“Most combat forms appear to be derived from humans and Elites,” McKay continued, as she moved to the last table. “We suspect that Grunts and Jackals are deemed too small for first-class combat material, and are therefore used as a sort of nucleus around which carrier forms can grow. It’s hard to tell by looking at the puddle of crap on the table in front of you, but at one time this thing contained four of the infection forms you saw earlier, and when it popped the resulting explosion had enough force to knock Sergeant Lister on his can.”
That, or the mental picture that it conveyed, was sufficient to elicit nervous grins from the Helljumpers who lined the back wall. Apparently they liked the idea of something that could put Lister on his ass.
Silva frowned. “Does Wellsley have scans of this stuff?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. Nice job. Have the bodies burned, send these troops up for some fresh air, and report to my office in an hour.”
McKay nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Zuka ’Zamamee lay belly down on the hard-packed dirt and used his monocular to scan the Pillar of Autumn. It wasn’t heavily guarded; the Covenant was stretched too thin for that, but the Council had reinforced the security force subsequent to the human raid, and evidence of that was visible in the Banshees, Ghosts, and Wraiths that patrolled the area around the downed ship. Yayap, who lay next to the Elite, had no such device and was forced to rely on his own vision.
“This plan is insane,” ’Zamamee said out of the side of his mouth. “I should have killed you a long time ago.”
“Yes, Excellency,” the Grunt agreed patiently, knowing that the talk was just that. The truth was that the officer was afraid to return to the Truth and Reconciliation, and now had very little choice but to accept Yayap’s plan, especially in light of the fact that he had been unable to come up with one of his own.
“Give it to me one more time,” the Elite demanded, “so I’ll know that you won’t make any mistakes.”
Yayap eyed the readout on his wrist. He had two, maybe two and a half units of methane left, before his tanks were empty and he would suffocate, a problem which didn’t seem to trouble the Elite at all. It was tempting to pull his pistol, shoot ’Zamamee in the head, and implement the strategy on his own. But there were advantages to being in company with the warrior – plus a giddy sense of power that went with having threatened the warrior and survived. With that in mind Yayap managed to suppress both his panic and a rising sense of resentment.
“Of course, Excellency. As you know, simple plans are often best, which is why there is a good chance this one will work. On the possibility that the Council of Masters is actively looking for Zuka ’Zamamee, you will choose one of the commandos who died on the human encampment, and assume that individual’s identity.
“Then, with me at your side, we will report to the officer in charge of guarding the alien ship, explain that we were taken prisoner in the aftermath of the raid, but were subsequently able to escape.”
“But what then?” the Elite inquired warily. “What if he submits my DNA for a match?”
“Why would he do that?” the Grunt countered patiently. “He’s shorthanded, and here, as if presented by the great ones themselves, is a commando Elite. Would you run the risk of having such a find reassigned? No, I think not. Under circumstances such as these you would seize the opportunity to add such a highly capable warrior to your command, and give thanks for the blessing.”
It sounded good, especially the “highly capable warrior” part, so ’Zamamee agreed. “Fine. What about later?”
“Later, if there is a later,” Yayap said wearily, “we will have to come up with another plan. In the meantime this initiative will assure us of food, water, and methane.”
“All right,” ’Zamamee said, “let’s jump on the Banshee and make our appearance.”
“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” the Grunt inquired tactfully. “If we arrive on a Banshee, the commanding officer might wonder why we were so slow to check in.”
The Elite eyed what looked like a long, hard walk, sighed, and acquiesced. “Agreed.” A hint of his former arrogance resurfaced. “But you will carry my gear.”
“Of course,” Yayap said, scrambling to his feet. “Was there ever any doubt?”
The inmate had attempted suicide twice, which was why the interior of his cell was bare, and under round-the-clock surveillance. The creature that had once been Private Wallace A. Jenkins sat on the floor with both wrists chained to an eyebolt located just over his head.
The Flood mind, which the human continued to think of as “the other,” had been quiet for a while, but was present nonetheless, and glowered in what amounted to a cognitive corner, angry but weak. Hinges squealed as the metal door swung open. Jenkins turned to look, and saw a male noncom enter the room followed by a female officer.
The private felt an almost overwhelming sense of shame – and did what he could to turn away. Earlier, before the guards secured his wrists to the wall, Jenkins had used pantomime to request a mirror. A well-meaning Corporal brought one in, held it up in front of the soldier’s devastated face, and was frightened when he tried to scream. The initial suicide attempt followed thirty minutes later.
McKay took a look at the prisoner’s dry, parched lips and guessed that he might be thirsty. She called for some water, accepted a canteen, and started across the cell. “With respect, ma’am, I don’t think you should do that,” the Sergeant said cautiously. “These suckers are incredibly violent.”
“Jenkins is a Private in the UNSC Marine Corps,” McKay replied sternly, “and will be referred to as such. And your concern has been noted.”
Then, like a teacher dealing with a recalcitrant child, she held the canteen out where Jenkins could see it. “Look!” she said, sloshing the water back and forth. “Behave yourself and I’ll give you a drink.”
Jenkins tried to warn her, tried to say “No,” but heard himself gabble instead. Thus encouraged, McKay unscrewed the canteen’s lid, took three steps forward, and was just about to lean over when the combat form attacked. Jenkins felt his left arm break as the chain brought it up short – and fought to counter the other’s attempt to grab the officer in a scissor lock.
McKay stepped back just in time to evade the flailing legs.
There was a clacking sound as the guard pumped a shell into the shotgun’s receiver and prepared to fire. McKay shouted, “No!” and held up her hand. The noncom obeyed but kept his weapon aimed at the combat form’s head.
“Okay,” McKay said, looking into the creature’s eyes, “have it your way. But, like it or not, we’re going to have a talk.”
Silva had entered the cell by then and stood behind the Lieutenant. The Sergeant saw the Major nod, and backed into a corner with his weapon still held at the ready.
“My name is Silva,” the Major began, “and you already know Lieutenant McKay here. First, let me say that both of us are extremely sorry about what happened to you, we understand how you feel, and will make sure that you receive the best medical care that the UNSC has to offer. But first we have to fight our way off this ring. I think I know how we can do that – but it will take some time. We need to hold this butte until we’re ready to make our move. That’s where you come in. You know where we are now – and you know how the Flood move around. If you had my job, if you had to defend this base against the Flood, where would you focus your efforts?”
The other used his right hand to grab his left, jerked hard, and exposed a shard of broken bone. Then, as if hoping to use that as a knife, the combat form lunged forward. The chains brought the creature up short. Jenkins felt indescribable pain, began to lose consciousness, but fought his way back.