He stands aboard the Infinity, watching the stars.
There are no tears. Somewhere in the tangled mess that was the surgery, the chemicals took them from him. There are no tears but there is pain, though it would take Halsey's knowledge to see it, beneath the armor. Beneath the faceplate, beneath the shields, there is pain, and he does not know what to make of it.
There are friends in his past, old friends, who he remembers. On some days, reflecting, he is able to remember parents, their faces shrouded by the long history of many wars. Are they dead? He thinks so, though there is no knowing, and standing there he does not much care. For those who are lost, the others who stood long days ago beside him, he feels resignation, and regret, and underneath perhaps a hint of pride. Some died in vain, but they died fighting, died to win. For those that still remain—Halsey, and somewhere, Mendez—he feels an attachment that goes beyond camaraderie, something he could call familial, though the word does not mean to him what it does to others.
But Cortana is dead.
He dreams of her, sometimes, dreams lit by the radiance of her holographic light, in rooms that crawl with the glyphs that patterned her skin. She is not there. He calls to her, Cortana, Cortana, but she does not come.
Can she have died, he asks himself, if she never lived? She was never flesh, though still he remembers the pressure of her hard-light touch on the armor of his upper arm, remembers it as if she touched his skin. She was Halsey's mind, but did she live? The question rings like an old bell in his mind, unceasing. Still he grieves, though it is not his way.
As he watches the stars he remembers the others, the countless others, all lost. The SPARTANs that were his kin, the many that were sacrificed simply for the hope that they might be more. And those after, who gave their lives to win, at whatever cost. Marines, pilots, civilians, numbering thousands, he remembers. His memory is good. Staring at the many possible constellations he finds their names, writ in stars: Sam, Kurt, Johnson, Keyes. And dozens of others, whose only imprint on him is a face, an expression, a word.
What was Cortana? he wonders. What was she to me? Through the many years he remembers her less as a partner than as a part, a third hemisphere of his mind, conscious of itself. Times without her he remembers feeling lesser, always slower to act, slower to understand. Even now he feels it. Still in his bones there are aches and trembles from the days before, and his mind, though sharp, cannot focus. Though he knows the armor keeps his temperature the same, still he feels the cold of space, chills that run through his blood.
Behind him he hears footsteps, but he does not turn. When Lasky's voice says Mind if I join you? he responds with Of course sir, as he must.
At ease Chief, Lasky says. It feels kinda odd for you to call me sir.
The captain stands beside him in silence a moment, and John wonders if he is here to give new orders, a reflexive thought. He wonders this and part of him hopes it will be true, and that the next mission will help him bury his grief, as have the many others. But the captain does not speak, he only stands, staring out toward the stars.
Beautiful isn't she? I don't get to see her often enough.
She was, he thinks, and then looks down, to where Earth's oceans lie under swaths of cloud, lit by sunlight. He has been looking at the stars, and that Earth is there makes near no difference to him.
I grew up on New Harmony, attended Corbulo Military Academy? Never saw Earth in person 'til I was an adult but… I still think of her as home.
The captain is resting his hands on his hips now, as if proud to say these things. John looks to him without moving his head, and the helmet hides his gaze. He wonders how much the captain remembers of Corbulo, but dismisses the thought. The captain is a soldier too, and he has either made peace with his memories or carries them still.
You don't talk much, do you? the captain says.
John does not move in response, does not give sign of having heard. Give me orders, he wishes silently, give me purpose. But still inside his head the memories are sharp of blue glyph-laced light, eyes bright as ice in sunshine, the words: Oh, I'm the strangest thing you've seen all day?
Chief, the captain said, I won't pretend to know how you feel. I mean I've lost people I care about, but… never anything like you're going through.
Our duty, as soldiers, is to protect humanity.
The sound of his own voice surprises him. Dispassionately he notes a rasp in it that was absent before, and wonders if this is a symptom of his grief. Between these words and the next ones, he pauses, but speaks anyway:
Whatever the cost.
The words soothe him, as he knew they would. It was his duty, he thinks, it was no choice of his that led him to her ending. He tried, and harder than others would have, and went further...
...but still there is the voice in him that says she did not have to die...
But now the captain is speaking again: You say that... like humanity and soldiers are two different things. Soldiers aren't machines.
John turns to him, more sharply than intended, though the captain will not know how many hours it has cost to refine such a simple movement.
We're just people, he finishes, and John turns back to Earth, and the stars beyond. I'll let you have the deck to yourself, the captain says, and walks away.
She said that to me once, John says out loud, after the captain is gone. Again he notes that he is speaking to himself, and that this is not his way, but the words come out of him even so: About being a machine.
He hears her voice. Before this is all over, she is saying, promise me you'll figure out which one of us is the machine.
Unconsciously he curls his fingers, listening to the sounds of the armor.
It worked, she is saying now, you did it, just like you always do. When he closes his eyes he sees again the cage of blue light that saved him. And her form before him, so small, transparent, her skin lined with circuit-form patterns that brighten and fade in some logic he cannot fathom.
So how do we get out of here, he asks, and the suit takes the words and holds them in, keeping them from the air, where others might hear and wonder.
In his memory she looks at him and her eyes are so bright, and her lips though full are pressed thin with determination. I'm not coming with you this time, she says, and even then he knew, though he tried to put the thoughts aside.
He remembers protesting, he remembers her saying It's already done, and feeling like gravity had suddenly undone him. Like he was floating apart, unable to pull together. I am not leaving you here, he says again into his helmet, and his eyes burn, though there are no tears.
John, she says, and he realizes in that moment that he loved her, though the word does not come into his head. What he thinks is not a word, because in his mind the word love does not exist as it does for others. But he sees her expression again in his memory and his heart twists in a way that he cannot explain, as if it is being dragged from him and toward her eyes, to be claimed. He feels again the touch of her hand on his armor, and wishes that somehow he could have taken it in his, that he could have felt what she had chosen as her form without the armor in the way.
Welcome home, John, she is saying, and still he cannot cry.