McKay broke the connection. The military incorporated many virtues, in her mind at least, one of the most important of which was duty. Duty not just to the Corps, but to the billions of people on Earth, to whom she was ultimately responsible. Now, faced with the conflict between military discipline, the glue that held everything together, and duty, the purpose of it all, what was she supposed to do?
The answer, strangely enough, came from Jenkins, who, having been privy to her end of the conversation, jerked at his chain. The action took one of the guards by surprise. He fell as Jenkins lunged in the direction of the fiber-optic connection, and was still trying to regain his feet when the combat form ran out of slack, and came up short. Seconds later the Marines had Jenkins back under control.
Having failed to do what he knew was right, and with his chains stretched tight, Jenkins looked imploringly into McKay’s eyes.
McKay realized that the decision lay in her hands, and that although it was horrible almost beyond comprehension, it was simple as well. So simple that even the grotesquely ravaged Jenkins knew where his duty lay.
Slowly, deliberately, the Marine crossed the deck to the point where the guard stood, told him to take a break, took one last look around, and triggered a grenade. Jenkins, still unable to speak, managed to mouth the words “thank you.”
Silva was too many decks removed to feel the explosion, or to hear the muffled thump, but
was
able to witness the results firsthand. Someone yelled, “The controls are gone!” The deck tilted as the Truth and Reconciliation did a nose-over, and Wellsley made one last comment.
“You taught her well, Major. Of
that
you can be proud.”
Then the bow struck, a series of explosions rippled the length of the hull, and the ship, as well as all of those aboard her, ceased to exist.
“You’re sure?” ’Zamamee demanded, his voice slightly distorted by both the radio and an increasing amount of static.
Yayap wasn’t sure of anything, other than the fact that the reports flowing in around him were increasingly negative, as Covenant forces came under heavy fire from both the Flood and the Sentinels. Something had caused a rock to form down in the Grunt’s abdomen – and made him feel slightly nauseated.
But it would never do to say that, not to someone like ’Zamamee, so he lied instead. “Yes, Excellency. Based on the reports, and looking at the schematics here in the Communications Center, it looks like the human will have little choice but to exit via hatch E-117, make his way to lift V-1269, and go up to a Class Seven service corridor that runs along the ship’s spine.”
“Good work, Yayap,” the Elite said. “We’re on our way.”
For reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of, and in spite of his many failings, the Grunt felt a strange sense of affection for the Elite. “Be careful, Excellency. The human is extremely dangerous.”
“Don’t worry,” ’Zamamee replied, “I have a surprise for our adversary. A little something that will even the odds. I’ll call you the moment he’s dead.”
Yayap said, “Yes, Excellency,” heard a click, and knew it was the last time he would hear the officer’s voice. Not because he believed that ’Zamamee was going to die – but because he believed
all
of them were about die.
That’s why the diminutive alien announced that he was going on a break, left the Communications Center, and never came back.
Shortly thereafter he loaded a day’s worth of food plus a tank of methane onto a Ghost, steered the vehicle out away from the Pillar of Autumn, and immediately found what he was searching for: a sense of peace. For the first time in many, many days Yayap was happy.
As the final grenade went off, the Master Chief felt the shaft he was standing on shake in sympathy and Cortana yelled into his ears. “That did it! The engines will go critical. We have fifteen minutes to get off the ship! We should move outside and get to the third deck elevator. It will take us to a Class Seven service corridor that runs the length of the ship. Hurry!”
The Chief jumped up onto the Level Three platform, blasted a combat form, and turned toward the hatch off to his right. It opened, he passed through, and ran the length of the passageway. A second door opened onto the area directly in front of the large service elevator.
The Chief heard machinery whir, figured he had triggered a sensor, and waited for the lift to arrive. For the first time in hours there was no immediate threat, no imminent danger, and the Spartan allowed himself to relax fractionally. It was a mistake.
“Chief!” Cortana said. “Get back!”
Thanks to the warning, he was already backing through the hatch when the lift appeared from below, and the Elite, seated in the plasma turret, opened fire.
Special Ops Officer Zuka ’Zamamee fired the Shade. The energy cannon took up most of the platform, leaving barely enough room for the Grunts who had helped the Elite wrestle the weapon aboard. The bolt flared blue, hit the hatch as it started to close, and slagged half the door.
He felt elation as the waves of energy slashed through the air toward his target. Soon, victory would be complete, and his honor could be restored. Then he’d deal with the tiresome Grunt, Yayap.
It was going to be a glorious day.
“Damn!” the Chief exclaimed. “Where did
that
come from?”
“It looks like someone has been tracking you,” Cortana said grimly. “Now, get ready – I’ll take control of the elevator and cause it to drop. You roll a couple of grenades into the shaft.”
’Zamamee saw the energy bolt hit the hatch, experienced a sense of exhilaration as the human hurried to escape, and felt the platform jerk to a halt.
The Elite had just fired again, just blown what remained of the human’s cover away, when he heard a clank and the lift started to descend.
“No!” he shouted, sure that one of the Grunts was responsible for the sudden movement, and desperate lest the human escape his clutches. But it was too late, and there was nothing the smaller aliens could do, as the elevator continued to fall.
Then, even as his target vanished from sight, and ’Zamamee railed at his subordinates, a couple of grenades tumbled down from above, rattled around the floor, and exploded.
The force of the blast lifted the Elite up and out of his seat, gave him one last look at his opponent, and let him fall. He hit with a thud, felt something snap, and waited for his first glimpse of paradise.
Cortana brought the lift back up. The Master Chief had little choice but to step onto the gore-splattered platform and let it carry him toward the service corridor above. Cortana took advantage of the moment to work on the escape plan.
“Cortana to Echo 419, come in Echo 419.”
“Roger, Cortana,” Foehammer said from somewhere above, “I read you five-by-five.”
The Master Chief felt a series of explosions shake the elevator, knew the ship was starting to come apart, and looked forward to the moment when he would be free of it.
“The Pillar of Autumn’s engines are going critical, Foehammer,” Cortana continued. “Request immediate extraction. Be ready to pick us up at external access junction four-C as soon as you get my signal.”
“Affirmative. Echo 419 to Cortana – things are getting noisy down there... Is everything okay?”
The elevator shook again as the AI said, “Negative, negative! We have a wildcat destabilization of the ship’s fusion core. The engines must have sustained more damage than we thought.”
Then, as the platform jerked to a halt, and a piece of debris fell from somewhere up above, the AI spoke to the Spartan. “We have six minutes before the fusion drives detonate. We need to evacuate
now
! The explosion will generate a temperature of almost a hundred million degrees.
Don’t be here when it blows!
”
That sounded like excellent advice. The Master Chief ran through a hatch into a bay full of Warthogs, each stowed in its own individual slot. He chose one that was located near the entry, jumped into the driver’s seat, and was relieved when the vehicle started up.
The countdown timer which Cortana had projected onto the inside surface of his HUD was not only running, but running
fast
, or so it seemed to the Chief as he drove out of the bay, hooked a left to avoid a burning ’Hog, and plowed through a mob of Covenant and Flood. An Elite went down, was sucked under the big off-road tires, and caused the vehicle to buck as it passed over him. The slope ahead was thick with roly-poly infection forms. They popped like firecrackers as the human accelerated uphill and plasma bolts raced to catch him from behind. Then, cautious lest he make a mistake and lose valuable time, he took his foot off the accelerator and paused at the top of the ramp.
A large passageway stretched before him, with walkways to either side, a pedestrian bridge in the distance, and a narrow service tunnel directly ahead. A couple of Flood forms were positioned on top of the entrance and fired down at him as he pushed the Warthog forward, and nosed into the opening ahead.
The ramp sloped down, the Spartan braked, and he was soon glad that he had as something went
boom!
and hurled pieces of jagged metal across the passageway in front of him. The Chief took his foot off the brake, converted a carrier form into paste, and sent the LRV up the opposite slope.
He emerged from the subsurface tunnel, and with a barrier ahead, he swung left, ran the length of a vertical wall. He saw a narrow ramp, accelerated up-slope, and jumped a pair of gaps that he never would have tackled had he been aware of them. He hit a level stretch, braked reflexively, and was thankful when the Warthog nose-dived off the end of the causeway and plunged into another service tunnel.
Now, with a group of Flood ahead, he pushed through them, crushed the monsters under his tires.
“Nice job on that last section,” Cortana said admiringly. “How did you know about the dive off the end?”
“I didn’t,” the Master Chief said as the LRV lurched up out of the tunnel and nosed into another.
“Oh.”
This passage was empty, which allowed the Spartan to pick up speed as he guided the Warthog up into a larger tunnel. The ’Hog caught some air, and he put the pedal to the metal in an effort to pick up some time.
The large passageway was smooth and clear, but took them out into a hell of flying metal, homicidal Flood, and laser-happy Sentinels, all of whom tried to cancel his ticket while he paused, spotted an elevated ramp off to the left, and steered for it even as crisscrossing energy beams sizzled across the surface of his armor and explored the interior of the vehicle.
The Spartan fought to control the ’Hog as one tire rode up onto the metal curb and threatened to pull the entire vehicle off into the chaos below. It was difficult, with fire sleeting in from every possible direction, but the Chief made the necessary correction, came down off the ramp, hooked a left, and found himself in a huge tunnel with central support pillars that marched off into the distance.
Careful to weave back and forth between the pillars in order to improve his time, he rolled through a fight between the Flood and a group of Covenant, took fire from a flock of Sentinels, and gunned the LRV out into another open area with a barrier ahead. A quick glance confirmed that another elevated ramp ran down the left side of the enormous passageway, so he steered for that.
Explosions sent gouts of flame and smoke up through the grating ahead of him, and threatened to heave the Warthog off the track.
Once off the ramp, things became a little easier as the Spartan entered a large tunnel, sped the length of it, braked into an open area, and pushed the vehicle down into a smaller service tunnel. Infection forms made loud popping sounds as the tires ate them alive. The engine growled, and the Chief nearly lost it as he came out of the tunnel too fast, realized there was another subsurface passageway ahead, and did a nose-over that caused the front wheels not only to hit hard but nearly flipped the ’Hog end-for-end. Only some last-minute braking and a measure of good luck brought the LRV down right side up and allowed the Master Chief to climb up out of the passageway and into a maze of pillars.
He swore as he was forced to wind his way between the obstacles while precious seconds came off the countdown clock and every alien, freak, and robot with a weapon took pot-shots at him while he did so. Then came a welcome stretch of straight-level pavement, a quick dip through a service tunnel, and a ramp into a sizable tunnel as Cortana called for evac.
“Cortana to Echo 419! Requesting extraction now! On the double!”
“Affirmative, Cortana,” the pilot replied, as the Master Chief accelerated out onto a causeway.
“Wait! Stop!” Cortana insisted. “This is where Foehammer is coming to pick us up. Hold position here.”
The Spartan braked, heard a snatch of garbled radio traffic, and saw a UNSC dropship approach from the left. Smoke trailed behind the Pelican and the reason was plain to see. A Banshee had slotted itself in behind the transport and was trying to hit one of the ship’s engines. There was a flash as the starboard power plant took a hit and burst into flames.
The Chief could imagine Foehammer at the controls, fighting to save her ship, eyeing the causeway ahead.
“Pull up! Pull up!” the Spartan shouted, hoping she could pancake in, but it was too late. The Pelican lost altitude, passed under the causeway, and soon disappeared from sight. The explosion came three seconds later.
Cortana said, “Echo 419!” and, receiving no response, said, “She’s gone.”
The Master Chief remembered the cheerful voice on the radio, the countless times the pilot had saved somebody’s tail, and felt a deep sense of regret.
There was a short pause while the AI tapped into what remained of the ship’s systems. “There’s a Longsword docked in launch bay seven. If we move
now
we can make it!”