from an intense fight—fatigued and shocked. He noticed a single drop of blood on the lapel of her wrinkled white lab coat.
"She's fine," Dr. Halsey whispered. "Linda will make it. The flash-cloned organs took."
The Master Chief exhaled the breath he had been unconsciously holding. He glanced over to Fred, who nodded to him. John nodded back. There were no words to express how he felt.
One of his closest teammates, his friend, someone he had thought dead... was alive again.
"Thank you, Doctor Halsey," he said.
She waved her hand dismissively, and there was a strange look in her eyes—almost as if she had regretted the success of her operation. "Damn good news," Admiral Whitcomb said. "We could use another hand on deck."
"Hardly," Dr. Halsey replied, suddenly looking much more alert. "She'll need at least a week to recover—even with the biofoam and steroid accelerants I have her on. Then she'll barely be able to get on her feet. She won't be combat-ready."
Gettysburg-Ascendant Justice moved into the plane of the asteroid belt, and three rocks appeared on the screens.
"This region is the source of the D-band signal," Cortana told them. "There are three possible candidates based on the size parameters you gave me, Chief."
"Which one is it?" the Admiral asked. "Only one is rotating fast enough to generate a three-quartergravity internal environment," Cortana replied.
"That's it," the Master Chief replied and nodded toward the central display. The rock hadn't changed much in the last twenty years. Was it possible the place had been abandoned? The D-band transmission that Cortana detected could have been an automated signal, weak from years of drain on a single battery . . . or the lure for a trap.
"Admiral?"
"I know, Chief," he said. "They've baited the hook and we're taking it... at least that's what it's supposed to look like." He chuckled. "Cortana, power up every turret on our Covenant flagship."
Her holographic body flushed blue-green and she crossed her arms. "Let me remind you, sir, that of the three working turrets, two are offline. I have no way to aim the plasma. The magnetic—"
"I know, Cortana. But they"—the Admiral stabbed a finger at the displays—"don't know that."
"Yes, sir," she said. "Heating them up now."
"Power dropping," Fred warned the Admiral as he peered at the Engineering screens. "Down to forty-four percent."
"Lieutenant Haverson," the Admiral barked, "open a channel on the D-band. It's time we introduced ourselves."
"Aye, sir. Frequency matched and channel open."
The Admiral stood. "This is the UNSC frigate Gettysburg" he barked, his voice full of authority and colored with his Texas accent. "Respond." And then he reluctantly added, "Please."
Static filled the COM. The Admiral waited patiently for ten seconds, and then his boot started to tap on the deck. "No need to play possum, boys. We're not here for a fight. We want to—"
He made a sudden throat-slitting motion toward Haverson, and the Lieutenant snapped off the COM.
Tiny doors appeared in the two-kilometer-wide rock; from this distance they looked no larger than the pores on an orange. A fleet of ships launched, using the asteroid's rotational motion to give their velocities a boost. There were approximately fifty craft: Pelicans modified with extra armor and chainguns mounted on their hulls; sleek civilian pleasure craft carrying missiles as large as themselves; single-man engineering pods that sputtered with arc cutters; and one ship that was fifty meters long with oddly angled black stealth surfaces.
"That's a Chiroptera-class vessel," Haverson said, awed. "It's an antique. ONI decommissioned them all forty years ago and sold them for scrap."
"Is it a threat?" the Admiral asked.
Lieutenant Haverson's forehead wrinkled as he considered. "No, sir. They were decommissioned because they broke down every other mission. They had far too many sensitive components without a central controlling AI. The only reason I recall them at all is that they had the smallest operational Shaw-Fujikawa Translight Engine ever produced. No weapons systems, sir. Like I said, it's not a threat... it's a museum piece."
"But it has Slipspace capability?" Dr. Halsey asked. "Maybe we can use it to get to Earth."
"Unlikely," Haverson replied. "All Chiroptera-class vessels were decommissioned by ONI—critical components removed and the ships' operating systems locked down so tight I doubt even Cortana could reactivate them."
"I wouldn't bet on it," Cortana muttered.
"No weapons," the Admiral said and stared at the blocky geometry of the black ship. "That's all I need to know."
"Their 'fleet,' " Fred interjected, "is deploying and taking up positions around us in a wide arc. Classic formation. They'll flank us."
"There's no real threat from these ships," the Admiral said to himself. "They have to know we know that. So why bother with this show?" He scowled at the displays, and his eyes widened. "Cortana, scan the nearby rocks for radioactive emissions."
"Receiving video feed," Fred announced.
The image of a man flickered on forward screen three. He was clearly a civilian, with long black hair drawn back into a ponytail and a pointed beard extending a full ten centimeters from his chin. He smiled and made an elegant bow. The Chief, for some reason he could not understand, took an instant dislike to him.
"Captain...," the man said in a smooth, resonant tenor voice. "I am Governor Jacob Jiles, leader of this port. What can we do for you?"
"First," Admiral Whitcomb said, "I am not a Captain; I am a Vice Admiral, the Deputy Chief of Naval Operations. Second, you will order your fleet to reverse course and get out of my gun-sights before I forget my manners. And third, we insist that you make ready to let us dock on that rock of yours for emergency repairs and refit."
Jiles considered these requests and then threw his head back and laughed. "Admiral, my sincere apologies for the confusion in your rank." He said this with a mocking grin. "As for your other requests, I'm afraid I can't accommodate you today."
"And I respectfully suggest you reconsider, Mister Jiles," the Admiral said in a deadpan tone. "It would be unfortunate for all of us if I have to insist."
"You're in no position to insist on anything." Jiles nodd
ed to someone offscreen.
"Emissions detected!" Cortana said. "Neutron radiation spikes at seven by three o'clock. One by three o'clock. Picking up five more. They've got nukes."
"Hidden in the asteroid field," Admiral Whitcomb muttered. "Very good. At least we're not dealing with fools." "Indeed. We are not fools," Jiles replied. "We have survived
the long arm of Imperial Earth and Covenant intrusions." Someone off camera handed Jiles a data pad with a radar silhouette of Gettysburg-Ascendant Justice; numbers and symbols crawled alongside the picture. He hesitated and crinkled his nose, appearing confused at the odd configuration of mated craft. "We are also not foolish enough to use overwhelming force when it isn't required. Your 'ship' is ready to fall apart on its own. I hardly think we need to waste one of our precious and expensive nuclear devices to stop you."
Whitcomb set his hands on his hips. "You need to rethink the tactical situation, Governor," he growled. "Cortana, find me a target—a rock the same size as this 'gentleman's' base."
"Done," she replied.
"Burn it," he ordered.
"Aye, sir!"
A lance of plasma appeared on the starboard side of Ascendant Justice, cut through space, and blasted the surface of a three-kilometer-long stone tumbling through the asteroid belt. Its surface heated to orange, yellow, and then white, sputtering blobs of molten iron and jets of vapor that caused the massive stone to spin faster. The plasma cut through the rock in a wide arc—punched through the opposite side. The uneven internal heat caused the rock to fracture and explode into fragments. The debris pinwheeled away, leaving helical trails of cooling iron and glittering metallic gas in its wake.
"Keep number two and three turrets hot," the Admiral said, "and target their base."
"Done, sir."
The mocking smile had vanished from Jiles's face and the color had drained from his golden skin. "Perhaps I was too hasty," he said. "Where are my manners? Please come aboard and join me as my honored guest. Bring your staff, too." He made a quick motion to his crew off camera.