It was dark, and snow continued to fall, which meant that visibility was poor. He kept a close eye on both the nav point Cortana had projected onto his HUD and the instrument panel. The design was different, but an alien turn and bank indicator still looked like what it was, and helped the human maintain his orientation.
The attack ship made good speed, and the valleys were quite close together, so it wasn’t long before the Spartan spotted the well-lit platform which jutted out from the face of the cliff, as well as the enemy fire which lashed up to greet him. The word was out, it seemed – and the Covenant didn’t want any visitors.
Rather than put down under fire, he decided to carry out a couple of strafing runs first. He swooped low and used the Banshee’s plasma and fuel rod cannons to sweep the platform clear of sentries before decelerating for what he hoped would be an unopposed landing.
The Banshee crunched into the platform, bounced once, then ground to a halt. The Chief dismounted, passed through a hatch, and entered the tunnel beyond.
“We need to interrupt the pulse generator’s energy stream,” Cortana informed him. “I have adjusted your shield system so that it will deliver an EMP burst and disrupt the generator... but you’ll have to walk into the beam to trigger it.”
The Master Chief paused just shy of the next hatch. “I’ll have to do what?”
“You’ll have to walk into the beam to trigger it,” the AI repeated matter-of-factly. “The EMP blast should neutralize the generator.”
“Should?” the Chief demanded. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours,” Cortana replied firmly. “We’re in this together – remember?”
“Yeah,I remember,” the Spartan growled. “But you’re not the one with the bruises.”
The AI chose to remain silent as the Chief passed through a hatch, paused to see if anyone would attempt to cancel his ticket, and followed the nav indicator to the chamber located at the center of the room.
Once he was there the pulse generator was impossible to miss. It was so intensely white that his visor automatically darkened in order to protect his eyes. Not only that, but the Chief could feel the air crackle around him as he approached the delta-shaped guide structures, and prepared to step in between them. “I have to walk into that thing?” the Chief inquired doubtfully. “Isn’t there some easier way to commit suicide?”
“You’ll be fine,” Cortana replied soothingly. “I’m almost sure of it.”
The Spartan took note of the “almost,” clenched his teeth, and pushed himself into the blindingly intense light. The response was nearly instantaneous. There was something akin to an explosion, the light started to pulsate, and the floor shook in response. The Chief hurried to disengage, felt a bit of suction, but managed to pull free. As he did so he noticed that his shields had been drained. His skin felt sunburned.
“The pulse generator’s central core is off-line,” Cortana said. “Well done.”
Another squadron of Sentinels arrived. They swooped into the cramped pulse-generator chamber like vultures, fanned out, and seared the area with ruby-red energy beams. Not only did the Monitor take exception to the damage – he was after the Index too.
But the Chief knew how to deal with the mechanical killers, and proceeded to dodge their lasers as he destroyed one after another. Finally, the air thick with the stench of ozone, he was free to withdraw. He went back through the same tunnel to the platform where the Banshee waited.
“The second pulse generator is located in an adjacent canyon,” Cortana announced easily. “Move out and I’ll mark the nav point when we get closer.”
The Master Chief sent the Banshee into a wide bank, and toward the next objective.
Minus the refrigeration required to preserve them, the bodies laid out on the metal tables had already started to decay, and the stench forced Silva to breathe through his mouth as he entered the makeshift morgue and waited for McKay to begin her presentation.
Six heavily armed Helljumpers were lined up along one wall ready to respond if one or more of the Flood suddenly came back to life. It seemed unlikely given the level of damage each corpse had sustained, but the creatures had proven themselves to be extremely resilient, and had an alarming tendency to reanimate.
McKay, who was still trying to deal with the fact that more than fifteen Marines under her command had lost their lives in a single battle, looked pale. Silva understood, even sympathized, but couldn’t allow that to show. There was simply no time for grief, self-doubt, or guilt. The Company Commander would have to do what he did, which was to suck it up and keep on going. He nodded coolly.
“Lieutenant?”
McKay swallowed in an attempt to counter the nausea she felt. “Sir, yes sir. Obviously there’s still a great deal that we don’t know, but based on our observations during the fight, and information obtained from Covenant POWs, here’s the best intelligence we have. It seems that the Covenant came here searching for ‘holy relics’ – we think that means useful technology – and ran into a life form they refer to as ‘the Flood.’” She gestured at the fallen creatures on the slab. “Those are Flood.”
“Charming,” Silva muttered.
“As best we can figure out,” McKay said, “the Flood is a parasitic life form which attacks sentient beings, erases their minds, and takes control of their bodies. Wellsley believes that Halo was constructed to house them, to keep them under control, but we have no direct evidence to support that. Perhaps Cortana or the Chief can confirm our findings when we’re able to make contact with them again.
“The Flood manifests in various forms starting with these things,” McKay said, using her combat knife to prod a flaccid infection form. “As you can see, it has tentacles in place of legs, plus a couple of extremely sharp penetrators, which they use to invade the victim’s central nervous system and take control of it. Eventually they work their way inside the host body and take up residence there.”
Silva tried to imagine what that might feel like and felt a shiver run down his spine. Outwardly he was unchanged. “Please continue.”
McKay said, “Yes, sir,” and moved to the next table. “This is what the Covenant call a ‘combat form.’ As you can see from what remains of its face, this one was human. We think she was a Navy weapons tech, based on the tattoos still visible on her skin. If you peek through the hole in her chest you can see the remains of the infection form that deflated itself enough to fit in around her heart and lungs.”
Silva didn’t want to look, but felt he had to, and moved close enough to see the wrinkled scalp, to which a few isolated clumps of filthy hair still clung. His eyes catalogued a parade of horrors: the sickly looking skin; the alarmingly blue eyes which still bulged, as if in response to some unimaginable pain; the twisted, toothless mouth; the slightly puckered 7.62mm bullet hole through the right cheekbone; the lumpy, penetrator-filled neck; the bony chest, now split down the middle so that the woman’s flat breasts hung down to either side; the grossly distorted torso, punctured by three overlapping bullet wounds; the thin, sinewy arms; and the strangely graceful fingers, one of which still bore a silver ring.
The Major didn’t say anything, but his face must have telegraphed what he felt, because McKay nodded. “It’s pretty awful, isn’t it, sir? I’ve seen death before, sir–” she swallowed and shook her head, “–but nothing like this.
“For what it’s worth Covenant victims don’t look any better. This individual was armed with a pistol, her own probably, but the Flood seem to pick up and use any weapon they can lay their hands on. Not only that, but they pack a very nasty punch, which can be lethal.