Not waiting for a response, he turned to Lopez: ―What do you think?"

―I‘m not paid to think, sir." Her default answer when she didn‘t want to get involved.

A smirking laugh. Maybe some residual regret in that look from Foucault. As if, in situations like these, he wished he wasn‘t paid to think, either.

When they‘d first come out of slipspace and seen their destination, seen the alien structure, magnificent even in ruins, Lopez had forgotten herself. ―What are we looking for, sir?" she‘d asked.

Foucault hadn‘t looked away from the window, but she‘d sensed him wince. On that poker face, a

―wince" was just a lowered eyebrow. ―Whatever there is to find, Sergeant," he‘d said finally. Slight pressure on sergeant .

―Did either of you intuit anything useful out of what the man said before he died?" Foucault asked.

―Anything that gives us more context?"

―He just kept saying he was safe, sir," Lopez said. Maybe death was a form of safety, but not one that appealed much to her.

―Nothing that would be inconsistent with the delusions of a man suffering from dehydration and mortal wounds," Rebecca said.

Foucault did this steepling thing with his hands that was his only affectation. ―I‘m inclined to finish the postmortem, stow the body, and carry on with our mission."

What mission? In Lopez‘s opinion, risking their asses for ―whatever there is to find" seemed stupid.

She knew from talking to some of the noncoms on the bridge that it was near impossible to pilot the Prowler through the debris field. Between Rebecca and the discreet automatic defense firing, they‘d avoided any serious collisions. But that risked giving away their position to the Covenant even as the debris helped hide them. Still, if the whispers that came back to her were right, the bulk of the Covenant fleet had left the system in pursuit of a ―higher value target"—which supposedly had surprised the commander. Not the kind of thing she could confirm with Foucault, and Lopez didn‘t know how long ago the Covenant fleet had left. All she cared about: no Covies so far.

Somebody was doing a lot of gambling here, and Lopez still had no idea for what potential gain.

Rebecca turned to Lopez, and said, ―What the commander means is he wants you to take a squad in a Pelican and go investigate the Mona Lisa ‘s last known coordinates."

Foucault looked grim. ―Is that what I meant? If you say it‘s what I meant, I guess it must be what I meant." The sarcastic tone had become more pronounced, but, again, tinged with an odd kind of regret.

―Sir?" Confused. She‘d never seen an AI contradict a commander in quite that way. ―Sir, your orders?"

Foucault stared at Rebecca, as if the force of his gaze might burn two holes in her avatar. Then he said in a clipped cadence, ―AI Rebecca is, of course, correct. Take a squad in a Pelican and investigate. Rebecca will coordinate the details. Good luck, Sergeant. Dismissed."

Lopez saluted, rose in confusion, walked out the door. Thinking of John Doe‘s warm hand.

Puzzled. Wondering why neither Foucault nor Rebecca had even asked about the autopsy, or the nature of the man‘s terrible wounds, or everything else that didn‘t jive.

Lopez had scars from wounds of her own, collected from long years of making the Covenant pay and keep on paying. Along with a long white reminder on her wrist of why you didn‘t surprise a sleeping cat.

Every time Lopez was about to go into combat, she was aware of those scars.

They were throbbing now, telling her: Something bad is coming.

>Foucault 1003 hours

Foucault sat there after Lopez had left, staring at Rebecca. He was, for all his former exploits, a cautious man who had used extreme tactics when it had seemed the only option for his continued survival. It had made him a hero and given him his command, but he didn‘t feel like a hero. He‘d just been trying to save himself. He wasn‘t sure he had. Waking from nightmares, from memories , awash with sweat to find it was only one in the morning got old fast. So did losing to the Covenant.

Rebecca wasn‘t helping. He‘d had a good relationship with Chauncey. He‘d trusted Chauncey.

Rebecca, well . . . Theoretically she worked for him, but a directive from ONI‘s upper echelons had imposed her on him—along with a couple of rookies who acted so raw it made him suspicious—and that was more than sufficient reason for him to be wary.

Foucault‘d had a superior once with a prosthetic eye, except that no one knew. This man would call Foucault into his office and, without telling him why he had been summoned, close his good eye and fall asleep, still staring at Foucault. Inevitably, Foucault would lose the waiting contest and be the first to break the silence.

Rebecca was a man with a glass eye. She could outwait him.

So, finally, Foucault sighed, lifted his head, and stated, ―You know more than you‘ve told me."

Rebecca didn‘t quite shake her head. ―We have our orders, Commander."

Orders. Strange, simple orders, Foucault had thought upon first receiving them. Jump to

coordinates classified higher than top secret, retrieve samples of an alien artifact for study, conduct basic recon, expect Covenant trouble. He‘d stood on the bridge, staring at the pieces of the Halo, the wealth of such samples before him, and wondered why they‘d deploy a Prowler on such a task.

As soon as the pod had come in, Rebecca had shown him the ―expanded" orders. Even expanded, they remained strange and simple. Assess the status of the Mona Lisa , and if compromised beyond retrieval, destroy. There had been no mention of why the ship was in the area or what it might be compromised by.

The codes were current, the passwords secure. He didn‘t question their validity. It was the only thing he didn‘t question.

―Do you know what is on that ship?" he asked, knowing he would get no answer, knowing he wouldn‘t believe any answer she gave. ―I don‘t like being kept in the dark, especially when deploying my troops. We could be sending them to their deaths for all I know."

―Every time you deploy Marines, you could be sending them to their deaths," Rebecca said, talking to him as if he was a child. To add insult to injury, Foucault suspected she was processing some other scene, her attention elsewhere. ―It is only recon."

―Our original orders were ‗only recon‘ as well," he said in mild reproach, and steepled his fingers.

Rebecca looked at Foucault then, with her full attention, and her face seemed to soften. A cheap trick he‘d seen her pull on others, changing the lighting on her avatar to something less harsh.

―We‘re at war, Commander. Reach has fallen. Our backs are against the wall. Extreme measures are necessary to ensure our survival."

Foucault forced himself to show no reaction and didn‘t immediately reply. That was quite the overreaction, and it cemented his suspicions that there certainly was more she wasn‘t telling him, which meant she had orders of her own.

He watched the screen, which showed a real-time view of the space outside the Prowler. A single piece of debris tumbled slowly past. It wasn‘t a rock, it was a piece of manufactured structure, hard crisp lines and dead cables showing. There was a marvelous logic to its gymnastics, a grace that seemed almost choreographed, even though now it was merely scattered garbage.

How to get Rebecca to share her knowledge?

―Survival," he repeated.

Was that really the only thing they were fighting for now?

>Lopez 1304 hours

As the Pelican headed toward their destination, Lopez found herself marveling at the view, struck by an odd moment of poetic, profound insight, even though she didn‘t understand it all. Perhaps even because she didn‘t understand.

Dominating right now was Threshold‘s ponderous ―bloat-belly"; her term, shared with Benti in the mess hall. The vast gas giant so filled the windows it brought the illusion of blue sky to the cockpit up front instead of the empty black of space. Frequent storms raged and died in great cloud-swirls across that surface. From that far away, it looked like a slow, sleepy blossoming. Didn‘t feel that way on the surface, Lopez knew. The winds blew hundreds of kilometers an hour.

Closer in: the wreckage of the Halo. The massive ring cut through the view like a question mark that‘d been fractured to pieces. Thousands of kilometers wide. Great fires still raging, large enough to devour whole continents. Chunks of the superstructure bigger than cities tumbling ponderously in the void. Glowing and flaring as they tore shrieking down through Threshold‘s atmosphere. Despite the jiggered failures in the structure, the sheer immensity of it made the curve smooth. Constantly tripped her sense of perspective.

Covenant hadn‘t built it. It was entirely alien, in design and purpose, and she took some strange assurance from that. Here was proof that there was more out there in the big bad universe than just the goddamn Covenant. She had no idea if whoever built this was friend or foe, but the simple idea that there was another gave her a strange sense of security. We’re not alone. Again.

A pinprick next to Threshold, the Mona Lisa drifted like a dead thing alongside one of the larger pieces of debris from the Halo ring, on the far side from Basis and distant from the Red Horse ‘s current position. Lopez thought the ship looked lonely, desolate, on the screen as they

approached. Abandoned, even. Pits like severe acne showed where the escape pods had already been launched into space.

She asked for an update from the pilot, Burgundy, who‘d been called up despite being off the clock. Already getting reacclimated to the up-close sweat smell from the Marines in the seats all around her, only MacCraw dumb enough to be wearing cologne in the confines of a spacecraft, like he was on a date.

Rebecca had chosen the squad, pilot included. ―The maximum we can spare," she‘d explained.

Seventeen personnel in total, including Benti and also Singh‘s small engineering team, who had received basic training but were technically not combat-ready. Clarence sat next to Lopez like some kind of morose watchdog. He never looked happy, but Lopez thought she could read in his

impassive features a distinct un happiness now.

―She‘s not answering on any frequency, Sarge," Burgundy finally replied over Lopez‘s headset.

They were on an open frequency for now. Later, only Lopez would have access, and anyone she designated. ―Can‘t get a peep out of her. No distress beacon. She‘s cold, and I don‘t think her engines have been running for a while."

Not if she lay in the same position she‘d been in when John Doe had escaped her clutches. So cold and yet hugging so close to the burning shard of a world now lost to them, as if seeking sanctuary.

―Can she zoom in? It just looks like a dark block," Benti muttered to Lopez, not realizing Burgundy could hear her.

A closer view appeared on-screen. ―That better?" Burgundy asked. ―She ain‘t that pretty. Not by half. I‘d never date her."

A wracked and splintered mountain range formed the backdrop for the Mona Lisa , made it difficult to make her out even with the zoom. She had a blunt snout, the five levels Lopez had seen on the schematic, and some definite damage to the left thruster in the back. A few dents. Some bits like barnacles where compartments had been custom-built onto the ship. That was a bit odd, but not unknown. Near the back, Lopez could see where something had left a definite hole. Not enough to scuttle it. Freighters could take a severe pounding. Almost certainly the Mona Lisa still had breathable air.

―How‘d the postmortem go, Benti?" Lopez asked in a quiet voice. Benti had gotten a peek but Lopez hadn‘t had a chance to ask her about it yet.

―Why not ask Tsardikos?"

―Huh?"

Benti nodded toward one of the others. ―Tsardikos over there did the autopsy. Then they put him on the mission." She shrugged, that officers move in mysterious ways look on her face.

That made Lopez‘s heart do a strange leap. ―No," she said. ―I want to hear it from you." Didn‘t want to hear it from a noncom who shouldn‘t even be on the mission. Tsardikos didn‘t look

comfortable over there, fidgeting in his kit. Why should he?

Benti grimaced. ―Nasty wounds. Whatever opened his chest and back wasn‘t a blade, and took a hell of a lot of force. Don‘t know what it was, but I suppose when you‘re busting out of prison you use what you can grab. I brought extra blood bags, though. Just in case. It was a prisoner riot, right?

It‘d have to be."

―Doesn‘t matter," Lopez said. ―You honestly expect some punk-ass jailbird to get a shiv in one of us? You doubting the Marine Corps, Private?" Didn‘t mind messing with her people every once in a while.

―It was one hell of a shiv," Benti muttered. ―Sir."

―Why bother? I mean, if they‘re just escapees in a dead ship?" MacCraw piped up. ―Just mark her position and come back when things are less hot, Sarge?" Almost like he expected Lopez to say,

―You‘re right, MacCraw," and turn the Pelican right around.

Lopez was about to give MacCraw a hell of a reply, one that mentioned his cologne, when Rebecca came over the radio. Closed channel, just for her and Burgundy. ―Signal strength is weak, Sergeant.

I‘m getting the pictures now. We‘ve picked up a Covenant ship in the vicinity. Distant, but we‘ll have to tread carefully. The commander has ordered the Red Horse to maintain radio contact as much as possible in the field, but we mustn‘t reveal ourselves. Maneuverability is limited. You may be on your own for a while. You have your orders."

―Roger that," Lopez said. ―I‘ll check in with Burgundy once we‘re on board to see if I can patch you in. If not, I guess it‘s just me and the pilot." From the forward position, Burgundy gave a thumbs-up over her shoulder. Rebecca signed off.

―And me," Benti said, smiling.

Lopez nodded, said, ―Yeah, you too." She caught Clarence staring at her oddly. Jealous? Yeah, you be jealous, Clarence, you gloomy bastard.

―The game is always changing," MacCraw said, to the air.

―Give thanks you‘ve got a game on," Lopez said, and almost meant it. Checking on some spooky mystery transport at the ass-end of space wasn‘t her idea of a good op, but it was better than nothing.

―How‘d the ship even get here?" MacCraw asked. He just wouldn‘t shut up. ―They just happened to randomly guess the slipspace coordinates? I mean, we don‘t even know where we are, and

we‘re supposed to be here."

―Don‘t try to be smart, MacCraw," Lopez said. ―That‘s not what you‘re paid for."

―No," Benti and a couple of the others chimed in, ―you pay us to be pretty." A tired old joke, a necessary one. One Mac-Craw might not‘ve heard before.

―Damn straight," Lopez said. ―How‘d that haiku go? ‗Something, something, something . . .

something, and then comes ice cream.‘ " Something they‘d eaten far too much of, last R & R.

―You missed a ‗something.‘ "

―You kids play your cards right and after this comes ice cream. Don‘t ever say Mama Lopez does nothing for you."

Some grins, a couple of comments about ―Mama" Lopez, and then a near-ritual silence.

Lopez began the count. Not required, but she liked to name each person under her command right before any mission that might turn hot: Benti, Clarence, MacCraw, Percy, Mahmoud, Rakesh,

Orlav, Simmons—currently pulling double duty as Burgundy‘s copilot—Rabbit, Singh, Gersten,

Cranker, Sydney, Ayad, Maller, and Tsardikos. Standard equipped with MA5B assault rifles, HE

pistols, and ye olde frag grenades. Among flares, food rations, water, medic kits, schematics of the ship, the usual.

A bunch of jokers, lifers, and crazies. Benti, Clarence, Mahmoud, and Orlav were the best of the lot.

MacCraw was, well, raw, so who knew? A few were average, and she‘d deploy them that way.

Without remorse. Singh and his engineers Gersten- and Sydney were an unknown, really. Two

loaners from another squad, Ayad and Maller, she didn‘t know at all. A lot of the rest of the best had been left back on the Red Horse . Because, you know, the ship needed them. Or something like that.

All of them were rosary beads to her now anyway, already counting and hating herself for it.

Mystic bullshit. But she did it every time. Had to. It was how she rationalized putting herself in danger. Perform this ritual and luck will follow. Don’t, and it won’t . And that‘s the difference between life and death. Between a scar and a wound that won‘t stop bleeding.

―We good, Sarge?" Benti whispered.

―You should have gone before we left, like Mama Lopez told you."

Benti smirked, stopped at the last second from reaching out and smacking Lopez on the shoulder.

Pelican drew close, the battered and scarred skin of the Mona Lisa filling the view. As they all braced for that slight lurching shudder that meant arrival, Lopez tried not to think about the noncoincidence of who had been chosen for the mission and who hadn‘t.

Because, to a person, her squad consisted of everyone who had come into contact with John Doe on board the Red Horse .

>Benti 1315 hours

Benti watched as the soft seal locked on and they had compression. A shiver ran through the Pelican as the hatches disengaged, maw ready to open and disgorge them into the Mona Lisa . Benti had never seen a real live pelican except in videos, but it amused her to think of them erupting out of the gullet of a giant bird. A Trojan Pelican, almost.

This silent moment, right before combat, before she had to use any of her bandages and blood bags, this moment always made her regret having given up smoking.

―We‘re solid, Sarge, and I can go ahead and set you free whenever you want," Burgundy said, voice coming over the headsets now, which somehow made Benti think of Rebecca‘s What do you mean, you won’t come back?

Good old Clarence and that dumbass MacCraw knelt to either side of the gangplank, rifles at the ready, the rest of the squad behind them, hunched over, waiting. Clarence was chewing gum

ferociously, about as worked up as Benti had ever seen him. Docking a Pelican wasn‘t a stealthy business. Whoever was on board the Mona Lisa would know they were here.

What kind of greeting would they get? A big party celebration, or one candle stuck in a cupcake?

God, she wanted a cigarette right now .

Lopez gave Burgundy the order.

―Go forth and plunder," Burgundy said, and somehow Benti could tell old Stickybeak was glad to be staying on board the Pelican.

The gangplank lowered in a hiss of hydraulics and fast-fading clang of the plank against ground.

Not exactly a red carpet, in Benti‘s opinion.

A smell came in with the cold air that was both dusty and moist. It almost had texture, a substance.

It made Benti wrinkle her nose, and she didn‘t wrinkle her nose at much.

Beyond the gangplank, the main lights were out. Emergency strip lights threw supply crates, control stations, and loading machinery into murky relief. The oval shape of a small transport ship rose up, too, overlooking the jumbled maze spanning the hangar. Deep, dark, reddish shadows thrown up against the far walls.

Benti looked around. That was it ? She‘d been looking forward to getting off the Red Horse and exploring new territory. Even if it was just junk, Benti wanted to see it. At least it was different junk.

Nothing moved. Nobody even seemed to breathe.

―Lights," Lopez ordered quietly, and Benti switched hers on.

Suddenly there was a mutual clicking and beams shot out all over the place, temporarily blinding Benti. Crap. You‘d think they‘d know better. What if they‘d been trying to throw a surprise party?

Lopez didn‘t seem impressed either. ―Get your heads on straight, Marines! Move out!"

Benti winked at Clarence, who acknowledged her with a nod, and that was about all. It was enough.

Clarence, to her, was like a dolphin or otter or some other creature that seemed to be all muscle and was sleek and functional. What she was to him, Benti had no idea. Comic relief? He hadn‘t looked amused when she‘d told him he was an otter. Off duty they hardly ever saw each other, but they always worked as a team, to the point no one tried to break them up any more. If something works, then don‘t question it, just work it. Work it to death.

They filed quickly into the hangar in a standard sweep, torchlight raking the crates around them over and over. No matter what you did, regulation boots were never silent, and it was no different this time.

Ten meters out from the Pelican—with Benti hissing Tsardikos back in line, the clueless

moron—the surprise party really got started . . .

>Lopez 1317 hours

Trouble came simple, like it always did: a guttural resonance that came from an inhuman throat. A sigh with a texture they knew too well. Sent them diving down behind cover. In the stillness that followed, no repeat of the sound.

―Up periscope," Lopez said to Cranker. He didn‘t get it, so she said, ―Pop yer head up, Private, and take a quick scan around."

Cranker, looking worried, did just that, and then hunkered down even lower. ―Looks all clear."

Of course it did. You didn’t get your head blown off . Wasn‘t fair, but she always picked the one she liked the least.

Benti, wide-eyed, almost giddy: ―That sounded like—"

Don’t get jumpy, kid! Lopez raised a finger to her lips.

Scuffling sounds came from about fifteen meters ahead. Multiple contacts.

Lopez gave orders with her hands. Some were quicker on the take than others. Percy and Orlav tapped their crew in passing, including Benti, and scurried off between the surrounding cargo containers. That left Lopez with the dregs. She grinned at Singh, who didn‘t seem to find any of this funny.

―This is Sergeant Lopez of the UNSC Marine Corps! Identify yourself!"

No reply. A flurry of movement. She rose. Rifle butt cozy in her shoulder. Finger on the trigger.

The Marines around her rising from cover, too.

―Where—?"

―Two o‘clock—"

―It‘s gonna bolt—"

A rushed patter of sprinting footfalls, flashing across the hangar floor. Darting between storage crates. A glimpse of blue, of familiar backward knees, and formidable shoulders as they came into contact with the corner of someone‘s flashlight beam.

Covenant Elites.

Tongues of fire from the rifles, that glorious, deafening sound that Lopez knew so well. Sharp shadows danced up in snarling light. Sparks from bullets punched through crates. The target fled between stacked pallets and loaders, not even grazed, no telltale purple glow on the ground. They‘d been too eager.

It didn‘t matter. That one glimpse was all it took. It lit a fire in Lopez. A crazy, irrational fire.

Twenty-seven years of war, a war longer than Benti‘s life, Clarence‘s life, than most of their lives, so much loss and death and grief and blood and fury—it didn‘t matter. It didn‘t need articulating.