Halo: Evolutions, Volume I (Halo #0) 2

―Thanks," she managed, as more Flood bugs came bouncing out of the hall.

It was like a fairground game, shooting ducks. Only, not really.

Funny how you adjusted to the situation, no matter how messed up. She felt relief that these weren‘t the great ravening horrors that had chased them through recycling. They weren‘t going to slash them open and crush them. They were small, these little infectors. One bullet, one hit, and they would burst.

Just, there were so many of them.

And Rimmer couldn‘t shoot for shit.

―Stop!" Benti yelled. ―You‘re just wasting ammo! Swap, and reload mine."

Even Clarence switched to his pistol, single shots popping white pods there, there, and there. A good sharpshooter, on top of everything else. Not too many of those in the Marines, not at private level.

―Where are they coming from ?" It was like a machine full of half-chewed gumballs had broken all over the floor.

One slipped in close, and Henry smashed it flat.

Benti could‘ve sworn the Elite looked a little gleeful.

>Foucault 1559 hours

The video ended, and the loop began again.

Foucault knuckled his eyes, taking the moment to collect his thoughts. After what he had been shown and told, he was inclined to think maybe Rebecca had indeed gone rampant. Found himself hoping that were true, because if forced to choose between the story she had spun and a rampant AI embedded in his ship, the latter seemed the lesser trial.

On the monitor: a wide, high room of unfamiliar architecture, and a ravening horror leapt at the camera, decayed and misshapen and still unfortunately recognizable as a human, UNSC logo just visible on the remains of the uniform. A shotgun blast floored it, but there was another to take its place, and another, and another. In the background, on the floor, a recently killed Marine convulsed, and came back. Footage of what Spartan-117 and the Marines who preceded him had found on

Halo.

He picked his words precisely. ―We have not been able to defeat the Covenant in nearly three decades, and yet, here we are, returned here for the sole purpose of seeking this out." He felt tired, more than sleep-deprived. ―This greater threat."

An infected Marine ignored the bullets striking its torso and leapt at a healthy, live, uninfected Marine. Foucault had turned the volume off, but the screams still sounded in his mind.

―I don‘t believe it was in the original brief," Rebecca said. ―The ONI agent heading the research project aboard the Mona Lisa seems to have exceeded his parameters. Significantly. And we still don‘t know for sure ."

Foucault shook his head at the insanity of it all. ―Is there more?"

―No," she replied. He didn‘t believe her, and didn‘t not believe her. Almost didn‘t care. ―But now you understand, we cannot deploy any more Marines, not without explicit confirmation. We cannot risk the Red Horse ."

He watched a small white pod of a creature latch onto a Marine‘s chest, watched the life leave those eyes, watched something else take over. A cold worm of dread coiled in his belly.

―We do not willingly abandon our own," he said, to himself, and knew right then and there that statement was close to becoming a lie.

>Lopez 1602 hours

What had once been Rakesh chased them toward the bridge, howling and gibbering and raising a chorus of answering growls. Lopez had caught sight of him stumbling on a derailed security door and bolted. Didn‘t look back. Hadn‘t wanted to see what he‘d become, and definitely didn‘t want to see if they were, in fact, being pursued by more than one. Couldn‘t waste ammo if they could possibly help it, even though they‘d taken all Singh and Percy had left.

―Sarge! The door!" MacCraw pointed, looking back at her, then beyond her. Only to look forward again. Fast. Didn‘t make her any more curious about what was behind them.

―I see it!" The bridge up ahead, a giant arrow on the wall confirming it, and the door to the bridge sitting back from the wall a hand span, an overturned chair stopping it from sealing. Oh, small mercies. Crashed up against the door, lighting a fire where Smith had shot her, and kicked at the chair. ―Get in there!"

MacCraw turned to face Rakesh, backing toward her and fumbling for his weapon. Lopez cursed.

Without the obstacle the door began to slide shut. Shoved her shoulder in the gap. ―Dammit, MacCraw, I said—"

Caught a glimpse over MacCraw‘s shoulder. Oh shit.

MacCraw added his own weight to the door. Rakesh was fast, way too fast, oh shit oh shit ohshi—

The door shifted, and they fell through. Scrambled back, MacCraw landing an elbow in Lopez‘s injury. All the air left her; she couldn‘t even grunt. The door closed slowly, and Rakesh was so fast, footfalls so heavy, ravening shout loud in her ears. But: cut off cleanly. The door sealed with a sigh, and locked, as it had been trying to do for hours.

MacCraw scrambled to his feet, flashlight on the door, then the room beyond, then back to the door. ―He knows we‘re in here," he said, voice shaking. A muffled but insistent thudding began on the hatch.

―It," Lopez corrected him, clamping down on the pain in her side. ―It‘s an it , now."

MacCraw nodded, mouth moving as if trying to convince himself. He flinched at every knock on the door.

Lopez stood. She pursed her lips, stepped past him, making a slow pan of the bridge with her flashlight, her hand steady, that small show of calm enough to reach him.

―Sensing a pattern here," she said, noting the arcs of blood on the walls and floor. The drag marks that almost didn‘t register with her anymore. Nothing moved except drifts of green dust, growing in little crests here and there. Someone had holed a beastie before going down. Good to see. Most of the displays had been wrenched from their stands and smashed, but some still showed readouts, broken through the cracks. The bridge must have a separate power source .

They ran their lights across the ceiling, shone them into every corner and under every station, until Lopez dared to believe they might be safe. Let out a deep breath. They might actually have some time to think for a change.

―Don‘t think anyone is gonna use the nav system." MacCraw stood over the ruined console. ―Guess we can go home now?"

―Soon," Lopez promised. ―Soon." Smith‘s voice echoed in her mind. Retain their knowledge .

Didn‘t like the implications. Wondered if any of the crew had been infected. Didn‘t like that thought, either.

―We came here for the nav system, didn‘t we? What else is in here?" MacCraw glanced nervously over his shoulder at the door. The assault showed no signs of waning. The infected Rakesh was going to pummel itself into a pulp trying to get at them.

―We can use the ship‘s system. Get me radio contact. I don‘t care how, and I don‘t care who: Benti, Burgundy, raise the Red Horse , hell, raise that damn Covenant ship. Just get me someone to talk to."

MacCraw spun suddenly, taking aim at a corner in the ceiling, jerked to check another corner, looking for giant angry boils, snotbags, infection forms.

Lopez couldn‘t blame him, but they didn‘t have time for it. ―Private! Get to it!"

―Yessir." Training overrode his fear. He brushed broken plastic and green dust off the glass atop an undamaged console. ―What are you gonna do, Sarge?"

Lopez righted a chair, ignoring the foam bulging from the slashed seat. She‘d been counting rosary beads again. So many lost. Thinking about that thing wailing on the door, that had been one of her Marines. Thinking about why .

―I ever tell you I can touch-type?" She pulled Smith‘s security pass from her pocket and waved it at him as she sat. ―Old school, I am. Now get cracking."

>Benti 1608 hours

Somehow, against the odds, they‘d reached the engine room.

Now what? Benti hadn‘t a clue.

They were crouched down, peering over dead consoles on the control platform mounted two flights up, and they had a fine view of the main engine deck below.

The space engines dominated, sinking beneath the floor and looming high above them, the

shielding around the thrusters looking to Benti like giant centipedes, stretching back through the rear of the ship. Nestled between them, oddly innocuous, the slipspace engine, a standard

Shaw-Fujikawa translight, nothing more than a six-pack of boxes propped against each other. A melange of grease and oil and rancid hydraulic fluid mostly snuffed out the pervasive mold smell.

The floor was crowded. It was busy. It was Flood Party Central. No surprise there.

Details began to leap out at her. Covenant strode huge among the turned humans, most of them trailing scraps of prison garb, some in official uniform, and there, in the middle of them, Maller still in Marine armor. He was warped out of shape, limping, dragging an appendage of gristle behind him. Maller crossed paths with a Covenant Elite ruptured like a huge septic bruise, and they almost seemed to nod at each other. All of them, the prisoners and guards, humans and Covenant, united, in total harmony. Of one mind.

Better to think of it as a party, and they were the rogue DJs who‘d crashed it.

But, no, that didn‘t really help. She had to look away, up at Henry, who was checking, kept checking, the catwalk behind them. He met her eyes, unhappy but in control, too much the warrior.

Clarence swallowed, his lips parted, gaze fixated on something below, and swallowed again. The muscles in his jaw worked as he clenched his teeth. He looked a question at her. Their orders didn‘t seem to apply anymore.

Rimmer had been partly right. This wasn‘t all the ship‘s dead. On the slipspace engine, the Flood had fixed a giant clot of mucus. Not mucus, Benti corrected herself, some sickly membrane,

throbbing and quivering, odd shapes distorting its skin, half caught in it, as if something were moving within, and suddenly the picture resolved itself, and those odd shapes against the membrane became arms and legs dressed in uniform, the crew caught and suspended in the glob.

Struggling. Alive .

Benti raised a numb hand and covered her mouth, not sure if she was holding in a sob or vomit.

A squeak that might‘ve become something louder and Benti snapped around. Clarence was faster, one arm around Rimmer‘s head, the other hand clamped firmly over his mouth, expression dour.

Rimmer gripped the arm around him, not struggling but holding on like a drowning man to a life preserver. Benti bit her lip and hoped he wouldn‘t release Rimmer until they were well out of here.

There was too much terror in Rimmer‘s eyes.

A new sound cut above the shuffle and murmur and held the full attention of all the Flood below.

As one they turned blindly toward the sound, a horrible synchronicity in the way they raised their heads to sniff, claws and nails flexed, ready to attack. Benti could almost taste the mindless rage that swelled and peaked, and then suddenly dissipated.

An infected person, a human, came into view, carrying a body. No, an infected Marine. Cranker.

Carrying someone alive. Someone badly wounded, dripping blood, but alive and struggling, wailing, sobbing, thrashing and kicking as they neared the mucus glob.

― Don’t let them take me! "

Benti‘s heart thumped. She put her other hand over her mouth, recoiled, sagged back against Henry‘s leg. A sour smell and trickle. Rimmer had pissed himself.

Burgundy.

>Lopez 1613 hours

What are we fighting for? The question rang loud in Lopez‘s mind. She couldn‘t think around it. What are we fighting for? She took a data crystal from the console, tucking it firmly in her vest pocket. She had only skimmed some of the files Smith‘s pass had granted her access to, but there would be time to read the rest later. She‘d read enough for now. Too much. There was no mystery left in this ship, their mission for even being here. What are we fighting for? It took conscious effort to keep everything she‘d learned from rasping in her voice.

―I think . . . yeah, I got a signal, Sarge! Booyah!" MacCraw pumped his fists in the air.

―You raised the Red Horse ?"

Neither of them paid any attention to the dull booming any more. The infected Rakesh was a lot more aggressive and annoying than the real Rakesh.

MacCraw couldn‘t and didn‘t try to dampen the goofy grin on his face. ―She‘s talking, oh yeah, she‘s talking!"

―What about Benti and Burgundy?" she said, crossing over to him.

MacCraw jittered in his seat, too excited by the sound of home. ―I couldn‘t raise either of them, but the intercom is online in most of the ship."

―Patch this through, then." Hooked her chair over, but didn‘t sit. Couldn‘t sit. ―Maybe someone will hear."

―—is the UNSC Red Horse to the Mona Lisa , come in Mona Lisa . Anyone hear me?"

A deeper echo as every speaker in the ship broadcast Rebecca‘s hail. Lopez never thought she‘d be happy to hear that voice.

―Never a sweeter sound, AI Rebecca. Is the commander there?"

Foucault‘s voice entered. ―I am. The situation here—"

Didn‘t want to cut him off, but also wanted to deliver her information fast, and in as calm and professional a manner as possible.

―Sir, I got all the recon you‘ll ever need. This ship is ONI, with a certain Major John Smith most recently in charge. Section 3 sent it here, to experiment with the Flood Spartan-117 encountered on Halo, although ONI might not have known about all of Major Smith‘s project ―enhancements." But at the very least they came to secure a sample, so they could ‗study‘ it, and they brought guinea pigs with them too. Under the orders of Major Smith, they‘ve been deliberately infecting human

prisoners and"—she paused for a second, unable to believe she was saying

this—― Covenant prisoners too. Covies and civilians. Our own. Infecting them and turning them into these damn monsters, these zombies! And no one told us !" You never told us, Commander. MacCraw was staring at her, his grin gone. ―I found a passenger manifest here and some of the people, they were ours, sir, Navy, they were soldiers who‘d served during the insurrection—"

―I know, Sergeant."

That brought Lopez up short. Something in his tone had turned her stomach to ice. She put a hand on MacCraw‘s arm, not sure who she was reassuring.

―Sir?"

―The Major Smith you refer to is en route to the Red Horse , in your Pelican. He has informed us of the situation."

Damn. Her stomach roiled, and something in her plummeted. How had the evil little spook even made it to the hangar?

―Sir," Lopez said, gritting her teeth. She couldn‘t think of anything else to say. ―Sir."

―Major Smith did fail to mention that any of you had survived."

―Bastard," MacCraw said, but without emotion, gaze uncharacteristically distant.

Lopez swallowed. ―He‘s a liar and a traitor and a war criminal ." Reduced almost to incoherence.

―Everyone who died on this ship, my kids, the crew. If not for him, they might be alive." Couldn‘t even begin to articulate her rage at Smith. Her disappointment in herself for letting him escape.

―Rebecca has verified his story."

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth, either.

―I‘m going to kill him," she whispered. ―I‘m going to—"

Foucault ignored her. ―Having witnessed this ‗Flood‘ firsthand, Sergeant, what is your assessment?

If it were to reach one of the outer colonies, for example?"

―I‘m not paid to think, sir. Remember?" Bitter. Furious. Knew what Foucault was driving at, knew that the coward wanted her to have to say it. To have to accept it.

The pounding on the door increased. Rakesh wasn‘t alone anymore. Now he had friends.

―Nevertheless."

Officers. Officers . Making decisions from a distance.

―We have no defense against such a foe," Rebecca said, sparing Foucault from uttering the words.

―Any planet infected by the Flood would be overrun in a matter of days. More food for the Flood.

More knowledge of where to find food. They retain all useful information. Outpost coordinates, more pilots, increased numbers with which to commandeer ships, to reach more colonies. You know this to be true."

Lopez found herself quoting Smith. ― ‗It‘s a big, bad universe, Commander. Covenant aren‘t the worst of it.‘ " Found herself agreeing with him, as he‘d wanted her to.

Rebecca again, in a soothing tone that didn‘t soothe at all: ―The Flood represents the greatest threat to humanity since the Covenant. A cure must be sought—"

―A cure?!" Realized she was digging her nails into MacCraw‘s arm. Couldn‘t let go. Served him right for elbowing her before. ―There is no goddamn cure! According to the files, this was never about a cure, this was about control , about creating mindless monster soldiers you could control .

Who knows what Smith was doing that isn‘t in the record. But a cure? If you‘d seen what we‘ve seen . . ."

―We have, Sergeant," Foucault said. ―We have . . ."

Lopez loosened her grip on MacCraw‘s arm. He put his hand over hers, palm sweaty. ―I guess I thought we were better than the Covenant. Not just a little better. Really better."

―Research is always necessary, Sergeant." Rebecca was calm, assured, implacable. But she hadn‘t had the worst day in the history of worst days.

―The research was useless," Lopez said. ―Totally useless. We‘ve known about this thing for weeks and all we‘ve done in that time is expose ourselves to more risk. That gas giant was drawing in the debris, crushing it. It would have vacuumed up everything. And what did we do? We sent a

goddamned cab."

MacCraw‘s silence grew heavier beside her.

A pause, and Foucault again: ―Our orders are to destroy the Mona Lisa . We cannot allow any of the Flood to survive. Rebecca has informed me that there are two remaining escape pods on the lower deck. The launching mechanisms appear disabled, so they may need manual releasing. Once Major Smith is on board, you will have until we are in position and the Shiva is armed, and then we will open fire. We cannot delay any further. The major has brought the attention of the Covenant capitol ship upon us."

― You knew." Those two words saturated with grief, fury, betrayal. Betrayed twice, three times over.

For nothing. Didn‘t want to come close to acknowledging the hope Foucault had held out in the form of the two pods.

A force rippled through the ship, made the bridge almost flip for a second. Lopez went flying, righted herself before she crashed into the wall. Saw that McCraw tried to hold onto the console before falling. The ship settled, but Lopez could hear tearing sounds in the metal, a booming through the air ducts like a giant smashing something with a huge hammer.

―What was that?" Foucault asked, urgent.

―I don‘t know. But it‘s gone and passed," said Lopez. ―And we‘re still here." Making it sound accusatory.

A moment of silence. For all of them. She hoped that was Foucault‘s conscience knifing him.

―Eight, maybe ten minutes, Sergeant," he said finally, and she could hear the shame in his voice.

Hoped even harder it knifed him for the rest of his life.

Lopez pulled MacCraw to his feet.

―Good luck," Foucault said, already becoming distant.

―You know what you can do with your luck," she snarled, and kicked the mic. Turned to MacCraw, who looked close to being sick. ―That went out over the ship?"

MacCraw nodded dumbly. ―At least, the part the explosion didn‘t cover up. Do you think that was Benti?"

―Could‘ve been. Could‘ve been something else. We don‘t have time to worry about it, so long as we‘re still breathing air."

Nothing on the remaining consoles indicated a drop in air pressure, just a sudden surge of energy near the engines.

Eight to ten minutes. Knew what MacCraw was thinking. They‘d survived nightmares only to get shot down by their own commander. He‘d already given up, tears glistening in his eyes.

Couldn‘t have that. She was still his sergeant.

She slapped his chest. ―Let‘s hope someone was alive to hear it. Now hustle! We blow through some space zombies, get cozy in a pod, and we‘re gonna live, you hear? We‘re gonna live." She grinned suddenly, fiercely. ―And we‘re gonna get back home to the Red Horse , and then we‘re gonna tear the commander a new a-hole. Two new assholes, one for you and one for me. And then we‘re gonna find Smith, and we‘re gonna take our time with him, I think." Couldn‘t even pick one of the many things she wanted to do to the spook, saw the same violent yearning lift MacCraw‘s chin. ―And then, when we‘re done with him, then what?"

MacCraw sniffed and blinked his tears away.

―And then there‘s ice cream, Sarge."

Their grins were hollow. Voices breaking. The Flood still hammering on the door, the door they had to go through.

―Damn straight."

>Benti 1613 hours

Benti raised her rifle, Burgundy in her sights, but both Clarence and Henry reached out, with expressions that said, No, don’t, you’ll let them know we’re here, and there are too many of them.

Benti bit her lip bloody, couldn‘t block her ears; Burgundy wouldn‘t stop screaming, even though her voice was ripped to shreds she shrieked and screeched, begged and pleaded, all her terror and desperation echoing around the cold engine, ringing in Benti‘s ears as they lifted the pilot and pressed her against the mucus glob with the rest of the Mona Lisa’s crew.

And then she really started screaming.

Benti couldn‘t look any more. She screwed her eyes shut, but that wasn‘t enough. Turned, pressed her forehead against Henry‘s knee. She had to do something, but didn‘t know what to do. Henry looked over his shoulder, then dipped his head down to peer at her. His breath reeked. He stank of Covenant, a smell that never failed to get her blood up, and she leaned back. But he had intelligent eyes. Kind eyes. Something like recognition in them. He could hear all she could hear, could understand it all.

She had to do something.

But.

A thunk and crackle tripped their attention, disorientating the Flood on the deck below. The ship‘s PA was waking up.

―—is the UNSC Red Horse —"

Rebecca.

Benti‘s delight was drowned out by the crashing, raucous cacophony that exploded from the Flood.

―What‘s going on?" she hissed, leaning close to Rimmer. Clarence lifted his hand from Rimmer‘s mouth just enough.

―You gotta find some way to turn it off, it‘ll enrage them, they go crazy when they hear something, might be food, they go crazy, they‘ll look for where it‘s coming from—" Clarence clamped his hand over Rimmer‘s mouth again, the prisoner already too worked up. He shook his head, indicated with his eyes. There was a speaker way too close to them.

Down below, great spasms of rage gripped the Flood. The voices over the PA, Foucault‘s,

Sarge‘s— oh, Mama Lopez, what the hell is going on? —sent them into a mad frenzy, howling and throwing themselves about, pouring in doors, out doors. An infected prisoner smashed a speaker down on the deck with a single blow, denting the wall. Benti saw Cranker turning this way and that like a drunk puppy trying to do a trick for its master.

Just audible over the din, the sarge listing all of ONI‘s sins. Rebecca spelling out the doom of the human race, should the Flood be allowed to spread.

The more she heard, the more Benti began to think she understood what the Flood might be doing in the engine room. It stank of insanity. It stank of processes and alien know-how that messed with her mind—but what if it was true?

What if they were collecting pilots?

Benti ducked down near Clarence‘s ear. ―We have to destroy it. That thing they just shoved

Burgundy into, I think, I dunno, I think they‘re trying to somehow hotwire the slipspace engine without bridge control. We have to destroy it."

Clarence looked at her like she was crazy.

―And even if not, that engine is important to them somehow," Benti said. ―We have to take care of it."

Clarence looked around, skeptical. Their options were limited, and the smell of Rimmer‘s piss was getting to Benti. She checked the engines again. Henry put a hand on her shoulder, steady and strong.

If they damaged the slipspace engine, things could go bad. Very bad.