The officer wondered what Silva planned to do with them, and sipped the last of her coffee before wandering onto the plateau beyond. Covenant POWs, all chained together at the ankles, were busy digging graves. One section for members of their armed forces, and one for the humans. It was a sobering sight, as were the rows of tarp-covered bodies, and all for what?
For Earth, she told herself, and the billions who would go unburied if the Covenant found them.
There was a lot to do – the morning passed quickly. Major Silva was back on duty by 1300 hours and sent a runner to find McKay. As she entered his office she saw that he was sitting behind his makeshift desk, working at a computer. He looked up and pointed to a chair salvaged from a lifeboat. “Take a load off, Lieutenant. Nice job out there. I should take naps more often! How are you feeling?”
McKay dropped into the chair, felt it adjust to fit her body, and shrugged. “I’m tired, sir, but otherwise fine.”
“Good,” Silva said, bringing his fingers together into a steeple. “Because there’s plenty of work to do. We’ll have to drive everyone hard – and that includes ourselves.”
“Sir, yes sir.”
“So,” Silva continued, “I know you’ve been busy, but did you get a chance to read the report Wellsley put together?”
A crate of small but powerful wireless computers like the one sitting on the Major’s desk had been recovered from the Autumn but McKay had yet to turn hers on. “I’m afraid not, sir. Sorry.”
Silva nodded. “Well, based on information acquired during routine debriefings, our digital friend believes that the raid was both less and more than we assumed.”
McKay allowed her eyebrows to rise. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that rather than the real estate itself, the Covies were after something, or more precisely someone they thought they would find here.”
“Captain Keyes?”
“No,” the other officer replied, “Wellsley doesn’t think so, and neither do I. A group of their stealth Elites were able to penetrate the lower levels of the complex. They killed everyone they came into contact with, or thought they did, but one tech played dead, and another was knocked unconscious. They were in different rooms but both told the same story. Once in the room, and having gained control of it, one of those commando Elites – the bastards in the black combat suits – would momentarily reveal himself. He spoke passable standard – and asked both groups the same question. ‘Where is the human with the special armor?’”
“They were after the Spartan,” McKay said thoughtfully.
“Exactly.”
“So, where is the Chief?”
“That,”Silva replied, “is a very good question. Where indeed? He went looking for Keyes, surfaced in the middle of a swamp, told Foehammer that the Captain was probably dead, and disappeared a few minutes later.”
“Think he’s dead?” McKay inquired.
“I don’t know,” Silva replied grimly, “although it wouldn’t make too much difference if he were. No, I suspect that he and Cortana are out there playing games.”
With Keyes out of the picture once more, Silva had reassumed command, and McKay could understand his frustration. The Master Chief was an asset, or would have been if he were around, but now, out freelancing somewhere, the Spartan was starting to look like a liability. Especially given how many of Silva’s troops had died in order to defend a man who wasn’t even there.
Yes, McKay could understand the Major’s frustration, but couldn’t sympathize with it. Not after seeing the Chief in that very room, his skin unnaturally white after too much time spent in his armor, his eyes filled with – what? Pain? Suffering? A sort of wary distrust?
The officer wasn’t sure, but whatever it was didn’t have anything to do with ego, with insubordination, or a desire for personal glory. Those were truths that McKay could access, not because she was a seasoned soldier, but because she was a woman, something Silva could never aspire to be. But it wouldn’t do any good to say that, so she didn’t.
Her voice was level. “So, where does that leave us?”
“Situation normaclass="underline" We’re cut off and probably surrounded.” The chair sighed as Silva leaned back. “Like the old saying goes, ‘a good defense is a good offense.’ Rather than just sit around and wait for the Covenant to attack again, let’s take the hurt to them. Nothing big, not yet anyway, but the kind of pinpricks that still draw blood.”
McKay nodded. “And you want me to come up with some ideas?”
Silva grinned. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Yes, sir,” McKay said, coming to her feet. “I’ll have something by morning.”
Silva watched the Company Commander exit his office, wasted five seconds wishing he had six more just like her, and went back to work.
The Master Chief felt himself rush back together like a puzzle with a million pieces, wondered what had happened, and where he was. He felt disoriented, nauseated, and angry.
A quick look around was sufficient to ascertain that the machine named 343 Guilty Spark had somehow transported him from the swamp into the bowels of a dark, brooding structure. He saw the machine hovering high above, glowing a thin, ghostly blue.
The Spartan raised his assault weapon, and fired half a clip into it. The bullets were dead on, but had no effect other than to elicit a bemused response.
“That was unnecessary, Reclaimer. I suggest that you conserve your ammunition for the effort ahead.”
No less angry, but with little choice but to accept the situation, the Chief looked around. “So where am I?”
“The installation was specifically built to study and contain the Flood,” the machine answered patiently. “Their survival as a race was dependent on it. I am grateful to see that some of them survived to reproduce.”
“‘Survived’? ‘Reproduce’? What the hell are you talking about?” the Chief demanded.
“We must collect the Index,” Spark said, leaving the Spartan’s questions unanswered. “And time is of the essence. Please follow me.”
The blue light zipped away at that point, forcing the Chief to follow, or be left behind. He checked both his weapons as he walked. “Speaking of you, who the hell are you, and what’s your function?”
“I am 343 Guilty Spark,” the machine said, pedantically. “I am the Monitor, or more precisely, a self-repairing artificial intelligence charged with maintaining and operating this facility. But you are the Reclaimer – so you know that already.”
The Master Chief didn’t know anything of the kind, but it seemed wise to play along, so he did. “Yes, well, refresh my memory... how long has it been since you were left in charge?”
“Exactly 101,217 local years,” the Monitor replied cheerfully, “many of which were quite boring. But not anymore! Hee, hee, hee.”
The Spartan was taken aback by the sudden giggle from the small machine. He knew that the AIs humans used could, over time, develop personalities politely described as “quirky.” 343 Guilty Spark had been here for tens of thousands of years.
It was quite possible that the little AI was insane.
The Monitor chattered on, nattering about “effecting repairs to substation nine” and other non sequiturs.
His dialogue was interrupted as a variety of Flood forms bounced, waddled, and leaped out of the surrounding darkness. Suddenly the Chief was fighting for his life again, moving back and forth to stretch the enemy out, blasting anything that moved.
That was when he first identified a new Flood form. They were large misshapen things that would explode when fired upon, spewing up to a dozen infection forms in every direction, thereby multiplying the number of targets that the shooter had to track and kill.