On screen the Admiral wheeled toward the bulkhead sealing the flagship's bridge. Sparks cascaded along the seam as arc cut- ters on the other side penetrated. "Master Chief, I have final orders for you."
"Sir," John said.
"You watch and see what's left of this rabble when we're done with 'em. Do not engage under any circumstances. You get the intel and hightail it back to Earth and make your report."
"Understood, sir."
"Now listen, son, remember when we talked about the Alamo?
You know every one of the brave defenders in those fights died.
They knew the odds, but they hurt the enemy." He gritted his teeth in pain. "Both were tactical defeats, but in the end they were also brilliant strategic victories. They made the enemy afraid. Just a few good soldiers fighting for what's right made the difference."
"Yes, sir."
John remembered all those who had made a difference for him. Sam. James. CPO Mendez. Captain Keyes. The men and women who had fought and died on Halo. And now two more names to add to that list: Whitcomb and Haverson.
The bulkhead blasted off its mounts and clattered onto the deck of the Ascendant Justice's bridge. Silhouetted in the passage were dozens of Elites, their energy swords blurs of motion and light. Admiral Whitcomb fired a submachine gun.
The central viewscreen dissolved into static.
John watched for a moment, hoping the Admiral and the Lieu- tenant would reappear ... but screen number two remained offline.
Video feed from the Clarion spy drone filled the side screens.
There were two hundred warships clustered tightly about the figure-eight-shaped Unyielding Hiewphant. A similar number of ships circled in loose orbital trajectories. The formation reminded John of a miniature spiral galaxy... with a supernova core.
The dorsal bulb of the space station shot with color—red, or- ange, and blurred with blue-white heat in a heartbeat; plasma tendrils erupted from the surface like solar flares. Internal explo- sions chained down the station's length through the narrow center portion and into the ventral bulb, shattering that section and discharging bolts of lightning that arced along the station's frag- ments and to the nearby ships.
The Unyielding Hierophant became a roiling cloud of fiery plasma and smoke and static charges that enveloped the ships that had come to engage Ascendant Justice, ships that flashed white hot and, in an instant, vaporized.
This thunderhead of superheated and pressurized gas bal- looned outward to engulf the rest of the orbiting flotilla; heated their shields, which shimmered silver and popped like soap bub- bles; melted their hulls and consumed them.
The blast cooled and the cloud dissipated—but ejected debris continued outward, leaving comet trails, and impacted on stray ships not near the epicenter.
"Move the drone back into the moon's shadow," John ordered.
"Aye, Chief," Will said. "Thrusters responding."
The side viewscreens showed a hailstorm of molten metal streaking toward the drone's cameras—then their view was obscured by the black- and silver-pockmarked surface of the tiny moon.
"Cortana, is the Gettysburg ready to jump?" the Chief asked.
"Slipspace capacitors charged, Master Chief. Ready when you are."
"Stand by." John waited a minute. No one spoke. "Will, bring the drone back out."
"Roger, Chief."
The side viewscreen changed from moonscape to space.
There was little left of the fleet or the command-and-control station—only clouds of smoke, glittering metal, and ashes.
A few Covenant warships survived. Those that could slowly moved away from the blast site ... others drifted dead in space.
Perhaps a dozen of their original five hundred craft had come through the explosion.
"A brilliant strategic victory," John whispered, the Admiral's last words echoing in his mind.
"Cortana, get us out of here."
The Master Chief stood on the bridge of the Gettysburg and watched the stars blur and vanish into the absolute blackness of Slipspace.
They had jumped away from the battle zone over the Unyield- ing Hierophant, emerged in normal space, and plotted their position. Cortana adjusted their course, and now they were finally on their way to Earth. Although they had overwhelming evidence that the Covenant knew the location of Earth, "overwhelming"
was not absolute proof. The Cole Protocol still applied.
"Slipspace transition complete," Cortana said. "ETA to Earth in thirty-five hours, Chief." The tiny hologram of Cortana continued to stare at him, and her slender brows knit together.
"Was there something else, Cortana?" he asked.
The furrow in her brow deepened. She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. "I was wondering about the copy of my in- filtration programming." Cortana's color cooled from blue to ultramarine. "I've reviewed your mission logs. Maybe it was the additional copying that caused its breakdown, but that copy did have some of my core personality programming as well. I just hope it's not a sign of.. . some other instability."
Cortana had been on edge. She had been so distracted at times she hadn't known the correct time. They had, however, all been pushed to the breaking point in the last few weeks. And despite any minor flaws, Cortana had always come through for him.
"We couldn't have survived without you," he finally told her.
"Your programming is as good as ours."
She tinged pink and then her hologram returned to a cool blue hue. "Are my aural systems malfunctioning or was that a com- pliment, Chief?"
"Continue to monitor Slipspace for any anomalies," the Master Chief said, ignoring her.
He strode to the three forward viewscreens and stared into blackness. He wanted solitude, to gaze at nothing, and complete the task that he dreaded.
John pulled his team roster onto his heads-up display. He ran down the list, designating all those who had died on Reach, and af- terward, as Missing In Action. James, Li, Grace... and all his dead teammates who would never officially be "allowed" to die. And in his mind, they would never find any peace until this war was won.
He paused at Kelly's name.
John listed her as MIA, too. She was ironically the only Spar- tan truly missing, whisked away by Dr. Halsey on some secret pri- vate mission. John knew that whatever the doctor had planned, she would protect Kelly if she could. Still, he couldn't help but worry about them both.
He added Corporal Locklear to his list and designated him Killed In Action. It was a more fitting end for a man who had been as much a warrior as any Spartan.
The last three names on his list he stared at for a long time: Warrant Officer Shiela Polaski, Lieutenant Elias Haverson, and Admiral Danforth Whitcomb. He reluctantly listed them as KIA and referenced his mission report, which detailed their heroism.
Two men had stopped a Covenant armada. They had willingly died doing it, and they had bought the human race a brief respite from destruction.
John felt glad. They were soldiers, sworn to protect humanity from all threats, and they had fulfilled their duty as few ever could. And like his Spartans who were "missing in action," the Admiral and the Lieutenant would never die, either. Not because of a technicality in a mission status listing, but because in their deaths they would live on as inspirations.
John turned and watched as Linda, Will, and Fred occupied the bridge stations. John would make sure that he and the last surviving Spartans did the same.
The elevator doors opened, and Sergeant Johnson stepped onto the bridge.
"Got all those Covenant Engineers rounded up on B-Deck,"
Sergeant Johnson announced. "Slippery suckers."
The Chief nodded.
"The boys at ONI and those squid heads have a lot in com- mon. Can't understand a thing they say and they're just as good looking. Guess they're all going to have a long talk about technical whatsits and scientific doodads when we get home."
Sergeant Johnson crossed the bridge to the Master Chief.
"There's one other thing. Another ONI thing." He held out a data crystal and his gaze fell to the deck. "Lieutenant Haverson gave this to me before he and the Admiral left. He said you'd have to deliver it for him."
John stared at the data crystal and reluctantly plucked it from the Sergeant's fingers as if it were a slug of unstable radioactive material.
"Thank you, Sergeant." He hesitated and then added, "I'll take care of this."
The Sergeant nodded and strode toward Weapons Station One.
John turned back to the blank monitors and retrieved the other data crystal from his belt compartment. Yesterday he had be- lieved he had done the right thing by giving the Lieutenant all of Dr. Halsey's Flood data—including the data on the Sergeant, which she assured him would lead to his death.
But now?
Now, John knew the difference one man could make in this war. He understood Dr. Halsey's desire to save every person she could.
John held the two data crystals, one in each hand, and stared at them—trying to discern the future from their glimmering facets.
That was the point, wasn't it? He couldn't know the future. He had to do what he could to save every person. Today. Now.
So he decided.
He tightened his fist around the crystal with the complete mis- sion data and crushed it to dust. John couldn't condemn Sergeant Johnson.
He hefted the remaining data crystal. There would have to be enough in it for ONI. He set the crystal securely back into his belt.
Today they had won. They had stopped the Covenant. John would return to Earth with a warning and enough intel to keep scientists at ONI busy.
But what about tomorrow? The Covenant didn't give up once they set their sights on a target. They wanted Earth—they'd come for it. Destroying their fleet would only delay that in- evitable fact.
They had time, though. Maybe enough time to prepare for whatever the Covenant could throw at them.
John would take today's victory. And he'd be there when the fighting started again—he'd be there to win.
SECTION VII HARBINGER EPILOGUE Ninth Age of Reclamation, Step of Silence \ Covenant Holy City "High Charity," Sanctum of the Hierarchs.
A hundred thousand probes darted and scanned with winking electronic eyes across the void of tangled nonspaces enveloping the Covenant inner empire. They gathered data and emerged into the cold vacuum, where they were recovered by the hundreds of supercarriers and cruisers in station-keeping positions around the massive, bulbous planetoid that dominated the heavens.
Not a single rock larger than a centimeter could enter this space without being identified, targeted, and vaporized. Autho- rization codes were updated hourly, and if any incoming vessel hesitated for a millisecond with the proper response, it, too, met unyielding destruction.
The High Charity drifted beneath this impervious network, il- luminated by the glow from scores of warship engines.
Deep within, protected by legions of crack Covenant soldiers, the Sanctum of the Heirarchs was an island of calm. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the chamber were ornamented with mirrored shards made from the fused glass of countless worlds conquered by the Covenant Hegemony. They reflected the whispered thoughts of the one who sat in the center of this room—mirrored them back, so they might consider the glory of its domain, and learn from its wisdom... because there was no higher source of intel- lect, will, and truth alive in the galaxy.
In the middle of the chamber, hovering a meter off the floor upon its imperial dais, sat the Covenant High Prophet of Truth.
Its body was barely discernible, covered as it was with a wide red cloak, and upon its head sat a glowing headpiece with sensor and respiratory apparatus that extended like insect antennae.
Only its snout and dark eyes protruded. . . as did tiny claws from the sleeve of its gold underrobes.
The left claw twitched—the signal for the chamber's doors to open.
The doors groaned and split apart, and a crack of light appeared.
A single figure appeared silhouetted in the illumination. It bowed so deeply that its chest brushed against the floor.
"Rise," the Prophet of Truth whispered. The word was amplified by the chamber; it echoed and boomed forth as if a giant had spoken. "Come closer, Tartarus, and report."
A ripple of shock passed through the Imperial Elite Protec- tors. They had never seen such a creature allowed so close to the Holy Ones.
"Protectors," the Prophet commanded. "Leave us."
Together the three hundred honor guards straightened, bowed, and filed out of the great chamber. They said nothing, but the Prophet saw the confusion on their features. Good—such igno- rance and puzzlement had its uses.
The Brute, Tartarus, strode across the great room. When he stood within three meters of the Prophet, he fell to one knee.
The creature was a magnificent specimen of viciousness. The Prophet marveled at its near-unthinking potential for mayhem; the rippling muscle under its dull gray skin could tear apart any opponent—even a mighty Hunter. It was the perfect instrument.
"Tell me what you found," the Prophet said, its voice now truly a whisper.
Without looking up Tartarus reached for its belt and the at- tached orb.
The Prophet flicked its claw at the container. It floated free from Tartarus's grasp and hovered. The top unscrewed, and three glittering chips of sapphire-colored crystal shimmered, and threw light and shadow upon the chamber's mirrored surfaces.
The Prophet's dais bobbled in the suddenly uneven gravity— but it quickly compensated.
"This is all?" it asked.
"Eight squadrons combed the area surrounding the Eridanus Secundus asteroid field andTau Ceti," the Brute replied, bowing its head even lower. "Many were lost in the void. This is all there was to find."
"A pity."
The orb's lid screwed itself back on, and then the container gently drifted into the Prophet's grasp.
"It may yet be enough for our purposes... and one more relic from the Great Ones, as precious as they are, will soon make no difference to us." The Prophet tucked the container deep in the folds of its underrobe. "Make sure those pilots who survived are well rewarded. Then execute them all. Quickly. Quietly."
