Time: Date Record [[Error]] Anomaly Date Unknown

Hybrid Vessel Gettysburg—Ascendant Justice,

In Anomalous Slipspace Bubble.

Admiral Whitcomb stood on the bridge of Ascendant Justice. He gripped the edges of the railing that encircled the central raised platform and watched the sea of fire on the wall displays.

They were stuck in this pocket of Slipspace, trapped like an insect in amber as lines of plasma crisscrossed the region. Enemy fire vanished and reappeared, smearing the blue fog of Slipspace with crimson streaks of glowing energy. Molten chunks of metal, the broken pieces of Covenant ships, streaked past the cameras—comets that thudded into their hull.

There was another danger in the blue fog: ghost ships that appeared and faded from sight… more than half of them disabled, engulfed in fire, or their hulls broken. How many of those Covenant craft were still capable of engaging Ascendant Justice? How many could they take out before they risked the jump back to normal space?

Lieutenant Haverson stood next to him. The young man was invaluable for his tactical assessments and knowledge of the Covenant. He was a bit too cautious for Whitcomb’s taste—though the trait was to be expected in an ONI officer, he supposed. Still, the young Lieutenant had shown enough backbone to stand up to him. The kid definitely had some potential.

A square on the holographic controls morphed into the tiny figure of Cortana.

“Sporadic plasma and mass impacts along our hull, Admiral,” she reported and crossed her arms. “Atmospheric integrity down to thirteen percent. Structural integrity rated poor. I estimate the hull will fail in no more than five minutes.”

“Understood,” the Admiral replied.

They didn’t have much choice but to play the hand that they’d been dealt. The longer they stayed in this environment, the more damage the Covenant ships surrounding them incurred. If Ascendant Justice had engines, the Admiral could accelerate that process. But if they waited too long, their own ship would disintegrate around them.

Admiral Whitcomb glanced up to see how the rest of his crew was holding up under the pressure.

Locklear paced, his hands flexing. The ODST was a weapon with its safety permanently clicked off… and on overload charge.

Sergeant Johnson stood near the sealed bulkhead, rifle slung over his shoulder. He was looking at the crew and probably formulating his own opinions about them. He was rock-solid. One glance into his dark eyes and the Admiral understood what drove the man: pure cold hatred of the enemy. The Admiral could appreciate that.

Dr. Halsey tended the Spartan called “Kelly” on the deck. The doctor was brilliant… but a total mystery to him. They had met half a dozen times before at upper-echelon social gatherings, and he’d found her to be charming and outwardly likable. But he’d read enough reports of her “projects” that he’d found it impossible to relate to her. If half the rumors he’d heard about her were true, she’d been mixed up in every black op from here to Andromeda. He didn’t trust her.

“Doctor Halsey,” the Admiral said. He released his grip on the railing and clasped his hands behind his back to conceal his sweaty palms. “Clear my bridge of the wounded, ASAP.”

Dr. Halsey looked up from her data pad and the fluctuating patterns of Kelly’s biosigns. “Admiral, I don’t want to move her. She not entirely stable.”

“Do it, Doctor. She’s a distraction. We have a battle to fight here.”

Dr. Halsey shot him a look that could have stopped a plasma bolt dead in its tracks.

Lieutenant Haverson stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Ma’am, there’s an escape craft just off the bridge.” He moved to the starboard hatch and eased it open. He drew his pistol and checked the passage beyond. “It’s clear. Locklear, Sergeant, please give the doctor a hand with her patient.”

“Yes, sir,” Locklear said. “Happy to sit this battle out in the escape pod.”

Sergeant Johnson set his rifle on Kelly’s chest and said, “Come on, Corporal, shake a leg and gimme a hand. The lady in her armor weighs more than your last date.”

Locklear and the Sergeant hefted Kelly and, grunting under the load, moved her off the bridge. Dr. Halsey followed, cast one last withering look at the Admiral, and sealed the hatch behind her.

Admiral Whitcomb sighed. He felt for the Spartan… felt too much—which was the problem. He couldn’t concentrate with her so close. He’d want constant status reports on her condition. Hell, he would have gone over, knelt next to her, and held her hand if that would’ve helped. He loved the men and women under his command as if they were his own sons and daughters. It was the old axiom of command: To be a good leader, you had to love the service. To be a great commander, you had to be willing to destroy that which you loved.

Static crackled, and the Master Chief reported in: “We’re in position, Admiral. ETA for repairs is two minutes.”

“Roger, Chief,” Admiral Whitcomb replied. “When you’re done give the word and get secure. We’ll be accelerating immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thunder rumbled through the deck.

“Plasma impacts, sir,” Cortana explained. “Their energy profile has diffused, but they were still powerful enough to knock the lateral sensors and cameras offline.”

Admiral Whitcomb smoothed his thick fingers over his mustache. “We’ve got only a few minutes before this space tears us apart.” He squinted at the wall displays, trying to count the number of enemy craft. “That’s if those Covenant ships don’t do the job first.”

He turned to Cortana. “How many enemy ships are there? Which are real and which are illusion?”

“Impossible to accurately determine, sir. I counted fourteen targets before they started firing and filling the space between us with ionizing plasma. Now?…” Mathematical symbols raced along her length, flashing blue and indigo. “Cross-indexing similar mirrored images and extrapolating, I estimate there are currently between three and five operational ships, sir.”

Admiral Whitcomb gritted his teeth and concentrated. He had to get this ship moving—take out one or two enemy craft. Maybe the tangled plasma-filled space would cook the rest of them.

That was their best chance. Their only chance. He’d have to trust the Master Chief to get that drive conduit fixed.

“Very well, Cortana,” he said. “Heat the Gettysburg’s reactor to maximum power and prepare to flood the main-engine plasma conduit. Charge all available weapons turret capacitors.”

“Yes, sir. Stand by.”

He glanced at a screen that showed the Gettysburg sitting atop them inverted. “Is the launch bay on the Gettysburg intact? Can it hold an atmosphere?”

Cortana blinked. “Yes, sir. It has a slow leak of thirty-two kilo pascals per—”

“Pressurize the bay.”

“Acknowledged, Admiral. However,” Cortana replied, “that will leave our air reserves dangerously low.”

The Admiral stared at the ships surrounding them—a plasma bolt struck a distant cruiser head-on, and its nose buckled. Gouts of flame flared along its lateral plasma lines. The ship looked like a fish spit with a red-hot poker.

That could have been them.

“Hurry up, Chief,” he whispered.

On the displays the Admiral spotted two ships. There was a carrier far away; it looked undamaged. Closer, off the port bow, was a cruiser that, aside from a hole punched through its aft section, was also undamaged… and only ten thousand kilometers away. That was the priority target.

“Lay in a new course,” the Admiral ordered. “Two-four-zero by zero-three-five.”

Lieutenant Haverson took an involuntary step closer to the display, and his face contorted as he worked out the math in his head. “That’s… a collision course, sir.”

“Glad you concur with my calculations,” the Admiral remarked dryly.

Lieutenant Haverson glanced at the Gettysburg and nodded, finally understanding. “Aye, sir. A good plan.”

“Admiral,” the Master Chief’s voice broke through in a wash of static. “Conduit breach is sealed, sir.”

“Hang on, son,” Admiral Whitcomb said. “This might be a rough ride. Cortana, give me flank speed now!”

“Complying,” Cortana said. “Flank speed. Conduit is holding. Coming about to two-four-zero by zero-three-five. Collision with Covenant cruiser at this speed and heading in eighteen seconds.”

Ascendant Justice–Gettysburg accelerated toward a line of wavering orange plasma—and steamed through it like a ship smashing through a storm wave on the open seas.

Fire splashed over their hulls and burned away layers of armor. The entire hull superstructure groaned. Explosions reverberated through the deck.

“Fire on decks eight through twelve,” Cortana reported. “We have lost plasma turret five. Distance to enemy ship six thousand kilometers and closing.”

“Initiate a roll, Cortana. Make it thirty degrees per second. That’ll spread out the damage over more surface area.”

“Roll maneuver, aye. Attitude thrusters set to maximum burn.” She exhaled, and her holographic image flickered with irritation. “This will make a targeting solution difficult, sir.”

“Set firing range of plasma turrets for point blank,” the Admiral told her.

Cortana hesitated for a full second. “Yes, Admiral.”

The space on the external cameras slowly began to spin as their ship spiraled toward their intended target.

The Covenant cruiser came about to face them. Its plasma turrets glowed like angry red eyes.

“Lieutenant, take the weapons station. Cortana, give us a firing solution and manual fire control.”

Haverson’s hands moved quickly over the Covenant holographic control surfaces. “Cortana has a firing solution, sir. Activate weapons?”

“Stand by, Lieutenant.”

“They’ll get off the first salvo, sir,” Lieutenant Haverson said. Although his voice was calm, a drop of sweat trickled down his freckled cheek.

“I hope they do,” the Admiral replied. “It may be the only thing that saves us.”

Lieutenant Haverson took a deep breath, nodding. “Weapons standing by, sir.”

“Cortana, make ready to vent the Gettysburg’s launch bay.”

“Aye, sir. Overriding bay door safeties. Distance to target three thousand kilometers.”

The Covenant cruiser fired. Lances of energy launched and veered toward Ascendant Justice… and arced away in cork-screw spirals and right angles. The space between the two large masses was still tangled and fractured.

“Two thousand kilometers,” Cortana reported.

“Stay on course,” the Admiral said. “And continue to hold fire.”

Lieutenant Haverson’s jaw clenched, and his hands trembled over the controls.

The enemy cruiser filled the displays. Its plasma turrets recycled and glowed a dull red.

“One thousand kilometers,” Cortana announced.

“Admiral?” Lieutenant Haverson asked.

“Hold your fire.”

“Five hundred kilometers,” Cortana said. “Three hundred… two… collision imminent.”

The Admiral’s fist clenched. He barked, “Fire! All turrets, fire! Cortana, depressurize the launch bay and give us full power to port.”

Ascendant Justice was a kilometer from the Covenant ship on an intercept course when it fired. The Gettysburg’s launch bay doors opened and the air inside explosively decompressed—propelling the conjoined ships to port—just enough to miss the cruiser.

Plasma rocketed toward their target. There was no way to miss. White-hot fire impacted on the cruiser’s hull, splashed across its surface, boiled off the armored skin, and corroded the skeletal framework underneath.

“Aft cameras,” the Admiral ordered.

On screen he saw fire explode out the opposite side of the cruiser. The warship tilted and rolled belly-up, plasma disintegrating the interior from stern to stem until it reached the fusion core. The ship detonated in a ball of flame. An instant later the explosion twisted and curved as the warped Slipspace field swept away all traces of the enemy ship.

Lieutenant Haverson exhaled and wiped his brow. “Excellent maneuvering, Admiral.”

“Don’t waste your breath on victory speeches yet, son.” The Admiral scrutinized the tactical display and spotted the other ship. “There. We’ve got a new target.”

He pointed to a ship half obscured in the plasma fog: the carrier, intact, with a cloud of gnats swarming about it. Seraph fighters dived and intercepted plasma and meteor bolts that got too close. The resulting fireballs deflected the impacts from the hull.

“She’s got a smart Captain,” the Admiral muttered. “So we can’t use the same trick twice.”

Five explosions rattled Ascendant Justice, and the ambient blue light on the bridge flickered.

“Meteor impact,” Cortana replied. “We just lost plasma turrets two and three. All functionality on decks eight and below has been lost. The structural integrity of this ship, sir, is in danger of imminent collapse.”

“Another minute, Cortana,” the Admiral told her and continued to search the tactical display. “We either take out that carrier here—where their shields can’t regenerate—or we face them in normal space.”

He tapped the TAC map. “Gotcha! Cortana, come about to zero-three-zero by one-four-five, calculate the fastest acceleration and deceleration burns this ship can handle to get us to this object, and move this ship ASAP.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

Lieutenant Haverson looked at the map and located what the Admiral pointed at. “That object is just part of a Covenant ship, the aft section of a cruiser.”

The Admiral nodded. “Exactly, Lieutenant. Cortana, how’s the structural integrity of our ship’s nose?”

“Sir? The nose?” Cortana paused, then reported, “Intact, sir. Most of the damage has been to the lateral—”

“Bring us into direct contact with that hunk of metal, Cortana.”

“Aye, sir,” Cortana replied.

Ascendant Justice accelerated toward the broken Covenant ship, and then slowed. The two warships touched; there was a slow grinding noise that echoed along the ship’s frame.

“Contact,” Cortana reported.

“Perfect,” Admiral Whitcomb replied. “New course three-two-zero by two-two-zero. Flank speed. Lieutenant, charge any plasma turret we have left. Cortana, get this ship ready for full reverse power.”

Ascendant Justice–Gettysburg turned and moved toward the Covenant carrier—pushing the broken hull of the other ship before them.

They accelerated on a collision course.

The turrets on the Covenant carrier heated to white hot—but they held their fire.

“Eight thousand kilometers to enemy ship,” Cortana announced.

“Hold this course, Cortana.”

“Six thousand kilometers, sir.”

“Stand by,” the Admiral ordered and gripped the railing again with his sweating hands.

“Two thousand kilometers.”

“Full reverse power now!”

The engines rumbled, and the hull of Ascendant Justice shuddered.

The wrecked Covenant ship on their nose screeched as its momentum carried it along at the faster velocity. It pulled free of Ascendant Justice… tumbled directly toward the enemy carrier.

“Mass impact on carrier in four seconds,” Cortana said. “Three seconds.”

The carrier fired its plasma at the incoming mass. Flames heated the wreckage, punched though its armor and hull, and melted the alloy.

The mass, however, continued forward, shattered and molten—but its velocity was undiminished.

It crashed into the carrier and sent it spinning to starboard. The carrier’s hull breached along a dozen rents, and atmosphere vented and fanned the red-hot metal into gold flames. The launch bays chained with explosions.

“Fire all weapons, Lieutenant!”

Ascendant Justice fired its remaining turrets. Plasma cut into the carrier and sliced it to the core. Every deck flashed with fire and became an inferno.

“That’s the best we can do,” Admiral Whitcomb whispered. “Cortana, get us out of here. Transition to normal space.”

Cortana’s holographic silhouette blackened with swarming calculations. “Engaging Slipspace matrix.”

Blotches of inky black welled within the sea of fire. Tiny stars winked on within those pools of darkness. The plasma-charged atmosphere faded, and the enemy ships ablaze vanished.

“Cut all power to the engines,” the Admiral ordered.

Admiral Whitcomb gazed at the blackness and stars. “Now, where the hell are we?”