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Random House Publishing and Ballantine books—in cooperation with Microsoft Game Studios and Bungie—
present two best-selling novels from Del Rey publishing set in the worlds of the Xbox™ game, Halo™….
Follow the exploits of the Master Chief, Cortana, and the battle-hardened men and women of the UNSC military as they battle the fearsome
Covenant—from the war-torn remains of human worlds to the unexplored mysteries of the ancient ring-world, Halo...and beyond!
“Halo: The Fall of Reach” and “Halo: The Flood” are available now at a bookstore near you!
“Halo: First Strike” available in December 2003.
Excerpts from “Halo: The Fall of Reach”, “Halo: The Flood”, and “Halo: First Strike” are...
Del Rey Books
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2003 by Microsoft Corporation
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in
the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New
York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Bungie, Halo, Xbox, and the Xbox Logos are either registered trademarks or trademarks of
Microsoft Corporation in the United States and/or other countries. Used under license. © 2001
Microsoft Corporation. All Rights Reserved.
Del Rey and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.delreydigital.com
ISBN 0-345-45132-5
PREVIEW CHAPTERS
PAGE 1
Excerpt from “Halo: The Fall of Reach”
by Eric Nylund
As the bloody Human-Covenant
War rages on Halo, the fate
of the human race may rest
with one warrior, the lone
SPARTAN survivor of another
legendary battle…the desperate
take-no-prisoners struggle that
led humanity to Halo—the fall of
the planet Reach. Now, brought
to life, here is the full story of
that glorious, doomed conflict.
While the brutal Covenant juggernaut
sweeps inexorably through space, intent on
wiping out humankind, only one stronghold
remains—the planet Reach. Practically on
Earth’s doorstep, it is the last military fortress
to defy the alien onslaught. But Reach’s
defenders have another, higher priority: to prevent the Covenant
from discovering the location of Earth itself.
Outnumbered and outgunned, the soldiers seem to have little
chance against the Covenant, but Reach holds a closely guarded
secret. It is the training ground for an elite group of super
soldiers, codenamed SPARTANs. These highly advanced warriors,
specially bioengineered and technologically augmented, are the
best in the universe—quiet, professional, and deadly.
Now, as the ferocious Covenant attack behins, a handful
of SPARTANs stand ready to wage ultimate war. They will
kill, they will be destroyed, but they will never surrender. And
at least one of them—the SPARTAN known as the Master
Chief—will live to fight another day on a mysterious and
ancient artificial world called Halo…
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0500 Hours, February 12, 2535 (Military Calendar) /
Lambda Serpentis System, Jericho VII Theater of Operations
C
ontact. All teams stand by: enemy contact, my position.”
The Chief knew there were probably more than a
hundred of them—motion sensors were off the scale. He
wanted to see them for himself, though; his training made
that lesson clear: “Machines break. Eyes don’t.”
The four Spartans that composed Blue Team covered
his back, standing absolutely silent and immobile in their
MJOLNIR combat armor. Someone had once commented
that they looked like Greek war gods in the armor ... but
his Spartans were far more effective and ruthless than
Homer’s gods had ever been.
He snaked the fiber-optic probe up and over the threemeter-high stone ridge. When it was in place, the Chief
linked it to his helmet’s heads-up display.
On the other side he saw a valley with eroded rock walls
and a river meandering through it ... and camped along the
banks as far as he could see were Grunts.
The Covenant used these stocky aliens as cannon fodder.
They stood a meter tall and wore armored environment
suits that replicated the atmosphere of their frozen
homeworld. They reminded the Chief of biped dogs, not
only in appearance, but because their speech—even with
the new translation software—was an odd combination of
high-pitched squeaks, guttural barks, and growls.
They were about as smart as dogs, too. But what they
lacked in brainpower, they made up for in sheer tenacity.
He had seen them hurl themselves at their enemies until
the ground was piled high with their corpses ... and their
opponents had depleted their ammunition.
These Grunts were unusually well armed: needlers,
plasma pistols, and there were four stationary plasma
PAGE 2
cannons. Those could be a problem.
One other problem: there were easily a thousand of them.
This operation had to go off without a hitch. Blue Team’s mission was to draw
out the Covenant rear guard and let Red Team slip through in the confusion. Red
Team would then plant a HAVOK tactical nuke. When the next Covenant ship landed,
dropped its shields, and started to unload its troops, they’d get a thirty-megaton
surprise.
The Chief detached the optics and took a step back from the rock wall. He passed
the tactical information along to his team over a secure COM channel.
“Four of us,” Blue-Two whispered over the link. “And a thousand of them? Pisspoor odds for the little guys.”
“Blue-Two,” the Chief said, “I want you up with those Jackhammer launchers. Take
out the cannons and soften the rest of them. Blue-Three and Five, you follow me
up—we’re on crowd control. Blue-Four: you get the welcome mat ready. Understood?”
Four blue lights winked on his heads-up display as his team acknowledged
the orders.
“On my mark.” The Chief crouched and readied himself. “Mark!”
Blue-Two leaped gracefully atop the ridge—three meters straight up. There was no
sound as the half ton of MJOLNIR armor and Spartan landed on the limestone.
She hefted one launcher and ran along the ridge—she was the fastest Spartan on
the Chief’s team. He was confident those Grunts wouldn’t be able to track her for the
three seconds she’d be exposed. In quick succession, Blue-Two emptied both of the
Jackhammer’s tubes, dropped one launcher, and then fired the other rockets just as fast.
The shells streaked into the Grunts’ formation and detonated. One of the stationary
guns flipped over, engulfed in the blast, and the gunner was flung to the ground.
She ditched the launcher, jumped down—rolled once—and was back on her feet,
running at top speed to the fallback point.
The Chief, Blue-Three, and Blue-Five leaped to the top of the ridge. The Chief
switched to infrared to cut through the clouds of dust and propellant exhaust just in
time to see the second salvo of Jackhammers strike their targets. Two consecutive
blossoms of flash, fire, and thunder decimated the front ranks of the Grunt guards, and
most importantly, turned the last of the plasma cannons into smoldering wreckage.
The Chief and the others opened fire with their MA5B assault rifles—a full
automatic spray of fifteen rounds per second. Armor-piercing bullets tore into the
aliens, breaching their environment suits and sparking the methane tanks they carried.
Gouts of flame traced wild arcs as the wounded Grunts ran in confusion and pain.
Finally the Grunts realized what was happening—and where this attack was coming
from. They regrouped and charged en masse. An earthquake vibration coursed through
the ground and shook the porous stone beneath the Chief’s boots.
The three Spartans exhausted their AP clips and then, in unison, switched to
shredder rounds. They fired into the tide of creatures as they surged forward. Line after
line of them dropped. Scores more just trampled their fallen comrades.
Explosive needles bounced off the Chief’s armor, detonating as they hit the ground.
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He saw the flash of a plasma bolt—side stepped—and heard the air crackle where he
had stood a split second before.
“Inbound Covenant air support,” Blue-Four reported over the COM link. “ETA
is two minutes, Chief.”
“Roger that,” he said. “Blue-Three and -Five: maintain fire for five seconds,
then fall back. Mark!”
Their status lights winked once, acknowledging his order.
The Grunts were three meters from the wall. The Chief tossed two grenades. He,
Blue-Three, and Blue-Five stepped backward off the ridge, landed, spun, and ran.
Two dull thumps reverberated though the ground. The squeals and barks of the
incoming Grunts, however, drowned out the noise of the exploding grenades.
The Chief and his team sprinted up the half-kilometer sandstone slope in thirtytwo seconds flat. The hill ended abruptly—a sheer drop of two hundred meters
straight into the ocean.
Blue-Four’s voice crackled over the COM channel: “Welcome mat is laid out, Chief.
Ready when you are.”
The Grunts looked like a living carpet of steel-blue skin, claws, and chrome
weapons. Some ran on all fours up the slope. They barked and howled, baying for
the Spartans’ blood.
“Roll out the carpet,” the Chief told Blue-Four.
The hill exploded—plumes of pulverized sandstone and fire and smoke hurtled
skyward.
The Spartans had buried a spiderweb pattern of Lotus antitank mines
earlier that morning.
Sand and bits of metal pinged off of the Chief’s helmet.
The Chief and his team opened fire again, picking off the remaining Grunts that
were still alive and struggling to stand.
His motion detector flashed a warning. There were incoming projectiles high at two
o’clock—velocities at over a hundred kilometers per hour.
Five Covenant Banshee fliers appeared over the ridge.
“New contacts. All teams, open fire!” he barked.
The Spartans, without hesitation, fired on the alien fliers. Bullet hits pinged from the
fliers’ chitinous armor—it would take a very lucky shot to take out the antigrav pods
on the end of the craft’s stubby meter-long “wings.”
The fire got the aliens’ attention, however. Lances of fire slashed from the
Banshees’ gunports.
The Chief dove and rolled to his feet. Sandstone exploded where he had stood only
an instant before. Globules of molten glass sprayed the Spartans.
The Banshees screamed over their heads—then banked sharply for another pass.
“Blue-Three, Blue-Five: Theta Maneuver,” the Chief called out.
Blue-Three and-Five gave him the thumbs-up signal.
They regrouped at the edge of the cliff and clipped onto the steel cables that dangled
down the length of the rock wall.
PAGE 3
“Did you set up the fougasses with fire or shrapnel?” the Chief asked.
“Both,” Blue-Three replied.
“Good.” The Chief grabbed the detonators. “Cover me.”
The fougasses were never meant to take down flying targets; the Spartans had put
them there to mop up the Grunts. In the field, though, you had to improvise. Another
tenet of their training: adapt or die.
The Banshees formed into a “flying V” and swooped toward them, almost
brushing the ground.
The Spartans opened fire.
Bolts of superheated plasma from the Banshees punctuated the air.
The Chief dodged to the right, then to the left; he ducked. Their aim was
getting better.
The Banshees were one hundred meters away, then fifty meters. Their plasma
weapons might recycle fast enough to get another shot ... and at this range, the
Chief wouldn’t be dodging.
The Spartans jumped backward off the cliff—guns still blazing. The Chief jumped,
too, and hit the detonators.
The ten fougasses—each a steel barrel filled with napalm and spent AP and shredder
casings—had been buried a few meters from the edge of the cliff, their mouths angled
up at thirty degrees. When the grenades at the bottom of the barrels exploded, it made
one hell of a barbecue out of anything that got in their way.
The Spartans slammed into the side of the cliff—the steel cables they were attached
to twanged taut.
A wave of heat and pressure washed over them. A heartbeat later five flaming
Banshees hurtled over their heads, leaving thick trails of black smoke as they arced
into the water. They splashed down, then vanished beneath the emerald waves. The
Spartans hung there a moment, waiting and watching with their assault rifles trained
on the water.
No survivors surfaced.
They rappelled down to the beach and rendezvoused with Blue-Two and -Four.
“Red Team reports mission objective achieved, Chief,” Blue-Two said. “They send
their compliments.”
“It’s hardly going to balance the scales,” Blue-Three muttered, and kicked the sand.
“Not like those Grunts when they slaughtered the 105th Drop Jet Platoon. They should
suffer just as much as those guys did.”
The Chief had nothing to say to that. It wasn’t his job to make things suffer—he was
just here to win battles. Whatever it took.
“Blue-Two,” the Chief said. “Get me an uplink.”
“Aye aye.” She patched him into the SATCOM system.
“Mission accomplished, Captain de Blanc,” the Chief reported. “Enemy
neutralized.”
“Excellent news,” the Captain said. He sighed, and added, “But we’re pulling
you out, Chief.”
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“We’re just getting warmed up down here, sir.”
“Well, it’s a different story up here. Move out for pickup ASAP.”
“Understood, sir.” The Chief killed the uplink. He told his team, “The party’s over,
Spartans. Dust-off in fifteen.”
They jogged double-quick up the ten kilometers of the beach, and returned to their
dropship—a Pelican, scuffed and dented from three days’ hard fighting. They boarded
and the ship’s engines whined to life.
Blue-Two took off her helmet and scratched the stubble of her brown hair. “It’s
a shame to leave this place,” she said, and leaned against the porthole. “There are
so few left.”
The Chief stood by her and glanced out as they lifted into the air—there were wide
rolling plains of palmgrass, the green expanse of ocean, a wispy band of clouds in the
sky, and setting red suns.
“There will be other places to fight for,” he said.
“Will there?” she whispered.
The Pelican ascended rapidly through the atmosphere, the sky darkened, and soon
only stars surrounded them.
In orbit, there were dozens of frigates, destroyers, and two massive carriers. Every
ship had carbon scoring and holes peppering their hulls. They were all maneuvering to
break orbit.
They docked in the port bay of the UNSC destroyer Resolute. Despite being
surrounded by two meters of titanium-A battle plate and an array of modern weapons,
the Chief preferred to have his feet on the ground, with real gravity, and real
atmosphere to breathe—a place where he was in control, and where his life wasn’t
held in the hands of anonymous pilots. A ship just wasn’t home.
The battlefield was.
The Chief rode the elevator to the bridge to make his report, taking advantage
of the momentary respite to read Red Team’s after-action report in his display. As
predicted, the Spartans of Red, Blue, and Green Teams—augmenting three divisions
of battle-hardened UNSC Marines—had stalled a Covenant ground advance. Casualty
figures were still coming in, but—on the ground, at least—the alien forces had been
completely stonewalled.
A moment later the lift doors parted, and he stepped on the rubberized deck. He
snapped a crisp salute to Captain de Blanc. “Sir. Reporting as ordered.”
The junior bridge officers took a step back from the Chief. They weren’t used to
seeing a Spartan in full MJOLNIR armor up close—most line troops had never even
seen a Spartan. The ghostly iridescent green of the armor plates and the matte black
layers underneath made him look part gladiator, part machine. Or perhaps to the bridge
crew, he looked as alien as the Covenant.
The view screens showed stars and Jerico VII’s four silver moons. At extreme range,
PAGE 4
a small constellation of stars drifted closer.
The Captain waved the Chief closer as he stared at that cluster of stars—the rest of
the battlegroup. “It’s happening again.”
“Request permission to remain on the bridge, sir,” the Chief said. “I ... want to see
it this time, sir.”
The Captain hung his head, looking weary. He glanced at the Master Chief with
haunted eyes. “Very well, Chief. After all you’ve been through to save Jericho
Seven, we owe you that. We’re only thirty million kilometers out-system, though,
not half as far as I’d like to be.” He turned to the NAV Officer. “Bearing one two
zero. Prepare our exit vector.”
He turned to face the Chief. “We’ll stay to watch ... but if those bastards so much as
twitch in our direction, we’re jumping the hell out of here.”
“Understood, sir. Thank you.”
Resolute’s engines rumbled and the ship moved off.
Three dozen Covenant ships—big ones, destroyers and cruisers—winked into
view in the system. They were sleek, looking more like sharks than starcraft.
Their lateral lines brightened with plasma—then discharged and rained fire down
upon Jericho VII.
The Chief watched for an hour and didn’t move a muscle.
The planet’s lakes, rivers, and oceans vaporized. By tomorrow, the atmosphere
would boil away, too. Fields and forests were glassy smooth and glowing red-hot
in patches.
Where there had once been a paradise, only hell remained.
“Make ready to jump clear of the system,” the Captain ordered.
The Chief continued to watch, his face grim.
There had been ten years of this—the vast network of human colonies whittled
down to a handful of strongholds by a merciless, implacable enemy. The Chief had
killed the enemy on the ground—shot them, stabbed them, and broken them with his
own two hands. On the ground, the Spartans always won.
The problem was, the Spartans couldn’t take their fight into space. Every minor
victory on the ground turned into a major defeat in orbit.
Soon there would be no more colonies, no human settlements—and nowhere
left to run.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Eric Nylund has a bachelor’s degree in chemistry and a master’s
degree in chemical physics. He has published five novels: virtual reality
thrillers A Signal Shattered and Signal to Noise; contemporary fantasy
novels Pawn’s Dream and Dry Water (nominated for the 1997 World
Fantasy Award); and the science-fantasy novel A Game of Universe.
Nylund attended the 1994 Clarion West Writer’s Workshop. He lives
near Seattle on a rain-drenched mountain with his wife, science fiction
novelist Syne Mitchell. He is currently hard at work on a new Halo
novel, coming in Holiday, 2003.
“Halo: The Fall of Reach” by Eric Nylund is available in paperback in bookstores everywhere!
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PAGE 5
Excerpt from “Halo: The Flood” by William C. Dietz
The Human-Covenant War, a
desperate
struggle
for
humanity’s very survival, has
reached its boiling point on
the mysterious, ring-shaped
world called Halo. But the
fierce Covenant warriors, the
mightiest alien military the
universe has ever seen, are not
the only peril lying in wait.
As the fortress world of Reach and
its brave defenders were bombarded
to rubble, a single cruiser fled the
carnage with the battle’s only known
human survivors—Captain Keyes, his
crew of “Helljumper” Marines, and
the last remaining SPARTAN super-soldier, the Master Chief.
With the cruiser’s artificial intelligence, Cortana, concealed in
his battle armor, the Master Chief crash-lands on Halo in the midst
of a massive Covenant occupation. Curiously, the alien soldiers
appear to be searching for something hidden on the ring. Built by
a long-dead race, Halo harbors many secrets, but one overshadows
them all. Now the Master Chief must lead the scattered human
survivors in a race to unravel Halo’s darkest mystery—and unleash
its greatest source of power...
D +17:11:04 (SPARTAN-117 Mission Clock)/Grav Lift Bay, Covenant
Warship Truth and Reconciliation, above the surface of Halo.
T
he gravity lift deposited the rescue team three feet above
the deck. They hung suspended for a moment, then fell.
Parker gave a series of hand signals, and the Marine
ODSTs crept forward into the lift bay.
The Covenant equivalent of gear crates—tapered,
rectangular boxes made from the shimmering, striated
purple metal the aliens favored—were stacked around the
high compartment. A pair of Covenant tanks, “Wraiths,”
were lined along the right side of the bay.
The Master Chief moved forward toward one of the
high metal doors that were spaced along the perimeter of
the compartment.
Parker gave the all-clear signal and the Marines
relaxed a bit. “There’s no Covenant here,” one of them
whispered, “so where the hell are they?”
The door was proximity activated, and as he neared
the portal, it slid open and revealed a surprised Elite.
Without pause, the Spartan tackled the alien and slammed
its armored head into the burnished deckplates. With luck,
he’d finished the Elite quietly enough—
Another set of doors flashed open on the other
side of the bay, and Covenant troops boiled into the
compartment.
A second Marine turned to the Corporal who’d just
spoken. “‘No Covenant,’” he snarled, mocking his fellow
trooper. “You just had to open your mouth, didn’t you?”
Inside the Covenant ship, chaos reigned. The Master
Chief charged ahead, and the rescue team fought their
way through a maze of interlocking corridors, which
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PAGE 6
sprang into view, and it roared again as the Spartan sprayed it with gunfire, knowing
the gesture was futile, but unwilling to let the enemy at his teammates’ exposed flank.
Without warning, the Hunter reared up, howled, and crashed to the ground. The
Master Chief was puzzled, and briefly checked his weapon. Could he have gotten in a
lucky shot?
He heard a cough, and saw Sergeant Parker struggling to his feet, a smoking M6D
pistol in his hand. Blood flowed from the gashes in his side, and he was unsteady on
his feet, but he found the strength to spit on the Hunter’s fallen corpse.
The Chief took a covering position near the wounded sergeant. He gave him a
brisk nod. “Not bad for a Marine. Thanks.”
The sergeant grabbed a fallen assault rifle, slammed a fresh magazine into place,
and grinned. “Any time, swabbie.”
His motion sensor showed more contact inbound, but they were keeping their
distance. Their failed assault on the bay must have left them disorganized. Good, he
thought. We need all the time we can get. “Cortana,” he said, “how much longer before
you get a door open?”
“Got it!” Cortana proclaimed exultantly. One of the heavy doors hissed open.
“Everyone should move through the door now. I can’t guarantee that it won’t lock
when it closes.”
“Follow me!” he barked, then led the surviving Marines out of the shuttle bay and
into the comparative safety of a corridor beyond.
The next fifteen minutes were like a slow-motion nightmare as the rescuers fought
their way through a maze of corridors, up a series of narrow ramps, and onto the
launch bay’s upper level. With Cortana’s guidance, they plunged back into the ship’s
oppressive passageways.
As they proceeded through the bowels of the large warship, Cortana finally gave
them good news: “The Captain’s signal is strong. He must be close.”
The Chief frowned. This was taking too long. Every passing second made it that
much less likely that any of the rescue party would be able to get off the Truth and
Reconciliation alive, let alone with Captain Keyes. The ODSTs were good fighters, but
they were slowing him down.
He turned to Sergeant Parker and said, “Hold your men here. I’ll be back soon—
with the Captain.”
He started to protest, then nodded. “Just don’t tell Silva,” he said.
“I won’t.”
The Master Chief ran from door to door, until one of them opened to reveal a
rectangular room lined with cells. It appeared that translucent force fields served in
place of bars. He dashed inside and called the Captain’s name, but received no answer.
A quick check confirmed that, with the exception of one dead Marine, the detention
center was empty.
Frustrated, yet reassured by Cortana’s insistence that the CNI signal remained
strong, the Spartan exited the room, entered the hall, and literally went door to
door, searching for the correct hatch. Once he located it, the Master Chief almost
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wished he hadn’t.
The portal slid open, a Grunt yelled something the Master Chief couldn’t
understand, and a plasma beam lashed past the human’s helmet.
The Master Chief opened fire, heard a Marine yell from within one of the cells,
“Good to see you, Chief!” and knew he was in the right place.
A plasma beam appeared out of nowhere, hit the Spartan in the chest, and
triggered the armor’s audible alarm. He ducked behind a support column, just in time
to see an energy beam slice through the spot he had just vacated. He scanned the room,
looking for his assailant.
Nothing.
His motion sensor showed faint trace movements, but he couldn’t spot their source.
His eyes narrowed, and he noticed a slight shimmer in the air, directly in front of
him. He fired a sustained burst through the middle of it, and was rewarded with a loud
howl. The Elite seemed to materialize out of thin air, made a grab for his own entrails,
and managed to catch them before he died.
He strode to the access controls, and, with Cortana’s help, killed the force fields.
Captain Keyes stepped out of his cell, paused to scoop a Needler off the floor, and
met the Chief’s eyes. “Coming here was reckless,” he said, his voice harsh. The
Chief was about the explain his actions when Keyes’ expression warmed, and the
Autumn’s CO smiled. “Thanks.”
The Spartan nodded. “Any time, sir.”
“Can you find your way out?” Keyes inquired doubtfully. “The corridors of this
ship are like a maze.”
“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” the Master Chief replied. “All we have to do is
follow the bodies.”
Lieutenant “Cookie” Peterson put Echo-136 down a full klick from the Pillar of
Autumn, looked out through the rain-spattered windscreen, and saw Echo-206 settle
in approximately fifty meters away. It had been an uneventful flight, thanks in part to
the weather, and the fact that the assault on the Truth and Reconciliation had probably
served to distract the Covenant from what was going on elsewhere.
Peterson felt the ship shudder as the ramp hit the ground, waited for the Crew
Chief to call “Clear!”, and fired the Pelican’s thrusters. The ship was extremely
vulnerable while on the ground and he was eager to return to the relative safety of
Alpha Base. Then, assuming the Helljumpers got the job done, he and his crew would
be back to transport some of the survivors and their loot.
Back at Alpha Base, McKay watched Echo-136 wobble as a gust of wind hit the
Pelican from the side, saw the ship gather speed, and start to climb out. Echo-206 took
off a few moments later and both ships were gone within a matter of seconds.
Her people knew what they were doing, so rather than make a pest of herself,
PAGE 7
McKay decided to wait and watch as the platoon leaders sorted things out. The officer
felt the usual moments of fear, of self doubt regarding her ability to accomplish
the mission, but took comfort from something an instructor once told her.
“Take a look around,” the instructor had advised. “Ask yourself if there’s
anyone else who is better qualified to do the job. Not in the entire galaxy,
but right there, at that point in time. If the answer is ‘yes,’ ask them to accept
command, and do everything you can to support them. If the answer is ‘no,’
which it will be ninety-nine percent of the time, then take your best shot.
That’s all any of us can do.”
It was good advice, the kind that made a difference, and while it didn’t
erase McKay’s fears, it certainly served to ease them.
Master Sergeant Lister and Second Lieutenant Oros seemed to materialize
out of the darkness. Oros had a small, pixielike face, which belied her innate
toughness. If anything happened to McKay, Oros would take over, and if she
bought the farm Lister would step in. The battalion had been short of officers
before the mission went sour, and what with Lieutenant Dalu off playing
Supply Officer, McKay was one Platoon Leader short of a full load. That’s
why Lister had been called upon to fill the hole.
“Platoons One and Two are ready to go,” Oros reported cheerfully. “Let
us at ’em!”
“You just want to raid the ship’s commissary,” McKay said, referring to
the Platoon Leader’s well-known addiction to chocolate.
“No, ma’am,” Oros replied innocently, “the Lieutenant lives only to serve
the needs of humanity, the Marine Corps, and the Company Commander.”
Even the normally stone-faced Lister had to laugh at that, and McKay
felt her own spirits lift as well. “Okay, Lieutenant Oros, the human race
would be grateful if you would put a couple of your best people on point
and lead this outfit to the ship. I’ll ride your six with Sergeant Lister and the
Second Platoon walking drag. Are you okay with that?”
Both Platoon Leaders nodded and melted into the night. McKay looked
for the tail end of First Platoon, slid into line, and let her mind roam ahead.
Somewhere, about one kilometer ahead, the Pillar of Autumn lay sprawled on
the ground. The Covenant owned the ship for the moment—but McKay was
determined to take her back….
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William C. Dietz is the author of more than twenty science fiction novels.
He grew up in the Seattle area, spent time with the Navy and Marine Corps
as a medic, graduated from the University of Washington, lived in Africa
for half a year, and has travelled to six continents. Dietz has been variously
employed as a surgical technician, college instructor, news writer, and
television producer, and currently serves as the Director of Public Relations
and Marketing for an international telephone company. His novels include
Legion of the Damned, Deathday, and his most recent hardcover, Earthrise.
He and his wife live in the Seattle area, where they enjoy traveling, boating,
snorkeling, and, not too surprisingly, reading books.
“Halo: The Flood” by William C. Dietz is the best-selling
novel available everywhere!
For more information, go to http://www.delreydigital.com
PREVIEW CHAPTERS
PAGE 8
Sneak Preview of “Halo: First Strike” by Eric Nylund
Coming in December 2003!
The
Human-Covenant
war
rages
on
as
the
alien
juggernaut sweeps inexorably
towards
its
final
goal:
destruction of all human life!
The mysterious alien ring
contrcut,
Halo,
has
been
destroyed and the threat it
posed
to
sentient
life
neutralized.
But victory has come at a terrible cost
for the men and women of the UNSC,
which lost hundreds of valiant soldiers
in the battle over the alien construct.
Cover Image is Not Final
Everything now depends on the Spartan known
as the Master Chief. Battle-weary, and stranded, this
lone Spartan faces the toughest mission of his career.
Even with the aid of the artificial intelligence Cortana, the Master Chief will
be hard-pressed to rescue survivors and evade the Covenant ships patrolling
the debris-strewn space that marks Halo’s grave.
Ahead lies a dangerous voyage back to human-controlled space. The Master
Chief and his war-torn squad must continue to battle for their own survival…
and find a way to stop the Covenant, find a way to take the fight to the
enemy—a first strike.
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0622 Hours, August 30, 2552 (Military Calendar) / UNSC Vessel
PILLAR OF AUTUMN, Epsilon Eridani System near Reach Station Gamma
S
PARTAN-104, Frederic, twirled a combat knife, his
fingers nimble despite the bulky MJOLNIR combat
armor that encased his body. The blade traced a
complicated series of graceful arcs in the air. The
few remaining Naval personnel on the deck turned
pale and averted their eyes—a Spartan wielding a
knife was generally accompanied by the presence of
several dead bodies.
He was nervous, and this was more than the
normal pre-mission jitters. The team’s original
objective—the capture of a Covenant ship—had
been scrubbed in the face of a new enemy offensive.
The Covenant was en route to Reach, the last of the
UNSC’s major military strongholds.
Fred couldn’t help but wonder what use ground
troops would be in a ship-to-ship engagement. The
knife spun.
Around him, his squadmates loaded weapons,
stacked gear and prepped for combat, their efforts
redoubled since the ship’s Captain had personally
come down to the mustering area to brief the
team leader, SPARTAN-117—but Fred was already
squared away. Only Kelly had finished stowing gear
before him.
He balanced the point of the knife on his armored
finger. It hung there for several seconds, perfectly
still.
A subtle shift in the Pillar of Autumn’s gravity
caused the knife to tip. Fred plucked it from the air
and sheathed it in a single deft move. A cold feeling
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filled his stomach as he realized what the gravity fluctuation meant: the ship
had just changed course—another complication.
Master Chief SPARTAN-117—John—marched to the nearest COM panel
as Captain Keyes’ face filled the screen.
Fred sensed a slight movement to his right—a subtle hand signal from Kelly.
He caught the motion and opened a private COM freq to his teammate.
“Looks like we’re in for more surprises,” she said.
“Roger that,” he replied, “though I think I’ve had enough surprises for one op.”
Kelly chuckled, then the COM line went dead.
Fred focused his attention on John’s exchange with Keyes. Each Spartan—
selected from an early age and trained to the pinnacle of military science—
had undergone multiple augmentation procedures: biochemical, genetic, and
cybernetic. As a result, a Spartan could hear a pin drop in a sandstorm, and
every Spartan in the room was interested in what the Captain had to say. “If
you’re going to drop into hell,” CPO Mendez, the Spartans’ first teacher, had
once said, “you may as well drop with the good intel.”
Captain Keyes frowned on the ship’s view screen, a non-regulation pipe in
his hand. Though his voice was calm, the captain’s grip on the pipe was whiteknuckle tight, as he outlined the situation: a breach of the Cole Protocol.
As the human war effort faltered in the face of the Covenant onslaught,
Vice Admiral Preston Cole instituted a series of regulations, designed to
ensure that the location of Earth would remain a closely guarded secret—
ship captains would scuttle their own vessels, rather than let navigational
data fall into enemy hands.
Someone had been asleep at the switch this time. A single space vessel docked
in Reach’s orbital facilities had failed to delete its navigational database. If the
NAV data fell into Covenant hands, the enemy would have a map that led straight
to Earth…and an apocalypse that would consume the human race.
“Master Chief,” the Captain said, “I believe the Covenant will use a pinpoint
Slipspace jump to a position just off the space dock. They may try to get their
troops on the station before the Super MAC guns can take out their ships. This
will be a difficult mission, Chief. I’m…open to suggestions.”
“We can take care of it,” the Master Chief replied.
Captain Keyes eyes widened and he leaned forward in his command chair.
“How exactly, Master Chief?”
“With all due respect, Sir, Spartans are trained to handle difficult missions.
I’ll split my squad. Three will board the space dock and make sure that NAV
data does not fall into the Covenant’s hands. The remainder of the Spartans
will go groundside and repel the invasion forces.”
Fred gritted his teeth. Given his choice, he’d rather fight the Covenant on
the ground. Like his fellow Spartans, he loathed off-planet duty. The op to
board the space dock would be fraught with danger at every turn—unknown enemy
deployment, no gravity, useless intel, no dirt beneath his feet.
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There was no question, though: the space op was the toughest duty so Fred intended
to volunteer for it.
Captain Keyes considered John’s suggestion. “No, Master Chief. It’s too risky—
we’ve got to make sure the Covenant doesn’t get that NAV data. We’ll use a nuclear
mine, set it close to the docking ring, and detonate it.”
“Sir, the EMP will burn out the superconductive coils of the orbital guns. And if you
use the Pillar of Autumn’s conventional weapons, the NAV database may still survive.
If the Covenant search the wreckage—they may obtain the data.”
“True,” Keyes said and taped his pipe thoughtfully to his chin. “Very well, Master
Chief. We’ll go with your suggestion. I’ll plot a course over the docking station.
Ready your Spartans and prep two dropships. We’ll launch you”—he consulted with
Cortana—“in five minutes.”
“Aye, Captain. We’ll be ready.”
“Good luck,” Captain Keyes said and the view screen went black.
Fred snapped to attention as the Master Chief turned to face the Spartans. Fred
began to step forward—
—but Kelly beat him to it. “Master Chief,” she said, “permission to lead the space op.”
She had always been faster, damn her.
“Denied,” the Master Chief said. “I’ll be leading that one.
“Linda and James,” he continued. “You’re with me. “Fred, you’re Red Team
Leader. You’ll have tactical command of the ground operation.”
“Sir!” Fred shouted and started to voice a protest—then squelched it. Now wasn’t
the time to question orders...as much as he wanted to. “Yes, Sir!”
“Now make ready,” the Master Chief said. “We don’t have much time left.”
The Spartans stood a moment. Kelly called out, “Attention!” The soldiers snapped
to and gave the Master Chief a crisp salute, which was promptly returned.
Fred switched to Red Team’s “all-hands” freq and barked, “Let’s move, Spartans! I
want gear stowed in ninety seconds, and final prep in five minutes. Joshua: liaise with
Cortana and get me whatever intel we’ve got on the drop area—I don’t care if it’s just
weather satellite imagery, but I want pictures, and I want them ninety seconds ago.”
Red Team jumped into action.
The pre-mission jitters were gone, replaced with a cold calm. There was a job to do,
and Fred was eager to get to work.
Flight Officer Mitchell flinched as a stray energy burst streaked into the landing bay
and vaporized a meter-wide section of bulkhead. Red-hot, molten metal splattered the
Pelican dropship’s viewport.
Screw this, he thought, and hit the Pelican’s thrusters. The gunmetal-green transport
balanced for a moment on a column of blue-white fire, then hurtled out of the Pillar of
Autumn’s launch bay and into space. Five seconds later, all hell broke loose.
Incoming energy bursts from the lead Covenant vessels cut across their vector and
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slammed into a COMSat. The communications satellite broke apart, disintegrating
into glittering shards.
“Better hang on,” Mitchell announced to his passengers in the dropship’s troop bay.
“Company’s coming.”
A swarm of Seraphs—the Covenant’s scarab-like attack fighters—fell into tight
formation and arced through space on an intercept course for the dropship.
The Pelican’s engines flared and the bulky ship plummeted toward the surface of
Reach. The alien fighters accelerated and plasma bursts flickered from their gunports.
An energy bolt slashed past on the port side, narrowly missing the Pelican’s cockpit.
Mitchell’s voice crackled across the COM system: “Bravo-One to Knife Two-Six: I
could use a little help here.”
He rolled the Pelican to port to avoid a massive, twisted hunk of wreckage from
a patrol cutter that had strayed too close to the oncoming assault wave. Beneath
the blackened plasma scorches, he could just make out the UNSC insigne. Mitchell
scowled. This was getting worse by the second. “Bravo-One to Knife Two-Six, where
the hell are you?” he yelled.
A quartet of wedge-shaped, angular fighters slotted into covering position on Mitchell’s
scopes—Longswords, heavy fighters.
“Knife Two-Six to Bravo-One,” a terse, female voice crackled across the COM
channel. “Keep your pants on. Business is good today.”
Too good. No sooner had the fighters taken escort position over his dropship than the
approaching Covenant fighters opened up with a barrage of plasma fire.
Three of the Pelican’s four Longsword escorts peeled off and powered toward the
Covenant ships. Against the black of space, cannons flashed and missiles etched ghostly
trails; Covenant energy weapons cut through the night and explosions dotted the sky.
The Pelican and its sole escort, however, accelerated straight toward the planet. It
shot past whirling wreckage; it rolled and maneuvered as missiles and plasma bolts
crisscrossed their path.
Mitchell flinched as Reach’s orbital defense guns fired in a hot, actinic flash. A white
ball of molten metal screamed directly over the Pelican and its escort as they rocketed
beneath the defense platform’s ring-shaped superstructure.
Mitchell sent the Pelican into the planet’s atmosphere. Vaporous flames flickered
across the ship’s stunted nose and the Pelican jounced from side to side.
“Bravo-One, adjust attack angle,” the Longsword pilot advised. “You’re coming
in too hot.”
“Negative,” Mitchell said. “We’re getting to the surface fast—or we’re not getting
there at all. Enemy contacts on my scopes at four by three o’clock.”
A dozen more Covenant Seraphs fired their engines and angled toward the two
descending ships.
“Affirmative: four by three. I’ve got ’em, Bravo-One,” the Longsword pilot announced.
“Give ’em hell down there.”
The Longsword flipped into a tight roll, and rocketed for the Covenant formation.
There was no chance that the pilot could take out a dozen Seraphs—and Knife Two-Six
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had to know that. Mitchell only hoped that the precious seconds Two-Six bought them
would be enough.
The Pelican opened its intake vents and ignited afterburners, plummeting toward the
ground at thirteen hundred meters per second. The faint aura of flames around the craft
roared from red to blinding orange.
The Pelican’s aft section had been stripped of the padded crash seats that usually
lined the section’s port and starboard sides. The life-support generators on the firewall
between passenger and pilot’s compartment had also been discarded to make room.
Under other circumstances, such modifications would leave the Pelican’s troop bay
unusually cavernous. Every square centimeter of space, however, was occupied.
Twenty-seven Spartans braced themselves and clung to the frame of the ship; they
crouched in their MJOLNIR armor to absorb the shock of their rapid descent. Their
armor was half a ton of black alloy, faintly luminous green ceramic plates, and winking
energy shield emitters. Polarized visors and full helmets made them look part Greek
hero and part tank—more machine than human. At their feet equipment bags and
ammunition boxes were lashed in place. Everything rattled as the ship jostled through
the increasingly dense air.
Fred hit the COM and barked: “Brace yourselves!” The ship lurched and he
struggled to keep his footing.
SPARTAN-087, Kelly, moved nearer and opened a frequency. “Chief, we’ll get that
COM malfunction squared away after we hit planetside,” she said.
Fred winced when he realized that he’d just broadcast on FLEETCOM 7: he’d
spammed every ship in range. Damn it.
He opened a private channel to Kelly. “Thanks,” he said. Her reply was a subtle nod.
He knew better than to make such a simple mistake—and as his second-incommand, Kelly was rattled by his mistake with the COM, too. He needed her rock
solid. He needed all of Red Team frosty and wired tight.
Which meant that he needed to make sure he held it together. No more mistakes.
He checked the squad’s biomonitors. They showed all green on his heads-up
display, with pulse rates only marginally accelerated. The dropship’s pilot was a
different story. Mitchell’s heart fired like an assault rifle.
Any problems with Red Team weren’t physical; the biomonitors confirmed that
much. Spartans were used to tough missions; UNSC High Command never sent them
on any “easy” jobs.
Their job this time was to get groundside and protect the generators that powered
the orbiting Magnetic Accelerator Cannon platforms. The fleet was getting ripped to
shreds in space. The massive MAC guns were the only thing keeping the Covenant
from overrunning their lines and taking Reach.
Fred knew that if anything had Kelly and the other Spartans rattled, it was leaving
behind the Master Chief and his hand-picked Blue Team.
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Fred would have infinitely preferred to be with Blue Team. He knew every
Spartan here felt like they were taking the easy way out. If the ship-jockeys
managed to hold off the Covenant assault wave, Red Team’s mission was a milk
run, albeit a necessary one.
Kelly’s hand bumped into Fred’s shoulder, and he recognized it as a consoling
gesture. Kelly’s razor-edged agility was multiplied five-fold by the reactive circuits
in her MJOLNIR armor. She wouldn’t have “accidentally” touched him unless she
meant it, and the gesture spoke volumes.
Before he could say anything to her, the Pelican angled and gravity settled
the Spartans’ stomachs.
“Rough ride ahead,” the pilot warned.
The Spartans bent their knees as the Pelican rolled into a tight turn. A crate broke
its retaining straps, bounced, and stuck to the wall.
The COM channel blasted static and resolved into the voice of the Longsword’s
pilot: “Bravo Two-Six, engaging enemy fighters. Am taking heavy incoming fire—”
The channel was abruptly swallowed in static.
An explosion buffeted the Pelican and bits of metal pinged off its thick hull.
Patches of armor heated and bubbled away. Energy blasts flashed through the
boiling metal, filling the interior with fumes for a split-second before the ship’s
pressurized atmosphere blew the haze out the gash in her side.
Sunlight streamed though the lacerated titanium-A armor. The dropship lurched
to port, and Fred glimpsed five Covenant Seraph fighters driving after them and
wobbling in the turbulent air.
“Gotta shake ’em,” the pilot screamed. “Hang on!”
The Pelican pitched forward and her engines blasted in full overload. The dropship’s
stabilizers tore away and the craft rolled out of control.
The Spartans grabbed onto cross beams and their gear was flung about inside the ship.
“It’s going to be a helluva hot drop, Spartans,” their pilot hissed over
the COM. “Autopilot’s programmed to angle. Reverse thrusters. Gees are
takin’ me out. I’ll—”
A flash of light outlined the cockpit hatch and the tiny shockproof glass window
shattered into the passenger compartment.
The pilot’s biomonitor flat-lined.
The rate of their dizzying roll increased, and bits of metal and instruments tore free
and danced around the compartment.
SPARTAN-029, Joshua, was closest to the cockpit hatch. He pulled himself up
and looked in. “Plasma blast,” he said. He paused for a heartbeat, then added:
“I’ll reroute control to the terminal here.” With his right hand, he furiously
tapped commands onto the keyboard mounted on the wall. The fingers of his left
hand dug into the metal bulkhead.
Kelly crawled along the starboard frame, held there by the spinning motion of the
out-of-control Pelican. She headed aft of the passenger compartment and punched a
keypad there, priming the explosive bolts on the drop hatch.
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“Fire in the hole!” she yelled.
The Spartans braced.
The hatch exploded and whipped away from the plummeting craft. Fire
streamed along the outer hull. Within seconds, the compartment became
a blast furnace. With the grace of a high-wire performer, Kelly leaned
out of the rolling ship, her armor’s energy shields flaring in the heat.
The Covenant Seraph fighters fired their lasers, but the energy weapons
scattered in the superheated wake of the dropping Pelican. One alien ship
tumbled out of control, too deep in the atmosphere to easily maneuver.
The others veered and arced up back into space.
“Too hot for them,” Kelly said. “We’re on our own.”
“Joshua,” Fred called out. “Report.”
“The autopilot’s gone, and cockpit controls are offline,” Joshua answered.
“I can counter our spin with thrusters.” He tapped in a command; the port
engine shuddered and the ship’s rolling slowed and ceased.
“Can we land?” Fred asked.
Joshua didn’t hesitate to give the bad news. “Negative. The computer
has no solution for our inbound vector.” He tapped rapidly on the
keyboard. “I’ll buy as much time as I can.”
Fred ran over their now-limited options. They had no parasails, no
rocket propelled drop capsules. That left them him one simple choice:
They could ride this Pelican straight into Hell...or they could get off.
“Get ready for a fast drop,” Fred shouted. “Grab your gear. Pump your
suit’s hydrostatic gel to maximum pressure. Suck it up, Spartans—we’re
landing hard.”
“Hard landing” was an understatement. The Spartans—and their
MJOLNIR armor—were tough. The armor’s energy shields, hydrostatic
gel and reactive circuits, along with the Spartans’ augmented skeletal
structure might be enough to withstand a high-speed crash-landing…but
not a super-sonic impact.
It was a dangerous gamble. If Joshua couldn’t slow the Pelican’s
decent—they’d be paste.
“Twelve thousand meters to go,” Kelly shouted, still leaning over the
edge of the aft door.
Fred told the Spartans: “Ready and aft. Jump on my mark.”
The Spartans grabbed their gear and moved toward the open hatch.
The Pelican’s engines screamed and pulsed as Joshua angled the
thruster cams to reverse positions. The deceleration pulled at the Spartan
team and everyone grabbed, or made, a handhold.
Joshua brought what was left of the craft’s control flaps to bear and the
Pelican’s nose snapped up. A sonic boom rippled through the ship as its
velocity dropped below Mach 1. The frame shuddered and rivets popped.
“Eight kilometers and this brick is still dropping fast,” Kelly called out.
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“Joshua, get aft,” Fred ordered.
“Affirmative,” Joshua said.
The Pelican groaned and the frame pinged from the stress—and then
creaked as the craft shuddered and flexed. Fred set his armored glove on
the wall, and tried to will the craft to hold together a little longer.
It didn’t work. The port engine exploded and the Pelican tumbled
again out of control.
Kelly and the Spartans near the aft drop hatch dropped out.
No more time.
“Jump!” Fred shouted. “Spartans: go, go, go!”
The rest of the Spartans crawled aft, fighting the gee forces of the
tumbling Pelican. Fred grabbed Joshua—and they jumped into void.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Eric Nylund has published several novels: virtual reality thrillers
A Signal Shattered and Signal to Noise; contemporary fantasy
novels Pawn’s Dream and Dry Water (nominated for the 1997
World Fantasy Award); and the science-fantasy novel A Game of
Universe. He is the fan-favorite author of the first Halo novel,
The Fall of Reach, and contributed to the Del Rey pulp adventure
anthology Crtmson Skies, based on the forthcoming Xbox™ game,
Crimson Skies: High Road To Revenge.
“Halo: First Strike” by Eric Nylund will be available in
December, 2003.
For more information, go to http://www.delreydigital.com
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