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.
Silva looked at McKay and shrugged. “Well, it was worth a try, but it looks like he’s too far gone.”
Jenkins half expected the other to lunge forward again, but having shared in the human’s pain, the alien consciousness chose that moment to retreat. The human surged into the gap, made hooting sounds, and used his good hand to point at Silva’s right boot.
The officer looked down at his boot, frowned, and was about to say something when McKay touched his arm. “He isn’t pointing at your boot, sir, he’s pointing down. At the area under the butte.”
Silva felt something cold trickle into his veins. “Is that right, son? The Flood could be directly below us?”
Jenkins nodded emphatically, rolled his eyes, and made inarticulate gagging sounds.
The Major nodded and came to his feet. “Thank you, Private. We’ll check the basement and be back to speak with you some more.”
Jenkins didn’t want to talk, he wanted to die, but nobody cared. The guards left, the door clanged shut, and the Marine was left with nothing but a broken arm and the alien inside his head. Somehow, without actually dying, he had been sentenced to hell.
As if to confirm that conclusion the other surged to the fore, yanked at the chains, and beat its feet on the floor. Food had been present, food had left, and it remained hungry.
The Master Chief spotted the next way point, put the hijacked Banshee down on a platform, and entered the complex via an unguarded hatch. He heard the battle before he actually saw it, made his way through the intervening tunnel, and peered through the next door. As had occurred before, the Covenant was busy taking it to the Flood and vice versa, so he gave both groups some time to whittle each other down, left the security of the tunnel, and proceeded to tidy up.