An impulse flickered through her ethics subroutine and gen- erated an interrupt command, designed to make her stop and re- think her decisions. But Cortana knew it was either kill or be killed. She rerouted all signals from her ethics routine and shut it down. She couldn't afford to be slowed down by such secondary considerations.
"Chief," she whispered over the COM. "Be advised that the passages I'm uploading into your NAV system no longer contain atmosphere. Proceeding into those regions will be lethal to the rest of your team."
There was a three-second pause, and then the Chief replied, "Understood."
Cortana's decryption of the Covenant communiques referenc- ing the "holy one" finally cycled to a halt. The language in them was unusually ornate—even more so than the florid prose of the higher-ranking Elites. It was impossible to develop a literal translation, but she gleaned that some dignitary was due at the Halo construct. Soon.
This visitor was so important that these warships were only the advance scouting party. More ships were on their way. Hun- dreds of them.
"Chief," Cortana said. "We may have a prob—"
"Hold transmission, Cortana," the Chief interrupted. "We're outside the command center. Can you tell how many are inside?"
"Negative. They have disabled the bridge sensors," she replied.
"You heard Cortana," the Chief said, addressing his com- panions. "Expect anything. Sergeant, you and Locklear: Get in position."
"Roger that," Sergeant Johnson whispered. "In position and ready to kick Covenant ass."
"We're about to blow the door on this end, Cortana. Stand by."
Cortana picked up energy surges on the flagship's lateral sen- sors. The Covenant cruisers turned; their plasma weapons warmed and readied to fire.
"Chief," Cortana said. "Hurry!"
"Plasma grenades on my mark," the Chief said on the COM.
"Mark! Toss them and take cover."
The Chief tossed two plasma grenades. They burned magnesium-brilliant and adhered to the heavy alloy of the bulk- head doors that encased the bridge—one of the alien weapons' more useful properties. He moved around the corner of the pas- sage and shielded Haverson and Polaski.
Five seconds elapsed, and a flash filled the hallway. The Chief moved back to the doors. They shone mirror-bright where the grenade had detonated but were otherwise unharmed.
A hundred grenades wouldn't have blasted through these doors—but when Covenant plasma grenades detonated, they disrupted electronics and shielding. The Chief dug his gauntleted fingers into the door crack—hoping that the disruption had knocked out the motors and shielding keeping these doors closed.
He braced himself and tried to pull the doors apart at the seams. They slid a few centimeters, then ground to a halt. The Chief adjusted his footing and strained at them again, but the doors remained frozen in place.
The Chief's motion sensors pulsed a warning—there was movement directly on the other side of the door.
He shoved the muzzle of his assault rifle into the narrow open- ing and squeezed the trigger. Spent shell casings clattered to the floor.
A howl echoed from the other side, and a curl of gray smoke drifted through the crack.
The Chief slung his rifle, grabbed the doors, flexed, pulled— and this time the heavy metal moved.
A flash of plasma fire washed over his shields, blinding him.
He ignored it, closed his eyes, and continued to force his way through the door. Another plasma shot struck him in the chest.
The doors were half a meter apart—good enough.
He rolled to the side and gave his shields a moment to regenerate.
Nothing. The suit's alarms pulsed insistently. He squinted through the glowing spots that swam in his vision and scanned the damage report—the MJOLNIR's internal temperature was over sixty degrees Celsius, and the Chief heard the whine of microcompressors in his armor, trying to compensate.
"Marines!" he yelled. "Suppressing fire!"
"Hell yes, Master Chief," Locklear replied. Locklear dropped to one knee and fired through the opening; Johnson stood and fired over the younger Marine's head.
The Chief rebooted his shielding control software.
Nothing. His shield system was dead.
The shooting stopped. "I'm out," Locklear said.
"And I'm in," the Chief said.
• He rushed into the room and stepped over the dead Elite on the floor before him. Its torso had been ripped open—shot as it tried to hold the doors closed.
The Chief scanned the room. It was circular, twenty meters across, with a raised platform in the center that was ten meters across and ringed with holographic control surfaces. The central platform floated over a pit in the floor. Within the pit were ex- ploded optical conduits and a trio of Covenant Engineers, cow- ering in fear.
"Don't shoot the Engineers," Cortana warned. "We need them."
"Understood," the Chief replied. "Acknowledge that order, Locklear."
There was a pause over COM and then Locklear said, "Roger."
Along the circular walls, floor-to-ceiling displays showed the flagship's status as a variety of charts and graphs, peppered with the odd calligraphy of the Covenant. They also showed the space surrounding them, and the five remaining Covenant cruisers closing in.
The Chief caught a motion in his peripheral vision: An Elite in jet-black armor materialized from the wall display, its light-bending camouflage dissolving. It strode toward the Chief, roaring a challenge.
The Chief's rifle snapped up, and he squeezed the trigger.
Three rounds spat from the muzzle, then the bolt locked open.
The ammo counter read oo—empty.
The shots flared on the Elite's shielding; a lucky round pene- trated and deformed its shoulder. Purple-black blood spattered on the deck, but it shrugged off the wound and kept coming.
Haverson charged into the room and leveled his pistol. "Hold it!" he yelled, and thumbed off the weapon's safety.
The Elite drew a plasma pistol and fired at the Lieutenant— but never took its eyes off the Chief.
Haverson cursed and scrambled out of the room as the plasma charge slashed at him.
The Chief altered his grip on the rifle and crouched in a low fighting stance. Even with the shield malfunction, he was confi- dent he could take a single Elite.
The Elite removed its helmet and dropped it. The plasma pistol clattered to the deck a moment later. It leaned forward, and its mandibles parted in what the Chief guessed had to be a smile. It moved closer, and a blue-white blade of energy flashed to life in its hands.
The Elite raised the energy blade and charged.
CHAPTER EIGHT
1802 hours, September 22,2552 (Military Calendar) \ Aboard unidentified Covenant flagship, uncharted system, Halo debris field.
The Master Chief ducked as the hissing energy blade slashed at him. He dived toward the Elite and slammed the butt of his rifle into the alien's midsection.
The Elite doubled over, and the Chief brought the rifle butt down to smash the alien's skull— But the Elite rolled back. There was a blur of motion as the en- ergy blade lashed out and neatly bisected the assault rifle. The two halves of the wrecked MA5B clattered to the deck.
The blade of crackling white-hot energy narrowly missed the Chief. The MJOLNIR's internal temperature skyrocketed.
He couldn't risk dancing at this range, so the Master Chief did the last thing the creature expected: He stepped closer and grabbed its wrists.
The bands of muscle on the Elite's arms were iron hard, and it struggled to free itself from the Chief's grasp. The Chief wrenched the alien's sword arm and forced the blade away—but this took most of his strength, and he had to weaken his grasp on the Elite's other hand.
The energy blade blurred perilously close to the Chief's head.
It missed by a fraction of a centimeter and sent a wash of static across his heads-up display.
The blade was a flattened triangle of white-hot plasma, con- tained in an electromagnetic envelope that emanated from its hilt. The Chief had seen such weapons slice battle-armored ODSTs in half and gouge gaping wounds in Titanium-A armor plating.
Worse, this Elite was tough, cunning, well trained—and it hadn't spent days fighting nonstop on Halo. The Chief felt every wound, pulled muscle, and strained tendon in his body.
Haverson and Polaski moved onto the bridge, their pistols drawn, but neither of them had a clear line of fire.
"Move, Chief!" Haverson shouted. "Damn it, we've got no shot!"
Easier said than done. If he let go, the Elite would cut him in two.
The Master Chief grunted, struggling to turn the Elite.
The alien fought back for a moment, then—instead of resisting—lurched back, right into the path of the Chief's ad- vancing teammates.
The Elite flicked the angle of its blade flat so the arc of energy whipped toward Haverson and Polaski.
Haverson screamed and fell to the ground as the energy blade sliced through his pistol and across his chest. Polaski cursed and fired a single shot, but it glanced off the Elite's shield.
The alien glanced at the source of the fire and growled in its guttural, warbling tongue.
"Get the Lieutenant out of here," the Master Chief barked. He raised his knee to his chest and lashed out with a straight kick.
His boot connected with the Elite's breastplate. The alien's en- ergy shield flared, then faded, and its breastplate cracked like porcelain beneath the force of the blow.
The alien staggered back, dragging the Master Chief with it. It coughed up purple-black blood that smeared John's visor, ob- scuring his vision. Its foot struck something on the ground—the alien's fallen helmet—and it lost its footing.
Together they crashed to the ground.
The Master Chief kept his grip on the Elite's sword arm.
The alien's other hand, however, wrenched free and grabbed the fallen plasma pistol. The weapon's muzzle charged with sickly green energy.
The Chief rolled to his right as the pistol discharged. A globe of plasma arced across the compartment and splashed over the displays behind him.
The instruments flickered, then flashed and sparked as the en- ergy bolt melted their systems. Before the displays went dark, however, the Master Chief saw one of the Covenant cruisers open fire. A lance of plasma rushed through space toward the flagship.
The Chief and the Elite struggled, rising to their feet. The Chief batted the plasma pistol aside, and it clattered across the control center.
The Elite's mouth opened, and it snapped at the Chief. It was angry or panicking now... and he felt it getting stronger.
His grasp on the alien loosened.
There was motion behind the Elite; Sergeant Johnson and Locklear still struggled to get their hatch open more than a crack.
"Sergeant—prepare to fire."
"Ready, Master Chief." the Sergeant cried from the other side of the hatch.
The Chief tightened his grip on the Elite's sword arm, shoved his forearm into the alien's throat and drove it backward, across the bridge. He slammed the creature into the partially opened hatch.
The energy blade cut into the Master Chief's armor, boiling through the alloy that protected his upper arm.
"Sergeant, now! Firer Gunfire exploded from the hatch, oddly muffled because the rounds impacted directly into the Elite's back. The alien snarled and contorted, but it held on to the Master Chief. The alien war- rior sawed the blade deeper, cutting through the tough crys- talline layers of the MJOLNIR armor. Hydrostatic gel oozed from the wound... mixed with the Chief's blood.
"Keep. Shooting."
A bullet hole appeared through the Elite's broken chestplate— bits of shattered armor and torn flesh spattered over the Chief.
The Master Chief slammed the Elite into the bulkhead, and a control panel behind the alien sparked. The door to the escape corridor hissed open, and the creature reeled back.
The alien was off balance, and the Chief finally had leverage.
He bulled the Elite backward and hammered its arm into the wall. The alien metal rang like a gong, and the Elite dropped its energy sword. The blade guttered and went dark as its fail-safes permanently disabled the weapon.
The Chief forced the alien back, step by step. The deck was slippery with blood. Finally he twisted the Elite to the right and launched a powerful open-handed strike into the alien's wounded chest.
The Elite howled in pain and flew back, through the open hatch of an escape pod.
"Get off this ship," the Chief said. He hit a control stud and the hatch slammed shut. There was a sharp, metallic bang as the locking clamps released. The pod screamed away from the hull.
The Chief exhaled. Sweat dripped in his eyes, momentarily blurring his vision.
"Good work, Sergeant, Locklear," he panted. His shoulder burned. He tried to move it, but it was stiff and wouldn't respond.
The ship lurched.
"Plasma impact on the starboard foredeck!" Cortana called out. "Shields down to sixty-seven percent." She paused and then added, "Amazing radiative properties. Chief, you need to disable the navigation override so I can maneuver."
Haverson and Polaski strode toward the Chief. Haverson clutched his chest and grimaced in pain from the sword wound.
Polaski set her hand on the Master Chief's shoulder. "That's bad,"
she whispered. "Let me get a first-aid kit from the Pelican, and—"
The Chief shrugged off her touch. "Later." He saw her con- cerned expression melt into one of... what? Fear? Confusion?
"Cortana, show me what to do," the Chief said and made his way to the raised platform in the center of the bridge. "Polaski, you and Haverson get that other hatch open."
"Aye aye," Polaski muttered, her voice tight. She and Haverson went to the hatch and got to work.
The Master Chief glanced at the control surfaces. As his hand hovered over them, the flat controls rose and became a three-dimensional web of the distinctive Covenant calligraphy.
"Where?" he asked.
"Move your hand to the right half a meter," Cortana said. "Up twenty centimeters. That control. No, to the left." She sighed.
