The Flood

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 tu

“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!”

Rubber screeched as the Chief put his foot to the floor, steered the Warthog through a hatch, down a ramp, and into a tu

He hit the accelerator, but the rest was more a matter of luck rather than skill. The Master Chief pushed the ’Hog up a ramp, felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as the LRV flew through the air, dropped two or three levels, hit hard, slewed sideways, and came to a stop.

The Chief wrestled with the wheel, brought the front end around, and glanced at the timer. It read: 01:10:20. He stamped on the accelerator. The Warthog shot ahead, raced through a narrow tu

The fighter was straight ahead, ramp down, waiting for him to come aboard. Plasma bolts stuttered past his head, explosions hurled debris in every direction, and then he was there, boots pounding on metal as he entered the ship.

The ramp came up just as a mob of Flood arrived, the Longsword shook in sympathy as another explosion rocked the Pillar of Autumn, and the Spartan staggered as he made his way forward. Precious seconds were consumed as he dropped into the pilot’s seat, brought the engines on-line, and took the controls.

“Here we go.”

The Chief made use of the ship’s belly jets to push the Longsword up off the deck. He turned the fighter counterclockwise, and hit the throttles. Gee forces pushed him back into his seat as the spacecraft exploded out of its bay and blasted up through the atmosphere.

Yayap, who had made it to the edge of the foothills by then, heard a series of dull thuds and turned in time to see a line of red-orange flowers bloom along the length of the Autumn’s much abused hull.

As the cruiser’s fusion drives went critical, a compact sun blossomed on the surface of Halo. Its thermonuclear sphere carved a five-kilometer crater into the superdense ring material and sent powerful pressure waves rippling throughout the structure. Both up- and down-spin of the explosion, the fireball flattened and sterilized the surface terrain. Within moments, the yellow-white core had consumed all of the available fuel, collapsed upon itself, and winked out.

Still spi

There was an insistent beeping sound as the words ENGINE TEMP CRITICAL flashed on the control panel, and Cortana said, “Shut them down. We’ll need them later.”

The Master Chief reached up to flick some switches, got up out of his seat, and arrived in front of the viewport in time to see the last intact piece of Halo’s hull sheared in half by the dreadful slow-motion ballet of flying metal.

For some reason he thought of Lieutenant Melissa McKay, her calm green eyes, and the fact that he had never gotten to know her. “Did anyone else make it?”

“Sca

The Spartan winced. McKay, Foehammer, Keyes, and all the rest of them. Dead. Just like the children he’d been raised with – just like a part of himself.

When Cortana spoke it was as if the AI felt that she had to justify what had transpired. “We did what we had to do – for Earth. An entire Covenant armada obliterated. And the Flood – we had no choice. Halo, it’s finished.”

“No,” the Chief replied, settling in behind the Longsword’s controls. “The Covenant are still out there, and Earth is at risk. We’re just getting started.”