Halo: Evolutions, Volume I

But . . .



―To heck with it." She was in charge.



Benti leapt to her feet, grabbed her remaining grenades, pulled a pin, and hurled it at the mucus glob. Clarence lunged at her. Too late. Pulled another pin and lobbed it. Watched it bounce off the glob as she threw the last. Henry surged up beside her, over her, cricket bat at the ready. He stooped and grabbed a handful of Rimmer‘s jumpsuit, Clarence‘s vest, and jerked them upright.



―Let‘s go, now now now!" Benti didn‘t wait to see where the final grenade had landed. She



grabbed Rimmer‘s sleeve, dragged him into a run, running from the howling Flood, from the first detonation booming behind them, running for the hatch they‘d come through, shoving Rimmer



before her, Henry, Clarence, hauling the hatch shut behind them with a solid clang.



Burgundy had stopped screaming, at last.



>Foucault 1616 hours



―Major Smith is secure on board," Rebecca announced to Foucault, and part of him wanted to say,



―So what?" The screens showed the Covenant ship readjusting its course to intercept them and the Mona Lisa still wallowing there, dead, but with all sorts of life aboard it. About to be extinguished.



Foucault inclined his head slightly, his only acknowledgment of her words. He had no wish to meet Smith at the moment. Or any other moment.



―What should we do with him?"



―Let‘s keep him in solitary for a while," he said. A good long while .



Rebecca seemed as if she might leave it at that, and then ventured, ―Doesn‘t it help to know the major may have acted on his own? ONI isn‘t responsible for this. This was never meant to happen, and the very fact we‘re here shows that ONI is acting in good faith. He‘ll be court-martialed. Maybe even worse."



Foucault wondered if she was right, if he should take some comfort from that fact. Someone would pay. At some point in the future.



Then he thought of the two pods and of all the Marines who might be alive and heading for them, the only chance for survival.



―No. No, it doesn‘t." A new kind of hell. A fresh bout of nightmares to keep him up. He wondered in a distant kind of way if it‘d all fade in time, or if eventually he‘d have to give up his command.



―Smith may have acted on his own, as you say. Or he may have been following orders, and Section 3 will now use him as a scapegoat and wash their hands of the matter. It doesn‘t matter. It doesn‘t change a thing."



A moment, and then Rebecca said, ―Telling them about the pods was a pointless gesture. Under the circumstances."



Pointless? Her tone told him she was giving him a warning. She‘d told Foucault about the Section 3



operative she‘d sent with Lopez‘s squad. The one tasked with cleaning up any messes. Perhaps she envisioned the same terrible dilemmas. Or perhaps not. Anyway, she‘d sent an operative and he‘d fought back by opening a narrow line of retreat for Lopez. Whatever happened, it was beyond their control now.



―Politics. Survival." He said the words like curses.



Rebecca watched him. Who knew what she was thinking, this copy of a person?



―The survival of humanity is paramount, Commander."



Rebecca needed a better speechwriter. Lopez would never forgive him, not for the rest of her life, be it eight minutes or eighty years. Neither would he.



The timer since last contact was now replaced with a status feed on the loading of the Shiva missile. Another monitor tracked the Covenant capitol ship bearing down on them.



A voice from the bridge: ―Commander, picking up a detonation within the transport. Slipspace splinters. I think the slipspace engine has been ruptured. We need to withdraw before it goes completely."



When he didn‘t respond: ―Sir, we need to withdraw to a safe distance."



―No. Not yet."



―Sir—"



He felt old. Tired.



But still.



―No. We stay." He was aware of the attention of the bridge crew on him, on the monitors, waiting, their own fate in the balance. ―We stay until the last second. We don‘t abandon our own."



Until we have to.



>Benti 1616 hours



In the aftermath of throwing the grenade, Benti thought she‘d heard Foucault on the intercom saying good luck . Had he? Really?



Those words echoed in Benti‘s ears. In her bones. In her feet pounding the corridor floor. She‘d always defended the commander when the others were poking fun at him in the mess. All she had to show for it now was ―good luck, so long, nice knowing you." She felt sick to her stomach.



―The important thing," she said, panting, the sound of pursuit on their heels, ―is the pods. At least we have somewhere to run to." Her legs were tired, were heavy, but she couldn‘t stop, had to keep going; knowing what was behind them, didn‘t even want to stop.



Rimmer clung to Henry‘s arm as he ran, like a child to a parent. The hand on Henry‘s arm was white-knuckled with strain, fingernails digging. ―They did that to us. To us. I mean—we were never meant to—how could they—" Even out of breath he didn‘t stop talking. ―I‘m not even on death row." Henry growled and shook his arm, but Rimmer didn‘t let go, didn‘t shut up. ―I only sold stolen goods. That was all. I never—"



Benti tossed a look over her shoulder. Clarence behind her, stone-faced and focused, unflinching at the walls groaning beside him and at the rumble and explosion they left behind.



―What way—?" Intersections and junctions flashing by. She had no map, but now there was no



useful map of the ship. Just keep your head down and cross your fingers . Lots of graffiti scrawled in blood now. Some of it by prisoners before they‘d become part of the Flood, some of it after, all of it unreadable at that pace.



Henry looked at Benti expectantly, loping alongside with ease. He could have left them all behind, but hadn‘t. She couldn‘t help thinking of him as a big dog, forgetting the intelligence and awareness in those eyes.



The Elite dipped his head, and said something. A question.



Given the circumstances, there were only a few things he could‘ve been saying.



Benti slowed a moment, took the rifle from Rimmer and put it in Henry‘s waiting hands.



―Hey, what are you—"



His hands were almost too big. He could barely fit a finger to the trigger. Nodded at her, lower jaws quivering, but kept his cricket bat.



―You‘re a lousy shot," she answered Rimmer. ―Keep moving!"



Clarence drew up beside her as she sped up again, and the look he gave her made her glad,



suddenly, that she had Henry at her back.



>Lopez 1620 hours



―Is this a hull?"



―No, sir!"



Lopez pulled her last grenade and tossed it down the hall at a cluster of forms shifting in the darkness. In her mind, the forms were Rebecca and Foucault.



―Place is gonna get trashed anyway—"



The explosion blew out the rest of her words.



>Benti 1620 hours



The unmistakable sound of grenade detonation reverberated through the dying ship, the floor shivering beneath Benti‘s feet, distinct from the rumbles of the disintegrating engine. The sarge, she thought. Had to be. Remembering the others might be alive added a sudden spring to her step. They weren‘t the only ones left. If they could just get to Mama Lopez, everything would be okay. She knew it, had to at least make herself believe it.



A figure lumbered out of a room and she ripped a short burst through it, taking out the knees while Clarence, in sync, shot out the chest, and Henry clubbed it with his bat as they fled past. They had no time to be more thorough. They dropped down ladders and slammed hatches shut behind them, seeking only to delay what was following. No time to sneak. All the noise they made, they were getting a lot of attention. A huge following. Benti had never been so popular in her life. Is it my birthday or something?



―Reload!"



The voice in her headset made her start. They were in radio range, oh at last!



―MacCraw!"



―Benti!" A pause and gunfire before the sarge spoke again. ―Who you got?"



―Clarence." She didn‘t look at him or Henry. ―And a couple of survivors. One deck to go."



―Get your butt into gear; that ice cream isn‘t gonna wait."



―Yes, sir!" She‘d never been so happy to be told to hustle. She turned to grin at Clarence.



It leapt out of the corridor before she could check. Something rabid smashed into her shoulder and threw her against the wall, so fast, all the air knocked out of her, head flung back knocked hard, the shock not enough to crowd out a terrible waft of rank decay and a moan that came from no human throat. Keep your eyes open, always keep your eyes open, her medic training kicking in, and her eyes were open, and she recognized Sydney, what was Sydney, before Clarence stepped between it and her, shot it, kept shooting it, never lifted his finger from the trigger, not even when it stopped moving.



Sydney. How could you do that to me?



She drew a breath in. Let it out. In. Out.



When Clarence looked at her, she knew it was bad. She could see it in his eyes. She couldn‘t feel her arm; it hung too low on her lap, sleeve already saturated. Her eyes focused on the rifle in his hands. Orlav. Gersten.



You wouldn‘t, she thought. You might.



Henry scooped her up in one arm, tucked her up against his chest, pushed past Clarence, and kept going.



Lopez 1622 hours



Benti, alive. The voice had conjured up such relief for Lopez, adding a bead or two back onto the rosary. Conjured up images from a world that seemed so distant. The Red Horse . On leave, singing in a karaoke bar, getting blind drunk, picking up men, telling her how to smile properly. Did any of that exist anymore? Had it ever existed?



The airlock was miraculously vacant, but it wouldn‘t be for long. Benti and Clarence were approaching from aft. They‘d jammed the forward hatch behind them, using pieces of shelving from a barricade that hadn‘t held the first time. Only one direction to watch now. Then jiggered the manual controls. Both were ready to go.



―Two pods," MacCraw said, checking the time. ―Two of us, some of them. What are we going to do?"



Lopez didn‘t answer. What could she answer? Yeah, kid, we’ve still got some tough decisions.



Instead she said, ―Benti‘s taking her sweet time."



―It‘s those short legs." MacCraw checked the time again. ―Sarge . . ." The strain in his voice said everything. Let’s get the hell out already.



―Sarge!" Benti gasped over the radio, the signal good and strong. ―Sarge, we‘re coming, don‘t shoot, oh please don‘t—"



A flashlight jagged about, coming down the corridor, the figures behind it resolving.



―Covenant!" MacCraw shouted, down on one knee and finger tightening on the trigger.



―Don‘t shoot!" Benti‘s voice.



There, suddenly: a Covenant Elite sprinting down the corridor, assault rifle in one hand, cricket bat in the other, and Benti slung over his arm like an errant child.



Not even the craziest thing Lopez had seen all day. Didn‘t register at first that Benti might be hurt.



―It‘s okay! Sarge!" The panic in Benti‘s voice didn‘t make sense. ―Henry‘s okay! Don‘t shoot!"



Henry? Lopez didn‘t lower her weapon. ―MacCraw, do not take your finger off that trigger!"



The Elite Benti had called Henry slowed, eyeing them warily. Closer now, she could see Benti‘s shirt and pants soaked red, her arm tucked into her vest, bone jutting from her shoulder. Benti‘s other hand gripping this Henry‘s thumb for dear life. Behind the Elite, Clarence and one human survivor in prison clothes.



Somewhere behind them, not yet visible, the deep unnatural choir of the Flood, like a physical presence. Sounded like they‘d brought the whole ship in their wake.



―What‘s this Covie bastard doing here?" Lopez demanded. ―You said survivors, Private!"



Benti blinked groggily, a frown of concentration, yet still not fully there.



―She didn‘t mean it," Clarence said, glancing back at the corridor, mindful of the Flood, and then reached out with his pistol and shot the human prisoner in the head. The man didn‘t have time to look startled, just dropped, a small and surprisingly neat puncture in his skull.



Lopez had no time to react. Everything happened real fast after that.



Henry spun, Benti crying out with the sudden movement. The Elite saw the dead prisoner, roared in unmistakable grief, and raised its rifle. Clarence jerked his own rifle up, staring down the barrel at the Elite.



Benti slapped its arm, pleading: ―Don‘t shoot! Nobody shoot!" But staring at Clarence. Lopez was staring at Clarence, too, stunned. A good man. A good shot. Someone she wasn‘t sure she knew now.



And the Flood. Louder, closer, relentless, unstoppable.



Lopez‘s rifle wavering between her Marine and the Covie: ―Clarence, what the hell?"



Henry bellowed, a terrible accusation in that alien voice. She couldn‘t get a clear shot with Benti there, just as Clarence couldn‘t get off a shot at them without Lopez dropping him. Except she had MacCraw.



―MacCraw, shoot that—MacCraw?"



He wasn‘t at her side. Behind her, one of the escape pods clicked shut.



―Fuck!"



The pod ejected.



From the bridge of the Red Horse : ―Three minutes to launch sequence."



>Benti 1623 hours



Benti stared at Clarence, her partner blurring in and out of focus. She really couldn‘t see much of anything anymore. Knew her pulse was thready, that she‘d lost too much blood, medic training both a blessing and a curse. Henry‘s embrace felt like a warm bed around her body, a bed she was falling into.



―You‘re ONI," she said at last. ―You‘ve got to be." She could see it in his eyes.



From off to their left, the voice of Lopez, coming through gauze: ―ONI? I‘m not surprised."



Knew the good old sarge still had them in her sights or Clarence would‘ve blown her away. She realized every sympathetic quality she‘d found in him had come from her. Just because he never said. Anything that. Would change her opinion. Realized she was floating a bit now.



―It‘s nothing personal. There were never meant to be any survivors," Clarence said. ―Benti, get down. Come on, you can walk." He narrowed his eyes at Henry. ―Put her down."



The sounds of the Flood, coming closer. But muffled, like she had headphones on or something.



―You‘re Section 3," Benti said, quieter. A softness entered Clarence‘s mouth and eyes. ―I‘m sorry," he said, but Benti didn‘t think he was sorry.



―Clarence, drop your rifle," Lopez said fuzzily. Except Benti knew Lopez had said it sharp. The sarge. Always said it sharp. ―It‘s two against one."



Benti squirmed and made Henry set her down. She was almost there. She could almost see the end.



―Henry can have my ice cream," Benti said.



She pushed off Henry and staggered into Clarence, legs so unsteady, and he was farther away than she thought. But still got too close-in for him to shoot her, inside his guard. She collapsed against him, with her one good arm around his neck in a hug.



As the Flood surged around the last corner and came toward them. A slavering mass of rage and violence and nightmares they never knew they had. Her vision blurred, but she caught glimpses of what once were faces, moving with singularity of mind. They seemed to crawl on disembodied



human hands and Covenant hands.



Pushed, then. Used all of her weight to push the two of them back toward the Flood. She had just enough strength to hold him there for the second necessary for Lopez to shoot him in the leg, the shoulder, send his rifle flying. Send him flying back into the corridor. Benti followed, to keep him out there, with them . The farther back into the darkness the better. Clarence was too wounded to stop her.



Lopez and Henry were shooting—at them, at the Flood. It didn‘t make a difference now.



Clarence was shouting something. At her, but it sounded so far away. His eyes were wild and scared, and part of her felt proud to be scary and part of her had never wanted to see Clarence scared.



She was losing her grip on him, and a bullet had found her side, just pumped in there like it belonged, took more energy out of her.



Clarence had just about managed to put his pistol to her head to get her off of him, when she tripped him.



And the Flood washed over him, over her.



Found them.