She paused, and her eyes moved back and forth as she scanned the tidal wave of data she now accessed. A puzzled look flashed across her face. “Forerunner,” she muttered. “Give me a moment to access...”
A moment later, she began to speak, and her words rushed out in a flood, as if the constant stream of new information was sweeping her along.
“Yes, the Forerunners built this place, what they called a fortress world, in order to–”
The Chief had never heard the AI talk like that before, didn’t like being referred to as a “barbarian,” and was about to cut her down to size when she spoke again. Plainly alarmed, her voice had a hesitant quality. “No, that can’t be... Oh, those Covenant fools, they must have known, there must have been signs.”
The Chief frowned. “Slow down. You’re losing me.”
Her eyes widened in horror. “The Covenant found something, buried in this ring, something horrible. Now they’re afraid.”
“Something buried?”
Cortana looked off into the distance as if she could actually see Keyes. “Captain – we’ve got to stop the Captain. The weapons cache he’s looking for, it’s not really – we can’t let him get inside.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s no time!” Cortana said urgently. Her eyes were neon pink and they focused on the Spartan like twin lasers. “I have to remain here. Get out, find Keyes, stop him. Before it’s too late!”
SECTION IV
343 GUILTY SPARK
CHAPTER EIGHT
D+58:36:31 (SPARTAN-117 Mission Clock)
Pelican Echo 419, approaching Covenant arms cache
Echo 419’s engines roared as the Pelican descended through the darkness and rain into the swamp. The surrounding foliage whipped back and forth in response to the sudden turbulence, the water beneath the transport’s metal belly was pressed flat, and the stench of rotting vegetation flooded the aircraft’s cargo compartment as the ramp splashed into the evil-looking brew below.
Foehammer was at the controls and it was her voice that came over the radio. “The last transmission from the Captain’s ship was from this area. When you locate Captain Keyes, radio in and I’ll come pick you up.”
The Master Chief stepped down off the ramp and immediately found himself calf-deep in oily-looking water. “Be sure to bring me a towel.”
The pilot laughed, fed more fuel to the engines, and the ship pushed itself up out of the swamp. In the three hours since she had plucked the Spartan off the top of the pyramid, he’d scarfed a quick meal and a couple hours of sleep. Now, as Foehammer dropped her passenger into the muck, she was glad to be an aviator. Ground-pounders worked too damn hard.
Keyes floated in a vacuum. A gauzy white haze clouded his vision, though he could occasionally make out images in lightning-fast bursts – a nightmare tableau of misshapen bodies and writhing tentacles. A muted gleam of light glinted from some highly polished, engraved metal. In the distance, he could hear a droning buzz. It had an odd, musical quality, like Gregorian chant slowed to a fraction of its normal speed.
He realized with a start that the images were from his own eyes. The knowledge brought back a flood of memory – of his own body. He struggled, and realized in mounting horror that he could just barely feel his own arms. They seemed softer somehow, as if filled with a spongy, thick liquid.
He couldn’t move. His lungs itched, and the effort of breathing hurt.
The strange droning chant suddenly sped into an insect buzz, painfully echoing through his consciousness. There was something... distant, something definitively other about the sound.
Without warning, a new image flashed across his mind, like images on a video screen.
The sun was setting over the Pacific, and a trio of gulls wheeled overhead. He smelled salt air, and felt gritty sand between his toes.
He felt a sickening sensation, a feeling of indescribable violation, and the comforting image vanished. He tried to remember what he was seeing, but the memory faded like smoke. All he could feel now was a sense of loss. Something had been taken from him... but what?
The insistent buzz returned, painfully loud now. He could sense tendrils of awareness – hungry for data – wriggling through his confused mind like diseased maggots. A host of new images filled him.
...the first time he killed another human being, during the riots on Charybdis IX. He smelled blood, and his hands shook as he holstered the pistol. He could feel the heat of the weapon’s barrel...
...the pride he felt after graduating at the Academy, then a hitch – as if a bad holorecord was being scrolled back – then a knot in his gut. Fear that he wouldn’t be able to meet the Academy’s standards...
...the sickening smell of lilacs and lilies as he stood over his father’s coffin...
Keyes continued to float, mesmerized by the parade of memories that began to pile on him, each one appearing faster than the last. He drifted through the fog. He didn’t notice, or indeed care, that as soon as the bursts of memory ended, they disappeared entirely.
The strange otherness receded from his awareness, but not entirely. He could still sense the other probing him, but he ignored it. The next burst of memory passed... then another... then another...
The Chief checked his threat indicator, found nothing of concern, and allowed the swamp to close in around him. “Make friends with your environment.” That’s what Chief Mendez had told him many years ago – and the advice had served him well. By listening to the constant patter of the rain, feeling the warm humid air via his vents, and seeing the shapes natural to the swamp, the Spartan would know what belonged and what didn’t. Knowledge that could mean the difference between life and death.
Satisfied that he was attuned to the environment around him, and hopeful of gaining a better vantage point, he climbed a slight rise. The payoff was immediate.
The Pelican had gone in less than sixty meters from the spot where Echo 419 had dropped him off – but the surrounding foliage was so thick Foehammer had been unable to see the crash site from the air.
The Chief moved in to inspect the wreckage. Judging from appearances, and the fact that there weren’t many bodies lying around, the ship had crashed during takeoff, rather than on landing. The impression was confirmed when he discovered that while they were dressed in fatigues, all of the casualties wore Naval insignia.
That suggested that the dropship had landed successfully, discharged all of its Marine passengers, and was in the process of lifting off when a mechanical failure or enemy fire had brought the aircraft down.
Satisfied that he had a basic understanding of what had taken place, the Chief was about to leave when he spotted a shotgun lying next to one of the bodies, decided it might come in handy, and slipped the sling over his right shoulder.
He followed a trail of bootprints away from the Pelican and toward the glow of portable work lights – the same kind of lights he’d seen in the area around the Truth and Reconciliation. The aliens were certainly industrious, especially when it came to stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down.
As if to confirm his theory regarding Covenant activity in the area, it wasn’t long before the Spartan came across a second wreck, a Covenant dropship this time, bows down in the swamp muck. Aside from swarms of moth-like insects and the distant chirp of swamp birds, there were no signs of life.