D+60:33:54 (Flight Officer Captain Rawley Mission Clock) /Pelican Echo 419, above Covenant arms cache.

“There’s a large tower a few hundred meters from your current position.

Find a way above the fog and foliage canopy and I can move in and pick youup,” Rawley said. Her eyes were glued to her scopes as SPARTAN-117 took thelead and the Marines left the ancient complex and entered the fetid embraceof the swamp. The rain and some kind of interference from the structureplayed hell with the Pelican’s detection gear, but she was damned if shewas going to lose this team now. She had a reputation to maintain, afterall.

“Roger that,”the Chief replied,“we’re on our way.”

She kept the Pelican circling, her eyes peeled for trouble. There was noimmediate threat. That made her even more nervous. Ever since they’d madeit down to the surface of the ring, trouble always seemed to strike withoutwarning.

For the hundredth time since lifting off from Alpha Base, she cursed thelack of ammunition for the Pelicans.

Knowing the dropship was somewhere above the mist, and eager to get the hellout, the Marines forged ahead. The Spartan cautioned them to slow down, tokeep their eyes peeled, but it wasn’t long before he found himself backtoward the middle of the pack.

The tower Foehammer had mentioned appeared up ahead. The base of the columnwas circular, with half-rounded supports that protruded from the sides,probably for stability. Farther up, extending out from the column itself,were winglike platforms. Their purpose wasn’t clear, but the same could besaid for the entire structure. The top of the shaft was lost in the mist.

The Master Chief paused to look around, heard one of the leathernecks yell“Contact!” quickly followed by the staccato rip of an assault weapon firedon full automatic. A host of red dots had appeared on the Spartan’s threatindicator. He saw a dozen of the spherical infection forms bounce out of themist and knew that any possibility of containing the creatures undergroundhad been lost.

The Pelican’s sensors suddenly painted dozens—correction, hundreds—of newcontacts on the ground. Rawley cursed and wheeled the Pelican around,expecting ground fire.

No fire was directed at the dropship. “What the hell?” she muttered.

First, the contacts appeared out of nowhere, charged into the open, butdidn’t shoot at the air cover? Maybe the Covenant were getting stupid aswell as ugly.

She hit the radio to warn the troops and winced as the muffled pop ofautomatic weapons fire burst from her headset. “Heads up, ground team!”

she yelled. “Multiple contacts on the ground—they’re right on top ofyou!”

The radio squealed, then static filled her speakers. The interferenceworsened. She thumped the radio controls with a gloved fist. “Damn it!”

she yelled.

“Uh, boss,” Frye said. “You better take a look at this.”

She glanced back at her copilot, followed his gaze, and her own eyeswidened. “Okay,” she said, “any idea what the hellthat is?”

The Chief fired short bursts from his assault weapon, popped dozens of thealien pods, and turned to confront a combat form. It was armed with a plasmapistol but chose to throw itself forward rather than fire. The Chief’sautomatic weapon was actually touching the creature when he pulled thetrigger. The ex-Elite’s chest opened like an obscene flower and theinfection form hidden within exploded into fleshy pieces.

He heard a burst of static in his comm system. Interference whined as theMJOLNIR’s powerful communications gear tried to scrub the signal, to noavail. It sounded like Foehammer, but he couldn’t be sure.

It hovered in front of the Pelican’s cockpit for a moment, and lightstabbed Rawley’s eyes. It was made from some kind of silvery metal, roughlycylindrical but with angular edges. Winglike, squarish fins shifted and slidlike rudders as the device bobbed in the air. It—whateverit was—shone abright light into the cockpit, then turned away and dropped altitude. Belowher, she could see dozens of the things flying in a loose line. In seconds,they dropped below the tree line and out of sight.

“Frye,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry, “tell Chief Cullen to work thecomm system and punch me a hole in this interference. I need to talk to theground teamnow .”

The tide of hostiles fell back into the ankle-deep water and regrouped. Adozen exotic-looking cylindrical machines drifted out of the trees to floatover the clearing. The nearest Marine yelled, “What are they?” and wasabout to shoot at them when the Chief raised a cautionary hand. “Hold on,Marine . . . let’s see what they do.”

What happened next was both unexpected and gratifying. Each machine produceda beam of energy, speared one of the hostiles, and burned it down.

Some of the combat forms took exception to this treatment, and attempted toreturn fire, but were soon put out of action by the combined efforts of theMarines and their newfound allies.

Despite the help, the Marines didn’t fare well. There were just too many ofthe hostile creatures around. The squad dwindled until a pair of PFCsremained, then one, then finally the last of the Marines fell beneath acluster of the little infectious bastards.

As the newcomers overhead rained crimson laser fire on a cluster of thecombat forms, the Chief slogged through the swamp toward the tower. Highground—and the possibility of signaling Foehammer for evac—drew him on.

He climbed a supporting strut and pulled himself onto one of the odd,leaflike terraces that ringed the tower. He had a good field of fire, and hefired a burst into a combat form that strayed too close.

He tried the radio again, but was rewarded with more static.

The Spartan heard what sounded like someone humming and turned to discoverthatanother machine had approached him from behind. Where the othernewcomers were cylindrical in design, with angular, winglike cowlings, thisconstruct was rounded, almost spherical. It had a single, glowing blue eye,a wraparound housing, and a cheerfully businesslike manner.

“Greetings! I am the Monitor of installation zero-four. I am 343 GuiltySpark. Someone has released the Flood. My function is to prevent it fromleaving this installation. I require your assistance. Come this way.”

The voice sounded artificial. This “343 Guilty Spark” was some kind ofartificial construct, the Spartan realized. From above the little machine,he could see Foehammer’s Pelican moving into position.

“Hold on,” the Chief replied, trying to sound friendly. “The Flood? Thosethings down there are called ‘Flood’?”

“Of course,” 343 Guilty Spark replied, a note of confusion in itssynthesized voice. “What an odd question. We have no time for this,Reclaimer.”

Reclaimer?The Chief wondered. He was about to ask what the little machinemeant by that, but his words never came. Rings of pulsating gold lighttraveled the length of his body, he felt light-headed, and saw an explosionof white light.

Rawley had just gotten the Pelican into position for a run on the tower, andcould see the distinctive bulk of the Spartan standing on the structure. Sheeased the throttle forward, and the Pelican slid ahead, and nosed toward thestructure. She glanced up just in time to see the Spartan disappear in acolumn of gold light.

“Chief!”Foehammer said.“I lost your signal! Where did you go? Chief!

Chief!”

The Spartan had vanished, and there was very little the pilot could doexcept pick up the Marines, and hope for the best.

Like the rest of the battalion’s officers, McKay had worked long into thenight supervising efforts to restore the butte’s badly mauled defenses,ensure that the wounded received what care was available, and restoresomething like normal operations.

Finally, at about 0300, Silva ordered her below, pointing out that someonehad to be in command at 0830, and it wasn’t going to be him.

With traces of adrenaline still in her bloodstream, and images of battlestill flickering through her brain, the Company Commander found itimpossible to sleep. Instead she tossed, turned, and stared at the ceilinguntil approximately 0430 when she finally drifted off.

At 0730, with only three hours of sleep, McKay paused to collect a mug ofinstant coffee from the improvised mess hall before climbing a flight ofbloodstained stairs to arrive on top of the mesa. The wreckage of what hadbeen Charlie 217 had been cleared away during the night, but a large patchof scorched metal marked the spot where the fuel had been set ablaze.

The officer paused to look at it, wondered what happened to the human pilot,and continued her tour. The entire surface of Halo had been declared acombat zone, which meant it was inappropriate for the enlisted ranks tosalute their superiors lest they identify them to enemy snipers. But therewere other ways to signal respect, and as McKay made her way past thelanding pads and out onto the battlefield beyond, it seemed as if all theMarines wanted to greet her.

“Morning, ma’am.”

“How’s it going, Lieutenant? Hope you got some sleep.”

“Hey, skipper, guess we showed them, huh?”

McKay replied to them all and continued on her way. Just the fact that shewas there, strolling through the plasma-blackened defenses with a cup ofcoffee in her hand, served to reassure the troops.

“Look,” one of them said as she walked past, “there’s the Loot. Cool asice, man. Did you see her last night? Standing on that tank? It was likenothin’ could touch her.” The other Marine didn’t say anything, justnodded in agreement, and went back to digging a firing pit.

Somehow, without consciously thinking about it, McKay’s feet carried herback to the Scorpions and the point from which her particular battle hadbeen fought. The Covenant knew about the metal behemoths now, which was whyboth machines were being dug out and run up onto solid ground.

The officer wondered what Silva planned to do with them, and sipped the lastof her coffee before wandering onto the plateau beyond. Covenant POWs, allchained together at the ankles, were busy digging graves. One section formembers of their armed forces, and one for the humans. It was a soberingsight, 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 theCovenant found them.

There was a lot to do—the morning passed quickly. Major Silva was back onduty by 1300 hours and sent a runner to find McKay. As she entered hisoffice she saw that he was sitting behind his makeshift desk, working at acomputer. 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 moreoften! 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 achance to read the report Wellsley put together?”

A crate of small but powerful wireless computers like the one sitting on theMajor’s desk had been recovered from theAutumn but McKay had yet to turnhers on. “I’m afraid not, sir. Sorry.”

Silva nodded. “Well, based on information acquired during routinedebriefings, our digital friend believes that the raid was both less andmore than we assumed.”

McKay allowed her eyebrows to rise. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that rather than the real estate itself, the Covies were aftersomething, or more preciselysomeone they thought they would find here.”

“Captain Keyes?”

“No,” the other officer replied, “Wellsley doesn’t think so, and neitherdo I. A group of their stealth Elites were able to penetrate the lowerlevels of the complex. They killed everyone they came into contact with, orthought they did, but one tech played dead, and another was knockedunconscious. They were in different rooms but both told the same story. Oncein the room, and having gained control of it, one of those commando Elites—the bastards in the black combat suits—would momentarily reveal himself. Hespoke passable standard—and asked both groups the same question. ‘Where isthe human with the special armor?’ ”

“They were after the Spartan,” McKay said thoughtfully.

“Exactly.”

“So, whereis the Chief?”

“That,”Silva replied, “is a very good question. Where indeed? He wentlooking for Keyes, surfaced in the middle of a swamp, told Foehammer thatthe 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 toomuch difference if he were. No, I suspect that he and Cortana are out thereplaying games.”

With Keyes out of the picture once more, Silva had reassumed command, andMcKay could understand his frustration. The Master Chief was an asset, orwould have been if he were around, but now, out freelancing somewhere, theSpartan was starting to look like a liability. Especially given how many ofSilva’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’tsympathize with it. Not after seeing the Chief in that very room, his skinunnaturally white after too much time spent in his armor, his eyes filledwith—what? Pain? Suffering? A sort of wary distrust?

The officer wasn’t sure, but whatever it was didn’t have anything to dowith ego, with insubordination, or a desire for personal glory. Those weretruths that McKay could access, not because she was a seasoned soldier, butbecause she was a woman, something Silva could never aspire to be. But itwouldn’t do any good to say that, so she didn’t.

Her voice was level. “So, where does that leave us?”

“Situation normal: We’re cut off and probably surrounded.” The chairsighed as Silva leaned back. “Like the old saying goes, ‘a good defense isa good offense.’ Rather than just sit around and wait for the Covenant toattack again, let’s take the hurt to them. Nothing big, not yet anyway, butthe 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 bymorning.”

Silva watched the Company Commander exit his office, wasted five secondswishing he had six more just like her, and went back to work.

The Master Chief felt himself rush back together like a puzzle with amillion pieces, wondered what had happened, and where he was. He feltdisoriented, nauseated, and angry.

A quick look around was sufficient to ascertain that the machine named 343Guilty Spark had somehow transported him from the swamp into the bowels of adark, brooding structure. He saw the machine hovering high above, glowing athin, ghostly blue.

The Spartan raised his assault weapon, and fired half a clip into it. Thebullets were dead on, but had no effect other than to elicit a bemusedresponse.

“That was unnecessary, Reclaimer. I suggest that you conserve yourammunition for the effort ahead.”

No less angry, but with little choice but to accept the situation, the Chieflooked 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 onit. I am grateful to see that some of them survived to reproduce.”

“ ‘Survived’? ‘Reproduce’? What the hell are you talking about?” theChief demanded.

“We must collect the Index,” Spark said, leaving the Spartan’s questionsunanswered. “And time is of the essence. Please follow me.”

The blue light zipped away at that point, forcing the Chief to follow, or beleft behind. He checked both his weapons as he walked. “Speaking ofyou ,who the hell are you, and what’s your function?”

“Iam 343 Guilty Spark,” the machine said, pedantically. “I am theMonitor, or more precisely, a self-repairing artificial intelligence chargedwith maintaining and operating this facility. But you are the Reclaimer—soyou know that already.”

The Master Chief didn’t know anything of the kind, but it seemed wise toplay along, so he did. “Yes, well, refresh my memory . . . how long has itbeen since you were left in charge?”

“Exactly 101,217 local years,” the Monitor replied cheerfully, “many ofwhich were quite boring. But not anymore!Hee, hee, hee. ”

The Spartan was taken aback by the sudden giggle from the small machine. Heknew that the AIs humans used could, over time, develop personalitiespolitely described as “quirky.” 343 Guilty Spark had been here for tens ofthousands of years.

It was quite possible that the little AI was insane.

The Monitor chattered on, nattering about “effecting repairs to substationnine” 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 fightingfor his life again, moving back and forth to stretch the enemy out, blastinganything that moved.

That was when he first identified anew Flood form. They were large misshapenthings that would explode when fired upon, spewing up to a dozen infectionforms in every direction, thereby multiplying the number of targets that theshooter had to track and kill.

Finally, like water turned off at a tap, the assault came to an end, and theChief had a chance to reload his weapons.

The Monitor hovered nearby, all the while humming to himself, andoccasionally giggling. “There’s no time to dawdle! We have work to do.”

“What kind of work?” the Chief inquired as he stuffed the final shell intothe shotgun and hurried to follow.

“This is the Library,” the machine explained, hovering so the human couldcatch up. “The energy field above us contains the Index. We must get upthere.”

The Spartan was about to ask, “Index? What Index?” when a combat formlurched out of an alcove and opened fire. The Chief fired in return, saw thecreature fall, and saw it jump back up again. The next burst took theFlood’s left leg off.

“That should slow you down,” he said as he turned to deal with a new hordeof shambling, leaping hostiles. A steady stream of brass arced away from theChief’s assault weapon as he worked the mob over, felt something strike himfrom behind, and spun around to discover that the one-legged combat form hadlimped back into the fight.

The Spartan blew the creature’s head off this time, sidestepped to evade acharging carrier form, and shot the bulbous monster in the back. There wasan explosion of green mist mixed with balloonlike infection forms and piecesof wet flesh. The next ten seconds were spent popping pods.

After that the Monitor took off again and the noncom had little choice butto follow. He soon arrived in front of a huge metal door. Built to containthe Flood perhaps? Maybe, but far from effective, since the slimy bastardsseemed to be leaking out of every nook and cranny.

The Monitor hovered over the human’s head. “The security doors are lockedautomatically. I will go access the override to open them. I am a genius,”

the Monitor said matter-of-factly.“Hee, hee, hee.”

“A pain in the ass is more like it,” the Master Chief said to no one inparticular as a red blob appeared on his threat indicator, quickly joined bya half dozen more.

Then, as part of what would become a familiar pattern, combat forms leapedfifteen meters through the air, only to shrivel as the 7.62mm slugs torethem apart. Carrier forms waddled up like old friends, came apart like wetcardboard, and spewed pods in every direction. Infection forms danced ondelicate legs, dodging this way and that, each hoping to claim the human asits very own.

But the Chief had other ideas. He killed the last of them just as the doubledoors started to part, and followed the monitor through. “Please followclosely,” 343 Guilty Spark admonished. “This portal is the first of ten.”

The Chief replied as he followed the AI past a row of huge blue screens.

“Moredoors. I can hardly wait.”

343 Guilty Spark appeared immune to sarcasm as it babbled about the first-class research facilities that surrounded them—and blithely led its humancompanion into still another ambush. And so it went, as the Chief worked hisway through Flood-infested galleries, subfloor maintenance tunnels, andmoregalleries, before rounding a corner to confront yet another group ofmonstrosities.

The Spartan had help this time, as a dozen of the hunter-killer machineshe’d seen in the swamp appeared in the air above the scene, and attackedthe Flood forms congregated below.

“These Sentinels will assist you, Reclaimer,” the Monitor trilled. Lasershissed and sizzled as the robots struck their opponents down, and havingdone so, moved in to sterilize what remained.

The Spartan watched in fascination as the machines took care of the heavylifting. He lent a helping hand when that seemed appropriate, and started togag when the air that came through his filters grew thick with the stench ofcooked flesh.

As the Spartan fought his way through the facility, the Monitor, who floatedabove it all, offered commentary. “These Sentinels will supplement yourcombat systems. But I suggest you upgrade to at least a Class Twelve CombatSkin. Your current model only scans as a Class Two—which is unsuited forthis kind of work.”

If there’s a battle suit six times as powerful as MJOLNIR armor,hethought,I’ll be first in line to try it on.

He jumped to avoid an attack from one of the Flood combat forms, pressed theshotgun muzzle into its back, and blew a foot-wide hole through thecreature.

Finally, after the hardworking Sentinels had reduced the Flood to littlemore than a lumpy paste, the Spartan made his way through the carnage andout onto a circular platform. It was enormous, easily large enough to handlea Scorpion, and in reasonably good repair.

Machinery hummed, bands of white light pulsated down from somewhere above,and the lift carried the human upward. Maybe things would be better upabove, maybe the Flood hadn’t reached that level yet, he thought. Hedidn’t hold out much hope, however. So far, nothingelse had gone right onthis mission.

Deep within the recesses of Halo, Flood specimens were confined tofacilitate future study, and to prevent them from escaping. Aware of theextreme danger the Flood posed, and their capacity to multiply exponentiallyas well as take over even advanced life forms, the ancient ones constructedthe walls of their prison with great care, and trained their guards well.

With nothing to feed upon, and nowhere to go, the Flood lay dormant for morethan a hundred thousand years.

Then the intruders came, broke the prison open, and nourished the Flood withtheir bodies. With a way to escape, and food to sustain it, the tendrils ofthe malevolent growth slithered through the maze of tunnels and passagewaysthat lay below Halo’s skin, and gathered wherever there was a potentialroute to the surface.

One such location was in a chamber located beneath a tall butte, wherelittle more than a metal grating prevented the Flood from bursting out ofits underground lair and shooting to the surface. Unbeknownst to the men andwomen of Alpha Base, they had anew enemy—and it lived directly below theirfeet.

The lift jerked to a halt. The Master Chief made his way through a narrowpassageway into the gallery beyond. The Flood attacked immediately, but withno threat at his back, he was free to retreat into the corridor from whichhe had just come, which forced the mob of monstrosities to come at himthrough the same narrow channel. Before long, the bodies of the fallen Floodbegan to accumulate.

He paused, waiting for another wave of attackers, then shoved aside a pileof the dead and moved into the next section of the complex. They gave underhis feet, made gurgling sounds, and vented foul-smelling gas. The Chief wasgrateful when his boots were back on solid ground again.

The Sentinels reappeared shortly thereafter and led the Spartan past a rowof huge blue screens. “So, where were you bastards a few minutes ago?” thehuman inquired. But if the robots heard him, they made no reply as theyglided, circled, and bobbed through the hallway ahead.

“Flood activity has caused a failure in a drone control system. I mustreset the backup units,” 343 Guilty Spark said. “Please continue on—Iwill rejoin you when I have completed my task.”

The Monitor had left him on his own before—and each absence coincided witha fresh wave of Flood attackers. “Hold on,” the human protested, “let’sdiscuss this—” but it was too late. 343 Guilty Spark had already dartedthrough an aperture in the wall and disappeared down some kind of travelconduit.

Sure enough, no sooner had the Monitor left than a lumpy-looking carrierform waddled out into the light, spotted its prey, and hurried to greet it.

The Spartan shot the Flood form, but let the Sentinels clean up theresulting mess, while he conserved his ammo.

A fresh onslaught of Flood came out of the woodwork, and the Spartan adopteda more cautious strategy: He allowed the sentry robots to mop them up. Atfirst, the defense machines mowed through a wave of the podlike infectionforms with little difficulty. Then more of the hostiles appeared, thenmore ,then still more. Soon, the Chief was forced to fall back. He crushed one ofthe pods with his foot, smashed another out of the air with the butt of hisassault rifle, and killed a dozen more with a trio of quick AR bursts.

The Monitor drifted back into the chamber, spun as if surveying the carnage,and made an odd, metallic clicking that sounded very much like a cluck ofdisapproval. “The Sentinels can use their weapons to manage the Flood for ashort time, Reclaimer. Speed is of the essence.”

“Then let’s go,” the Master Chief growled.

The Monitor made no reply, but scooted ahead. The small construct l............