1825 Hours, September 13, 2552 (Revised Date,

Military Calendar) Aboard UNSC Vessel

Gettysburg, Near Covenant Battle Station

Unyielding Hierophant.

The Master Chief and Blue Team stepped off the lift and onto the bridge of the Gettysburg.

“Sir—” John started to salute Admiral Whitcomb, but neither the Admiral nor Lieutenant Haverson was there.

The only two on the bridge were Sergeant Johnson, who stared at the forward viewscreens, and Cortana, whose holographic figure burned bright blue and streamed with code symbols and mathematics beyond John’s comprehension.

Sergeant Johnson turned toward them. He looked the Spartans over and frowned, noting that not all of them had returned.

“I’m not sure what that thing is.” The Sergeant nodded to viewscreen one, centered on the Covenant command-and-control station. “Don’t look like any ‘uneven elephant’ to me—more like two squid kissing. Whatever it is, damned glad it’s going to blow up. Nice job—almost as good as if we sent in the Marines.” One corner of his mouth quirked into a smile.

“Where’s the Admiral?” the Master Chief asked. “And Lieutenant Haverson?”

The Sergeant’s half smile vanished, and his eyes darkened. He moved to Weapons Station One. “I’ll show you. A Clarion spy drone is nearly in position.”

The center viewscreen fuzzed with static and then resolved to show the Ascendant Justice moving out of the shadow of the moon. The once formidable Covenant flagship was a wreck; its hull was breached in a dozen places, its skeletal frame exposed, and only a handful of plasma conduits flickered with life.

“I don’t understand,” the Chief said. He stepped closer to Cortana’s hologram. Being near the real Cortana—not one of her fragmented copies—reassured him that everything was under control. “What’s going on?”

“Stand by, Chief,” she replied. “I’m attempting to attune Ascendant Justice’s Slipspace drive to the Gettysburg’s mass and profile.”

“That’s what we were up to while you were off sight-seeing,” the Sergeant told him. “We pulled the Slipspace matrix out of our piggybacked ship and slapped it into the Gettysburg.”

John wheeled and faced the viewscreens. Ascendant Justice couldn’t jump? Then why was it headed straight toward the Covenant fleet? A decoy? He glanced at the countdown timer: 2:09 left.

“Not a decoy,” he whispered, “…a lure. Sergeant, get a signal to Ascendant Justice. Bounce it off that spy drone if you have to.”

“Roger, Chief,” Sergeant Johnson said and tapped in commands. An error warning blared. He shook his head, puzzled, and tried again, carefully retyping.

“Linda, take the NAV station. Fred, you’re on Ops. Will, give the Sergeant a hand at Weapons One.”

Blue Team jumped to their assigned stations.

Will edged the Sergeant aside and quickly tapped three buttons. “COM patch established,” he reported. “On viewscreen two.”

The bridge of Ascendant Justice appeared on screen. Lieutenant Haverson and Admiral Whitcomb stood on the central raised dais, adjusting the holographic controls. Behind them, the wall displays showed Covenant ships closing on their position.

Admiral Whitcomb smiled. “Glad to see you made it safely aboard, son.”

“Sir, that fleet will destroy you before you can fire a single salvo.”

“I don’t think so, Master Chief,” he replied and tapped the holographic display. A slim blue crystalline shard appeared—an exact copy of the alien artifact they found on Reach. “I’m sending this image to every ship in the system and letting them know it’s theirs for the taking… if they dare to board this ship and face Earth’s best warriors.” He laughed. “I think that’ll appeal to those Elites and their overinflated sense of honor.”

John nodded. “Yes, sir. It will.”

He looked at the countdown timer: 1:42.

The Covenant fleet turned and moved toward the incoming Ascendant Justice. A cloud of cruisers and carriers. Hundreds of them. Impossible odds.

“Fire turret four, Lieutenant,” the Admiral ordered.

“Firing!” Haverson replied, his face set in grim determination.

A lance of plasma discharged, arced, and impacted upon the nose of the nearest carrier. The energy splashed over their shields and dissipated.

“Turret five, Lieutenant. Take them down.”

“Firing five, sir,” Haverson said.

A second plasma bolt followed the first. It blasted the carrier’s weakened shields and melted armor and hull, exploding through the foredecks. The ship rolled and crashed into a cruiser that had come too close.

“Nice shooting, Lieutenant,” the Admiral murmured.

The Covenant fleet responded with a blinding volley of laser fire. Pinpoints of energy concentrated on Ascendant Justice’s aft decks, boiled armor off in thick layers—sheared through to the other side, severing its engines.

The Admiral smiled. “A sound tactical response. Good thing they don’t know we’re just using that slingshot around the moon and our inertia to do the rest of the job.” He glanced at the displays and the station growing larger on them. “Hang on, Lieutenant. Brace for impact.”

Ascendant Justice drifted closer to the station.

It crashed into the central ring, crushing the structure, and continued forward, dimpling the hull of the pinched center section… and finally ground to a halt with its nose impaled within the Unyielding Hierophant.

The center viewscreen on the bridge of the Gettysburg shattered into static and then slowly resolved. The wavering image of Admiral Whitcomb pulled himself upright. A gash from his temple to the corner of his mouth wept blood. Lieutenant Haverson groggily got to his feet as well, his arm held at an odd angle, broken.

“Systemwide transmission,” Admiral Whitcomb barked to Haverson.

“Aye, sir,” Haverson said and clumsily adjusted the COM.

“Come on, mighty Covenant warriors,” the Admiral shouted. “We’re here in the middle of your fleet with your ‘holy of holies.’ ” He flicked his finger at the holographic shard, and it pinged as if actually struck. “Come and get it!” He laughed again.

Hundreds of Covenant ships moved toward them. Grapple lines and grav beams attached to the broken hull of the Ascendant Justice. A thousand dropships and Elites in thrust packs filled the space around the flagship.

The Master Chief watched the countdown timer: 0:27.

Along the ten-kilometer dorsal bulb of the space station, patches warmed to a dull red, the heat from the overloading reactors becoming outwardly visible.

“Move us back, Linda,” John said. “Keep us in the moon’s shadow. Use as much power as we can spare.”

“Aye, Chief,” Linda replied. “Forward thrusters answering one third reverse power. Course one-eight-zero.”

“Cortana,” he asked, “Slipspace generator status?”

“Almost ready, Chief,” Cortana said. She bit her lower lip in concentration. “Capacitor charge at eighty percent. Adjusting final calculations. Stand by.”

On screen the Admiral wheeled toward the bulkhead sealing the flagship’s bridge. Sparks cascaded along the seam as arc cutters on the other side penetrated. “Master Chief, I have final orders for you.”

“Sir,” John said.

“You watch and see what’s left of this rabble when we’re done with ‘em. Do not engage under any circumstances. You get the intel and hightail it back to Earth and make your report.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Now listen, son, remember when we talked about the Alamo? You know every one of the brave defenders in those fights died. They knew the odds, but they hurt the enemy.” He gritted his teeth in pain. “Both were tactical defeats, but in the end they were also brilliant strategic victories. They made the enemy afraid. Just a few good soldiers fighting for what’s right made the difference.”

“Yes, sir.”

John remembered all those who had made a difference for him. Sam. James. CPO Mendez. Captain Keyes. The men and women who had fought and died on Halo. And now two more names to add to that list: Whitcomb and Haverson.

The bulkhead blasted off its mounts and clattered onto the deck of the Ascendant Justice’s bridge. Silhouetted in the passage were dozens of Elites, their energy swords blurs of motion and light. Admiral Whitcomb fired a submachine gun.

The central viewscreen dissolved into static.

John watched for a moment, hoping the Admiral and the Lieutenant would reappear… but screen number two remained offline.

Video feed from the Clarion spy drone filled the side screens. There were two hundred warships clustered tightly about the figure-eight-shaped Unyielding Hierophant. A similar number of ships circled in loose orbital trajectories. The formation reminded John of a miniature spiral galaxy… with a supernova core.

The dorsal bulb of the space station shot with color—red, orange, and blurred with blue-white heat in a heartbeat; plasma tendrils erupted from the surface like solar flares. Internal explosions chained down the station’s length through the narrow center portion and into the ventral bulb, shattering that section and discharging bolts of lightning that arced along the station’s fragments and to the nearby ships.

The Unyielding Hierophant became a roiling cloud of fiery plasma and smoke and static charges that enveloped the ships that had come to engage Ascendant Justice, ships that flashed white hot and, in an instant, vaporized.

This thunderhead of superheated and pressurized gas ballooned outward to engulf the rest of the orbiting flotilla; heated their shields, which shimmered silver and popped like soap bubbles; melted their hulls and consumed them.

The blast cooled and the cloud dissipated—but ejected debris continued outward, leaving comet trails, and impacted on stray ships not near the epicenter.

“Move the drone back into the moon’s shadow,” John ordered.

“Aye, Chief,” Will said. “Thrusters responding.”

The side viewscreens showed a hailstorm of molten metal streaking toward the drone’s cameras—then their view was obscured by the black- and silver-pockmarked surface of the tiny moon.

“Cortana, is the Gettysburg ready to jump?” the Chief asked.

“Slipspace capacitors charged, Master Chief. Ready when you are.”

“Stand by.” John waited a minute. No one spoke. “Will, bring the drone back out.”

“Roger, Chief.”

The side viewscreen changed from moonscape to space. There was little left of the fleet or the command-and-control station—only clouds of smoke, glittering metal, and ashes.

A few Covenant warships survived. Those that could slowly moved away from the blast site… others drifted dead in space. Perhaps a dozen of their original five hundred craft had come through the explosion.

“A brilliant strategic victory,” John whispered, the Admiral’s last words echoing in his mind.

“Cortana, get us out of here.”

The Master Chief stood on the bridge of the Gettysburg and watched the stars blur and vanish into the absolute blackness of Slipspace.

They had jumped away from the battle zone over the Unyielding Hierophant, emerged in normal space, and plotted their position. Cortana adjusted their course, and now they were finally on their way to Earth. Although they had overwhelming evidence that the Covenant knew the location of Earth, “overwhelming” was not absolute proof. The Cole Protocol still applied.

“Slipspace transition complete,” Cortana said. “ETA to Earth in thirty-five hours, Chief.” The tiny hologram of Cortana continued to stare at him, and her slender brows knit together.

“Was there something else, Cortana?” he asked.

The furrow in her brow deepened. She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “I was wondering about the copy of my infiltration programming.” Cortana’s color cooled from blue to ultramarine. “I’ve reviewed your mission logs. Maybe it was the additional copying that caused its breakdown, but that copy did have some of my core personality programming as well. I just hope it’s not a sign of… some other instability.”

Cortana had been on edge. She had been so distracted at times she hadn’t even known the correct time. They had, however, all been pushed to the breaking point in the last few weeks. And despite any minor flaws, Cortana had always come through for him.

“We couldn’t have survived without you,” he finally told her. “Your programming is as good as ours.”

She tinged pink and then her hologram returned to a cool blue hue. “Are my aural systems malfunctioning or was that a compliment, Chief?”

“Continue to monitor Slipspace for any anomalies,” the Master Chief said, ignoring her.

He strode to the three forward viewscreens and stared into blackness. He wanted solitude, to gaze at nothing, and complete the task that he dreaded.

John pulled his team roster onto his heads-up display. He ran down the list, designating all those who had died on Reach, and afterward, as Missing In Action. James, Li, Grace… and all his dead teammates who would never officially be “allowed” to die. And in his mind, they would never find any peace until this war was won.

He paused at Kelly’s name.

John listed her as MIA, too. She was ironically the only Spartan truly missing, whisked away by Dr. Halsey on some secret private mission. John knew that whatever the doctor had planned, she would protect Kelly if she could. Still, he couldn’t help but worry about them both.

He added Corporal Locklear to his list and designated him Killed In Action. It was a more fitting end for a man who had been as much a warrior as any Spartan.

The last three names on his list he stared at for a long time: Warrant Officer Shiela Polaski, Lieutenant Elias Haverson, and Admiral Danforth Whitcomb. He reluctantly listed them as KIA and referenced his mission report, which detailed their heroism.

Two men had stopped a Covenant armada. They had willingly died doing it, and they had bought the human race a brief respite from destruction.

John felt glad. They were soldiers, sworn to protect humanity from all threats, and they had fulfilled their duty as few ever could. And like his Spartans who were “missing in action,” the Admiral and the Lieutenant would never die, either. Not because of a technicality in a mission status listing, but because in their deaths they would live on as inspirations.

John turned and watched as Linda, Will, and Fred occupied the bridge stations. John would make sure that he and the last surviving Spartans did the same.

The elevator doors opened, and Sergeant Johnson stepped onto the bridge.

“Got all those Covenant Engineers rounded up on B-Deck,” Sergeant Johnson announced. “Slippery suckers.”

The Chief nodded.

“The boys at ONI and those squid heads have a lot in common. Can’t understand a thing they say and they’re just as good looking. Guess they’re all going to have a long talk about technical whatsits and scientific doodads when we get home.”

Sergeant Johnson crossed the bridge to the Master Chief. “There’s one other thing. Another ONI thing.” He held out a data crystal and his gaze fell to the deck. “Lieutenant Haverson gave this to me before he and the Admiral left. He said you’d have to deliver it for him.”

John stared at the data crystal and reluctantly plucked it from the Sergeant’s fingers as if it were a slug of unstable radioactive material.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” He hesitated and then added, “I’ll take care of this.”

The Sergeant nodded and strode toward Weapons Station One.

John turned back to the blank monitors and retrieved the other data crystal from his belt compartment. Yesterday he had believed he had done the right thing by giving the Lieutenant all of Dr. Halsey’s Flood data—including the data on the Sergeant, which she assured him would lead to his death.

But now?

Now, John knew the difference one man could make in this war. He understood Dr. Halsey’s desire to save every person she could.

John held the two data crystals, one in each hand, and stared at them—trying to discern the future from their glimmering facets.

That was the point, wasn’t it? He couldn’t know the future. He had to do what he could to save every person. Today. Now.

So he decided.

He tightened his fist around the crystal with the complete mission data and crushed it to dust. John couldn’t condemn Sergeant Johnson.

He hefted the remaining data crystal. There would have to be enough in it for ONI. He set the crystal securely back into his belt.

Today they had won. They had stopped the Covenant. John would return to Earth with a warning and enough intel to keep scientists at ONI busy.

But what about tomorrow? The Covenant didn’t give up once they set their sights on a target. They wanted Earth—they’d come for it. Destroying their fleet would only delay that inevitable fact.

They had time, though. Maybe enough time to prepare for whatever the Covenant could throw at them.

John would take today’s victory. And he’d be there when the fighting started again—he’d be there to win.