Chapter Eleven: Mutiny

To thine own eyes, Councillor 'Ornala,

Much that once was is now lost, as the wretched parasite has claimed, however indirectly, that which we have valued most. The Great Journey, it seems, has been robbed from us by none other than he who has long promised it. Given this test to our faith, the question must be asked: to whom do we owe our loyalties? With the humans' influence over our fleets growing, we might ask how they may be used to our own ends. Surely the Prophets shall be displeased by Truth's actions. Were we to gain their allegiance as well, much that was lost may yet be gained.

Our betrayer broods in his sanctuary, and I fear that the parasite shall limit the time that is left to act. For both our sakes, the Ark must be reclaimed.

By my own hand,

Hiru 'Kyrona, Councillor of High Charity

# # # # # # #

Sheet-covered bodies had been hastily laid out on tables in the cafeteria, which had been converted to a makeshift morgue following the deadly attack on the Hive. Office staff and doctors milled around, but that did not slow down John-117, who ran from one table to another lifting the sheets and looking at the faces of those beneath them. After passing by a dozen UNSC marines, he pulled back one last sheet to see a familiar face.

John-117 let the sheet drop onto Will-043's chest. Time seemed to move in slow motion. For John, seeing the body made the loss real. Will's pale face did not show pain or surprise, but rather the somber look and wrinkles that age and years of fighting had etched onto him. John remembered in early years how Will used to banter the other Spartans, how he used to try to raise all of their spirits. Years of combat had inevitably gotten to him, and he had grown quieter and more sullen over time. The Covenant had, both in body and spirit, destroyed him. After receiving armor upgrades that had made them feel invincible, the Covenant had claimed the squadron's best rocketeer. So soon after reuniting with his squadron, he had lost another man. To add insult to injury, an ODST tattoo had been hastily scrawled onto Will's left bicep post-mortem, undoubtably part of ONI's efforts to hide the fact that Spartans could die. John pulled the sheet back over his face and clenched his hand into a fist. The next Covenant he met would die a slow, painful death.

"I can't believe it," a passing Marine said. "Franko always said he would buy it without firing a shot."

"Damn," another said, "little shit snuck up and stabbed him in the back. I'm never going to look at a jackal the same way again."

John-117 turned to them. "How many casualties?"

The marines stopped, craning their necks to look John in the face. "Twelve helljumpers, twelve bean counters, twenty jarheads and eight in the brass."

ODST's, office staff, marines, and officers, John thought. Damn. "How many in the Admiralty?"

"Six. Um... Strauss, Levy, Ackerson-"

"Ackerson?" John asked in surprise.

"Uh... yes sir. He's over there." The marine pointed to a sheet-covered body halfway across the cafeteria; strangely one of only three with a red stain on the cloth. John turned to walk towards it.

"Hey," one of the Marines asked, looking at Will's sheet-covered body, "was the big guy a helljumper?"

John reflected on ONI's unofficial policy. Spartans could never die. They went missing in action.

"The biggest," he called back.

# # # # # # #

Councillor 'Kyrona,

In regards to that which binds us, I shall say no more. For too long I have waited, but I have now concluded that enough blood has been spilled on the prophets' account to drown us all. The parasite is a threat, yes, but one that must be faced rather than evaded. One might wonder; who is truly deserving of the Great Journey? It cannot be shared by all, thus it shall be experienced by none. For all our sakes, the Ark must be destroyed.

The prophets be damned.

Milo 'Ornala, Councillor of High Charity

# # # # # # #

Twenty-three elites in gleaming jet-black SpecOps armor were congregated in their barracks, facing a holographic display. One stood and walked to a console, typing in several commands in attempts to clear up the signal. A moment later a human face appeared clearly in the holographic display, surrounded by text that none of the elites could read. Several of the elites' expressions displayed distaste for seeing humans, but all watched the newscast intently. There was no appreciable sound, as the audio stream had not yet been cracked, but the program showed a still image of a Covenant battle cruiser being gutted by a MAC round, surrounded by blue light. The human commentator disappeared and the other image grew to fill the entire display, then went into motion to show the scope of the battle. One of the special-ops elites groaned, recognizing from the formation the Covenant was using that the footage was clearly fake. Almost no UNSC vessels were being destroyed in the video, and Covenant ships were flaring into blue globes of plasma almost constantly. They were getting their first taste of terrestrial propaganda.

The elite manipulating the console stepped away as the audio stream was successfully decrypted. The news commentator's voice now accompanied the footage.

"-ships were lost, and our thoughts and prayers go out to the families of those brave men and women. For those of you who are just joining us, what you are seeing is recently released footage of what UNSC officials are calling the single greatest UNSC victory since the Battle for Sigma Octanus. This victory has followed what several sources have described as a large-scale Covenant civil war. This has not been confirmed or denied by ONI or UNSC officials, but many amateur astronomers who observed the conflict claim that they saw Covenant vessels firing on each other, preceeding the nuclear strike that obliterated the Covenant fleet. Again, this has not been... hold on, we are receiving word that the Office of Naval Intelligence is making a public statement, we'll take you to that now."

The elites watched as ONI Admiral John Clarke stepped up to a podium. "We can confirm that there was a major disturbance within the Covenant, and that there is now a separatist faction that opposes the main body of the Covenant. They have pled with us to accept their allegiance, and this is being taken under consideration. However, given recent history-"

Most of the elites stood in fury at the word 'pled.'

"The humans portray us as weak when they had been on the verge of being crushed by Truth's fleet? "

"What madness is this?"

"Damn the humans! The Fleetmaster would have to be a fool to join them!"

Junior Field Master Motak 'Harlamee entered the barracks upon hearing the uproar. One of the elites noticed, and the barracks fell silent save for the tinny voice of the human commentator. One of the elites glanced at the holographic display. 'Harlamee caught the glance and stepped over to the hologram projector, deactivating it. Several of the elites bowed in shame.

"If any of you have anything you wish to say about the Fleetmaster, voice it now."

The stillness in the barracks was painfully thick. 'Harlamee was somewhat shorter than most of them, but he still commanded great respect from his warriors even without raising his voice.

"These are difficult times for all of us," 'Harlamee said. "Many of you lost family to the wretched Jiralhanae. But we must not let our own anger overshadow the facts. We have waged a terrible, pointless genocide on the humans for many cycles. The very fact that they have not blown us out of the sky is a testament to their mercy, and this mercy is more than our people can expect from the prophet of Truth. We must remember who our true enemy is. Let these humans play their petty word games at home. If they motivate their own people through lies, we are not in a position to criticize them. We ourselves have followed the lies of the Prophets for untold ages. We have greater work to do."

The elites nodded and dispursed throughout the barracks. 'Harlamee watched them as they went, looking for any sign of belligerence. The last thing he needed at this point was for the Fleetmaster to return to his ship in the throes of mutiny.

# # # # # # #

John-117 approached the table and pulled back the sheet without hesitation. Ackerson was laying there in his black dress uniform, eyes wide with shock. A bloody wound on his neck stretched from ear to ear. The Master Chief thought for a moment and summoned the nearest person to the table. It was CPO Neumann again.

"What's wrong, sir?" she asked.

"Every other person I've seen was killed with a stab wound to the back of the neck," the Spartan said. "Was Ackerson the only exception?"

"There were several, actually. A few fatal plasma wounds, two marines who were shot with an M7-"

"Friendly fire?"

"No, these jackals didn't seem to hesitate to use human weapons. But there was a Major who had his throat slit, too."

"Who?"

"Uh... Major Antonio Standish. ONI Section Three. Why?"

"The Sharquoi fought with active camoflage," John said.

"Yeah. Probably how they got into the base, too. It was new technology, also invisible on the ultraviolet and infrared spectrums. Why?"

John looked back at Ackerson's body. "He saw this coming."

Neumann furrowed her brow. "How can you tell?"

"Defensive wounds," John said. "Two of his fingers are broken. Where is this other man? Standish?"

Neumann tossed the sheet back over Ackerson's body and led the Master Chief to the next table. Another man was under the sheet, wearing an identical black uniform. His face and palms were visibly bruised and a strip of burned flesh along his neck showed where the blade had cut him.

"More defensive wounds," Neumann said, surprised.

The defensive wounds weren't what worried John. What worried him was that Standish's wound was coagulated. Ackerson's was not. That meant that Standish had been killed by a plasma dagger, but Ackerson was probably sliced open with a standard-issue UNSC combat knife... but that was stupid. Why would an assassination be so obvious... unless it was meant as a message to someone else?

On top of that, both men were from Section Three. Someone had taken advantage of the chaos to do some political housecleaning. And that person was probably not under a sheet in this room.

# # # # # # #

Haskins lightly kicked the good-sized crate that had been hastily loaded on the Albatross before its departure. He had food for about two months. Unfortunately, his entire diet would consist of water, dehydrated pork, and refried beans. Dehydrated food tasted disgusting, but it was probably safer than eating whatever it was they ate on the elite homeworld. That just left the issue of if the planet's atmosphere was breathable, not to mention radiation count, assassination attempts and God-knew what else. If he survived his first day on Tterrab, he would be very impressed. Not that his life expectancy on Earth would have been much longer, if ONI had its way.

Through the canopy in the cockpit of the Albatross, Haskins could see as the last of the clouds fell behind and the vacuum of space swallowed them. The view subtly changed from off-blue to black as the planet fell behind them. Haskins was surprised that he didn't wish to see Earth. It had never been his home. The closest thing he had ever had to a home was Coral, which was now the shattered remains of a glassed planet. And even that... he had few fond memories of the poverty-stricken world. Were it not for his family, he would have left without looking back. Even they were gone now.

Maybe that's why I'm best-suited for this job, he thought, I don't have a hell of a lot to live for.

Regardless, many lives would depend on how successful he was in negotiating with the elites. He realized then that he had no knowledge of how their government actually worked, knowledge that would probably be helpful in the long run. Now was the time to find out.

"Who will I be meeting with?" he asked the Arbiter.

The elite, clad in his peculiar armor, looked at Haskins in amusement. "The Sangheili High Council."

"I thought they were killed on Halo."

"The High Council was divided into two houses. Save for Councillors Hiru 'Kyrona and Milo 'Ornala, those on High Charity were assassinated, but with any kind of fortune the High Council on Tterrab is still safe."

The Arbiter began a lengthy-yet-fascinating civics lecture describing the various intricacies of the High Council. It was a bureaucracy, of course, but every member needed a certain amount of military experience to gain rank. The more combat one had seen, the higher they could rise in government. It seemed that the High Council was held in a sense of awe by the elites. Unlike humans, who could interpret the most insignificant event as a major government scandal, the elites seemed to believe their government was always pure and just. It couldn't be true, could it? No. The Mirratord First had said that the Mirratord were the 'shield and the sword' of the High Council. That made them something akin to ONI Section Zero. They worked internal affairs, probably rooting out corrupt politicians and suppressing potential troublemakers by means of assassination. They were a check on the system. If the elites' system was truly perfect, then such a check would not be needed.

So, the elites thought their government to be perfect, but beneath it all, politics were at the core of everything. Realizing this, Haskins understood what had been bothering him and voiced his concern.

"How did those two councillors survive? From High Charity?"

"Surely you have not forgotten?" the Arbiter grinned. "You were there when they were freed from the Jiralhanae on Halo."

They had been spared by the Brutes? He could have been wrong, but something about the scenario nagged at him. The Brutes weren't the kind that would spare their enemies out of kindness.

"Why were they spared when all the others were killed?"

The Arbiter gave him a somewhat less-than-cordial look.

"Now, I don't mean offense by that," Haskins backpedaled, "it's just that it seems strange to me that the Brutes would spare them when they were killing every other elite they could find."

The Arbiter seemed to understand. He seemed puzzled by it, as well, but he seemed to brush off the issue.

"The Jiralhanae have... twisted methods to entertain themselves," he finally said. "Perhaps they meant to shame them."

The Arbiter unconsciously rubbed his chest. Though not satisfied by the answer, the staff sergeant was surprised he had not noticed the scar before. It looked at first like he had been hit in the chest with a plasma bolt, but then he realized that the elite had been branded.

He still had a lot to learn.

"Tterrab likely knows nothing of what happened on High Charity," the Arbiter said. "Do you know what you shall say?"

"I have evidence that Truth was responsible for it," Haskins replied. He tapped the camera on his helmet. "Truth was talking on a city-wide channel, encouraging the Brutes to fight the Elites. My PVU recorded everything..."

Haskins froze in horror. It had recorded everything. He had never shut the camera off... and it recorded events on a one-hour loop. The footage from High Charity had been erased several times over by now. With the footage, he still had the considerable obstacle to face: being human. Without that footage, his case against Truth amounted to nothing.

"Oh, no," he whispered. He rewound and replayed the footage, seeing the flight, the ride on the tram, his conversation on the platform, and half of the attack on the Hive in reverse before the recording ended in a black screen. He angrily shut the camera off and leaned into his hands, thinking. He hadn't felt this helpless since Private Kowalski's death at the hands of a sniper on Installation 05.

Wait a minute...

He patted his ammunition pouches, heart racing. A square chip was in one of them. He opened the pouch and retrieved the PVU chip, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. It had belonged to Kowalski. He had taken it from him post-mortem, all according to procedure. And it was sure to hold the evidence he would need. He held the chip tightly. Eugene Kowalski was dead, and this video was his legacy. Even in death, that marine could end up saving the world.

# # # # # # #

"Commander on deck!" the Ensign shouted.

Lieutenant Commander Miranda Keyes stepped into the bridge of her ship and surveyed the crew. They snapped to attention and saluted, and she quickly returned the salute. Immediately they returned to work, as automatically as any machine. She would have congratulated the ship's former commander for the crew's discipline, but then, she was technically the ship's first commander: it had been reborn.

The UNSC Gettysburg had been to hell and back. It had fought the Covenant at Reach and lost, but it had been resurrected by John-117, who had managed to bring it back in working order. Much still remained to be repaired, but the ship was operating at 80 percent of its intended efficiency, and it was improving by the hour. Though not quite as powerful as the In Amber Clad had been, the Gettysburg was still a good ship. Keyes thought back to her training days on the UNSC Soberg. Usually there hadn't been much excitement in ONI's Radio Beacon Deployment Program, but through a set of unusual circumstances, Keyes had proven to be quite exceptional and was soon given command of the destroyer In Amber Clad. Ironically, it was also how she had met the man who would now represent the human race.

She took a seat in the captain's chair and logged into the system. Displaying her clearance, she quickly read her orders along with a congratulatory note from Admiral Hood. She was to join the rest of the fleet in monitoring the elites until and during their departure, watching for any sign of trouble.

"Helm, set a course for high-altitude polar orbit around the moon."

"Aye, ma'am," the helmsman replied.

"Communications, report," she said. She noted with approval that Corporal Jason Morelli had been assigned to the post. It had been a while, hadn't it? She hadn't seen him since they served together on the Soberg.

"We've been reading unusual heat signatures from the Pious Inquisitor," Morelli said, "at first I didn't think anything of it, but then I cross-referenced it with-"

"Why was I not informed of this?"

"It just started a few minutes ago, and it's gotten stronger since then. I just now patched into some of the eavesdropping equipment we planted on the ship that's still operational, and came up with this."

Energy buzzed and hissed over the speakers.

"What is it?"

"Ma'am... it's small-arms fire."

# # # # # # #

Shipmaster Veli 'Calasee sat in his cell, tapping his fingers on the table and watching the door. He had been in the room for over a day, waiting to be either executed or reinstated as commander of the Undying Triumph. He had been arrested and locked away following a rogue elite's failed attempt to assassinate the human's ambassador. The entire Sangheili fleet had been sitting on the surface of the human homeworld's moon since negotiations began, providing easy targets for the humans' defense platforms. 'Calasee could not fathom cooperating with the humans. What had they to offer, beyond their inferior numbers and weaponry? Most of their race never saw combat or were even trained for it. How they had stood against the iron fist of the Covenant for three cycles, 'Calasee had no idea.

What he did know was that the Arbiter and the Fleetmaster were making a grave mistake. If the humans were declared allies, how long would the location of Tterrab remain hidden from them? How would they react if they learned? The humans had taken to crushing entire worlds in recent months, what with their frightful new nuclear weapons. Coral and Reach... the glassing of a planet was understandable, and could take days to complete... but what unholy technology could crush a world to dust in a matter of seconds? 'Calasee feared the repercussions of an alliance. How many of the apocalyptic super-weapons did the humans possess? How many demons? Would they lash out against the Sangheili homeworld if given a chance? They could be so barbaric at times.

The Shipmaster recognized the irony that such a scenario would entail, but nonetheless, he would see the extinction of the humans before allowing them to touch his homeworld. Chain of command be damned, he would not let the Fleetmaster lead them directly to Tterrab.

He heard muffled shouts through the locked door, then the low buzz of plasma fire. Smiling, 'Calasee stood and walked to the door. It was warm where plasma had splashed against the other side. The honor guards posted outside his cell shouted again. 'Calasee heard several shots from a carbine, then the distinct burst of a plasma grenade.

Silence.

The door opened a moment later, revealing two dead honor guards and six SpecOps elites. One of them stepped forward and kneeled before 'Calasee, offering up a plasma rifle. The Shipmaster nodded to the elites and accepted it. He regarded the gun for a moment before facing the elites who had freed him. Special Operations. The most suicidally devout fighters in all the Covenant. Doubtlessly they had reached his same conclusion about the alliance and decided to act to prevent it from happening.

They came to him because they needed a leader. He would gladly fill the role.

# # # # # # #

Communications Officer Anom 'Paculee looked upon his console with confusion. He was receiving unconfirmed reports of small-arms fire throughout the ship. He directed a squadron of Sangheili warriors to investigate the occurrance at its nearest location, and now they were missing. Many comm lines were down. 'Paculee could only think of two possibilities. Either some remnant of the AI Holy Knight was still trying to wreck havoc with the ship's computers, or...

The buzz of plasma was heard outside the door.

'Paculee brought his fist down on the general alarm, bringing the ship to general quarters. He reached under the armrest of his seat and retrieved the hilt of a plasma sword that was kept there, concealed in case of emergency. The rest of the bridge crew did the same. The navigator ran to the door to activate the controls to lock it down, but upon his arrival, the doors exploded in a flash of blue light. The navigator's body flew a third of the way across the bridge. Mutiny!

The bridge crew activated their energy swords, but high-yield plasma fire began to pour into the room from two stationary turrets that had been planted on the other side of the door. Black-armored SpecOps elites ran into the room, either holding energy swords or dual-wielding plasma rifles. One charged 'Paculee and raised his energy sword to strike, but 'Paculee brought his sword directly into the elite's chest. He pushed the body aside and picked up a plasma grenade, throwing it at the two grunts outside the door. The charge killed them both, but their plasma turrets were quickly manned by two more. Around the bridge, those that had stood to fight were being cut down left and right, while there were still others who were not acting at all. 'Paculee watched in shock as one of the pilots turned his blade upon the other. How many were part of this mutiny? He ran towards the pilot, cutting down another SpecOps elite that tried to intercept him, but two plasma rifles were brought down on his head, knocking him unconscious.

The bridge of the Pious Inquisitor had been taken.

Veli 'Calasee dislodged his sword from the belly of the Fieldmaster that had been left in charge of the ship and allowed the sword to deactivate while SpecOps elites began to round up the survivors. They would join him, or they would die. 'Calasee walked up the ramp to the Fleetmaster's station and reverently ran his hand over the controls. He had been restored to his rightful place of power. He was now the master of the ship.

"Thank you," he said to the other elites, "thank you for this."

He looked to the far end of the room, where two Oracles were floating in midair; one red, one blue. He stepped down off of the commanders' podium and approached them. The blue Oracle regarded him in curiousity, but the red one turned and fled into a ventilation duct near the ceiling.

"Greetings," the blue Oracle said, "I am 343 Guilty Spark. I am the monitor of Installation 04. I would be delighted to be of assistance."

# # # # # # #

Hearing the alarm to general quarters, Fieldmaster Motak 'Harlamee stepped into the barracks to find that his warriors had already geared up for combat before the alarm was sounded.

"Who ordered you to do this?" he asked.

Activity in the room tapered out. The elites looked at each other as if they were criminals caught in the act. One stepped forward to speak for the group, but the intercom system spoke first.

"Arise, faithful warriors," 'Calasee said. "The time has arrived for those of virtue to return to the Path of salvation! There are those who now believe the Great Journey to be false. Do not be deceived! Your fleetmaster now wishes to go crawling on his knees to the very humans who prevented the Great Journey from taking place! The prophets are fools and vile traitors, but their message rings true! I give you this, from the mouth of the Oracle himself! Oracle, what happened on Halo?"

"Containment protocol was on the verge of being completed, but the Reclaimers saw fit to abort the process. Halo's firing sequence was deactivated, pending further review."

"There you have it, faithful warriors! The very humans that our 'leaders' now wish to join were responsible for this travesty! Rise up, now! Let us finish what these traitors to the Grand Design have started! Join us, and together, we shall begin the Great Journey!"

"Time is of the essence. We must activate this installation if we are to control this outbreak!"

'Harlamee looked back at his warriors, standing in full combat garb. They were waiting to see if 'Harlamee approved of their decision to join the mutiny. And if I don't? 'Harlamee thought, they may try to kill me. No. He could not allow his warriors to join this mutiny. If it succeeded, it would kill them all long before the fleet could move to Halo. He cleared his throat and spoke softly.

"Our people have always prevailed in battle, and for a long time that for which we fought was the Great Journey. I tell you now that even that promise was a lie, spread by the prophets so that we would do their bidding."

Several of the elites stiffened.

"You remember when we discovered the red Oracle on Halo? What it said of the Great Journey? A beautiful promise, yes. But an empty one. The rings were built as weapons against the cursed parasite, and offered no salvation for those who built them. They perished, as would we. Have you forgotten your mates? Your children? This ship is laden with civilians. We mustn't contribute to this mutiny. We mustn't allow them to go forth with their plans. None of you have forgotten this ship's predicament. Should word of this mutiny spread, the humans will undoubtably destroy the ship--and the civilians on board--in order to defend themselves. Would we allow these mutineers to kill the family we have left? Or would we stand and fight, and save those whom we still have?"

# # # # # # #

Anom 'Paculee's eyes flew open. He didn't try to get up, seeing that there was a number of SpecOps elites standing watch. None seemed to have noticed that he was awake. He eyed the communications console, not far from where he was. When he acted, he would have to act quickly. A gold-armored Shipmaster was standing on the commander's podium with the blue Oracle by his side, making use of the ship's intercom system. A call went up from the entryway, and all of the SpecOps elites turned. 'Paculee glanced at the entryway to see a SpecOps ultra standing in the door, conversing with the others.

They were distracted. Now was his chance.

'Paculee sprang to the communications console and broadwaved a call to an emergency protocol across the Fleetnet. Within seconds, he was grabbed from behind by two SpecOps elites and dragged away from the console, but the damage was done. Beyond the Pious Inquisitor, shipboard computers across the Separatist fleet initiated an automated communications blackout which would last for several hours. Designed by the Covenant in response to the incident on the Ascendant Justice, it was meant to prevent the damaging influence of intrusive human constructs from spreading ship-to-ship; but to 'Paculee, it meant the Shipmaster's mutinous sentiment would be temporarily contained to the Pious Inquisitor, hopefully giving the Fleetmaster time to regain control of the situation.

For him, however, it was already too late.

Those elites who had seized him quickly forced him to face the commander's podium and kneel. A plasma sword was quickly brought to 'Paculee's throat, its bearer silently waiting for the kill order.

So, 'Paculee thought, this is how my life ends.

The comm officer's thoughts drifted to his family. His mate and two daughters had gone to death before him, lost to the Jiralhanae on High Charity. All were condemned to a doomed existence, he knew. There were none who survived living. The salvation offered by the Great Journey was a belief that had been held by all in the Covenant, but the Prophets had never spoken of an afterlife; rather hinting against it. They had proven wrong about the Great Journey... perhaps they were wrong about this as well. 'Paculee did not know why, but he was certain that he would soon see his family again. He closed his eyes and waited for death to take him, at peace with the world.

'Calasee nodded to the elites who held him, and without hesitation they viciously slashed the sword across the communications officer's throat. 'Paculee fell forward, resting face-down on the deck. One of the SpecOps elites kicked the body for good measure before occupying the now-unmanned communications console. A moment later, he turned back to face 'Calasee.

"My lord, it appears that an organized resistance is being formed below decks."

The Ship Master glared at the new communications officer. "This comes as a surprise? Send word to rally our warriors. Our armor and training gives us the edge. We need only the weapons with which to secure the rest of the ship."

He brought up a schematic of the Pious Inquisitor and scanned through it, deck by deck. The primary armory caught his attention on deck nine.

"Once our ranks are assembled, we are to secure this magazine, depriving our foes of the means to resist us. Then, we shall sweep the ship clean of resistance, room by room. Send the word," 'Calasee said. He pointed at 'Paculee's body, clicking a mandible in disgust. "And clean up that mess while you're at it."

# # # # # # #

Fleet Admiral Sir Terrance Hood looked through the glassteel canopy of Cairo's command center. He couldn't understand it. So soon after the alliance had been forged, it was being torn apart by those who had proposed it. He had held high hopes after the negotiations, but with the deaths of so many in the Admiralty and what could turn out to be the implosion of the entire Separatist fleet, Hood did not want to think about what would happen when the Covenant returned to finish the job.

He looked at the moon, peppered with the ships of the Separatist fleet. Commander Keyes of the Gettysburg had confirmed reports of small-arms fire on their flagship, but there was no eavesdropping equipment on any of the others. Was every single one of those ships in the throes of mutiny? Or was it limited to the Pious Inquisitor? Hood did not want to take any chances. He had seen the damage that fifteen Covenant capitol-ships could inflict on the UNSC, even with the Overlord defense grid intact. The UNSC had been hammered by the most recent Covenant attack, and now there were 195 ships to worry about instead of just fifteen.

"Have all MAC platforms lock onto a Separatist vessel," he ordered, "but keep your fingers off the triggers. We'll need to know more about what's going on before we risk opening fire."

# # # # # # #

Fleetmaster Aya 'Daulanee looked beyond the pilot of the Albatross and into space. The stars were moving in the window.

"Why have we changed course?" 'Daulanee asked. The pilot looked nervously at the elites for a moment and switched his radio from his headphones to the dropship's intercom.

"-suspect that a mutiny is in progress on one or more separatist vessels. All UNSC vessels are to pick a target and hold, I repeat, hold fire until ordered."

'Daulanee stood and approached the pilot. The man cowered in his seat, reaching for the M6C he had strapped under his chair, but 'Daulanee simply pushed past him. He listened intently for a moment before signaling to the pilot to connect him with the human commander. Admiral Hood's face appeared on the small computer screen. This far from the MAC platforms, given the restrictions of the speed of light, 'Daulanee estimated that there would be a maddening 1.5 second communications delay.

"You are not to fire on my ships," 'Daulanee said. "You remember they are laden with civilian refugees?"

A pause. "It looks like someone has started a coup, Fleetmaster. Depending on its scope, they may aim to take control of the entire Separatist fleet. Your ships are a potential danger to us," Hood said. "There are more than enough to glass Earth."

"The Covenant has no intention to glass Earth," 'Daulanee replied, "and even so, we do not know the intentions of the mutineers. It is quite possible that they do not intend to attack you. Which ships are they on?"

"We have only confirmed small-arms fire on the Pious Inquisitor, but we can't rule out mutiny on other ships."

"Hold your fire. Upon my arrival at the Pious Inquisitor, I shall better inform you of the status of my fleet. If the mutineers succeed and I do not contact you... do what you must. But do so conservatively. There are many innocents at stake, as well."

"I'll take it under advisement," Hood said. "Set a course to your flagship, and for God's sakes, hurry."

# # # # # # #

"Establish killzones at all entrances," 'Harlamee said. "Disable the slipspace drive."

His warriors sprang into action, spreading throughout the engineering section. As far as the Fieldmaster knew, these twenty-three warriors were the only SpecOps fighters on the ship who had not joined the mutineers. Reason was a compelling force, though blind faith was one to be reckoned with. His warriors would offer as strong a resistance as could be provided, he knew, but the enemy could easily snuff them out if they had decided to. He did not know why the mutineers had not simply depressurized the parts of the ship held by Separatists. Perhaps they feared excessive civilian casualties.

"Master," one of them said, "the mutineers are moving for the primary armory."

Fieldmaster Motak 'Harlamee thought for a moment. He and his squadron had been busily herding civilians to stern, away from where the heavy fighting could be expected, all the while recruiting warriors to assist them. It seemed that the mutineers had done the same in the Pious Inquisitor's bow, clearing the battlefield. Political objectives aside, both sides had shown concern for the well-being of Sangheili females and children.

If the armory was lost, 'Harlamee realized, the rest of the ship will soon follow. Outgunned and running out of ammunition, the Separatists would be worn down by attrition... unless they reached the armory first. The war of propaganda was not going well, either. No Separatists had stepped forward to announce counter-points, and all access to the intercom system had been assigned to the bridge. 'Calasee had been broadcasting almost continuously for twenty minutes. The mutineers were more likely to gain support and numbers unless an opportunity presented itself.

"We must intercept them before they reach the armory," 'Harlamee said. "Assemble-"

The red-eyed Oracle emerged from a ventilation duct. Several of 'Harlamee's SpecOps elites caught themselves bowing to the floating robot.

"Oracle," 'Harlamee said. "Your services are needed."

"I was hoping I would find Separatist forces," Cortana replied in 2401 Penitent Tangent's voice. "They've been trying to depressurize this part of the ship for ten minutes, so I thought it would be a good place to look."

'Harlamee felt that this Oracle was not... pure. However, it could still serve his purpose. "The mutineers have an Oracle of their own," he said quietly. "Could you assist us?"

"I would be happy to assist," Cortana loudly replied. The robot bobbed over to a console and a bolt of energy flew to it. "It seems they have locked out the controls of blast doors throughout the ship," the AI said.

"Can you depressurize their sections of the ship?" 'Harlamee asked.

"No," Cortana replied. 2401 Penitent Tangent had been programmed not to harm those who wished to follow containment protocol, and he was beginning to fight her. She didn't know what the Forerunner AI whose body she shared was capable of, and this wasn't the time to find out. Better to comply with the imprisoned Monitor, rather than risking her entire existence in attempts to defy it. "But it seems that someone cut this ship off from the Covenant Fleetnet," she said. "It should keep them from spreading their message throughout the rest of the fleet. Hopefully, that sentiment will be contained here."

"Please explain to my people why they cannot proceed with the Great Journey," 'Harlamee said. The irony was just beginning to hit: he had never in his life expected such words to leave his mouth.

Cortana tapped into the intercom system. Instantly, 'Calasee's booming voice was cut out.

# # # # # # #

"What has happened?" 'Calasee asked.

"It appears that another construct has taken control of your broadcasting system," 343 Guilty Spark replied. "I shall attempt to purge it... odd, that wasn't supposed to happen..."

"What?"

"You meddlers can be so insistent," Guilty Spark chastized. "It appears that 2401 has wet the system."

"Oracle," an elite's voice asked, "what is Halo's purpose?"

'Calasee growled as Cortana began to speak. He turned to the blue Monitor. "You must end whatever propaganda they intend to spread," he said. "They aim to prevent the Great Journey."

"It is done," the monitor replied, "your in-ship communications array has been disabled."

'Calasee was furious. His message could no longer be spread, and some of his brothers could remain deceived. The Oracle had, however, done exactly what he had bade it to do. It seemed that, with Oracles, one had to be very cautious what they wished for.

# # # # # # #

Zuzat crept down the hallway towards the main armory. He was unarmed, and he knew that elites on both sides were 'recruiting' any grunts they found. They wanted them to fight each other. Zuzat couldn't believe it. They expected grunts to fight and die for causes they didn't even care about. Zuzat had thought that the alliance would change things, but now that clearly wasn't the case. Life for the Unggoy was no better now than it had been under the Covenant. Zuzat heard hooves on the deck behind him and hid in an entryway, waiting for them to pass. It turned out to just be a Sangheili female and her son, heading for the ship's bow. The elites seemed to care about their families regardless of how much they hated each other, and they were moving them out of harm's way, but that also meant that they would be coming for him soon. Interestingly enough, none of the elites seemed brave enough to try 'recruiting' the Hunters.

It was becoming harder and harder to distinguish the mutineers from the separatists. Elites of all ranks were joining up with both causes, and as soon as a decision was clear, they became targets for the other side. They could not be distinguished by armor color, as minors, majors, and Fieldmasters could be serving either side. The grunts had tried to remain neutral, but elites on both sides were drafting them regardless of how they may have felt. Zuzat did not know who would find him, as they inevitably would, but he did know that no matter what they did to him, he would not fire on his fellow grunts.

Sure enough, two SpecOps elites in black armor and an Ultra rounded the corner. The Ultra pointed at Zuzat and barked an order, and one of the SpecOps elites ran forward and grabbed him, pushing him towards the bridge. As he entered the other hallway, he saw the other elite pushing along a grunt minor who was visibly trembling.

"Me no want to fight!" it said.

"You shall do as you are told, grunt," the elite replied.

So, Zuzat thought, I am to be part of the mutiny.

He had no quarrel with the Separatists. All he had wanted was to be left alone.

# # # # # # #

Plasma fire streaked over his head, and Yayap shrieked and ducked. Zuka 'Zamamee stood and fired a few potshots in return before taking cover as well. 'Zamamee fed a new ammunition crystal into his needler and slapped the compartment shut, giving the weapon a good shake to circulate the ammunition. Pink shards shot out of the top of the weapon, which was now ready to fire. Yayap watched as 'Zamamee peeked over the tops of the hard-drop storage containers that they were hiding behind.

"Are there more?" Yayap asked.

"Yes," 'Zamamee answered.

Yayap shuddered. "Who do we shoot at?"

Plasma fire splashed against the other side of the containers as a Sangheili minor fired on them. 'Zamamee stood and returned fire with a burst of slow-moving needles, which bounced off of walls as the minor rounded a corner seeking shelter.

"Whoever is shooting at us," 'Zamamee replied.

# # # # # # #

Zuzat had been taken to a rallying point. An Ultra was trying to look down a hallway to see if Separatist forces were preparing to engage, but upon seeing Zuzat, he seemed to have a change of heart. The ultra grabbed the unarmed grunt and shoved him around the corner. The red-armored grunt expected to be torched by plasma fire, but nothing happened. There were a number of elite and grunt bodies in the hallway, but no resistance. Zuzat stepped over to the body of a fallen elite and picked up a plasma rifle and a plasma grenade, but moments later, the Ultra stepped forward and took the plasma rifle from him so he could have two. Zuzat frowned and took a plasma pistol from a dead grunt further down the hall before he was nudged forward by a Sangheili major. Zuzat wondered if the Separatists treated their grunts this way. Of course they did. Elites were elites. Whether they were Covenant, Separatist, or Mutineer made no difference.

The Ultra ran to the end of the hallway. They were getting close to the main armory. Zuzat didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing. He remembered how he had helped the Fleetmaster when the brutes had attacked. 'Daulanee had seemed like a good master. Why did these elites not see that? Why was this happening at all? Zuzat didn't have a good answer, so instead he kept his head down and followed the elites. They had to know something he didn't, or else they wouldn't have been doing this.

Or so he thought.

The Ultra called out up ahead, and ran back around the corner with a plasma grenade stuck to his chest. The Ultra shrieked up until the grenade exploded, lowering his shields but not harming him. Four grunts and a number of elites rounded the corner, firing on the mutineers. If the mutineers lost, Zuzat decided that he would want to be on the good side of the separatists or they would kill him, too. Zuzat ducked down low and tried to aim high, overshooting both the grunts and the elites but at least giving the illusion of making an effort. An elite major raised his carbine and fired at Zuzat, hitting him once in the arm. Zuzat looked in horror at the stain of blue blood--his blood--that had been made on the wall as the round had punched through the fin on his left arm. He took cover behind the Ultra, who was returning fire with two plasma rifles. Between the Ultra's legs, Zuzat could see as plasma bolts sliced into the four grunts. They screamed and turned to run, but one by one, they fell beneath the onslaught in puddles of soupy blue blood. A separatist with a beam rifle brought down the ultra's shields with two shots, and four rounds from a carbine entered the Ultra's chest and head a moment later. Zuzat picked up one of the elite's dropped plasma rifles and took cover in an entryway, reaching an arm around the corner and firing blindly. The gun overheated, burning his hand, but the mutineers charged forward. Grunts followed them, and Zuzat stepped into the ranks with them. Up ahead, the elites made quick work of the remaining Separatists, but Zuzat noticed that they continued shooting the bodies of the dead... including the grunts.

"Behold! The armory!" a Major shouted. The elites poured into the door, leaving the grunts outside to guard the entrance. Zuzat looked at the fallen separatist Grunts as he passed, trying not to step in their blood. It was everywhere, on the floor, even on the walls. The stench of burned meat filled the corridor. Zuzat squeezed his eyes shut and stepped through the door into the armory, where mutineers were greedily snatching up ammunition. The elite Major activated his comm.

"The armory is ours," he shouted. A battle cry went up from the others. Soon, the ship would be, too.

# # # # # # #

Fieldmaster Motak 'Harlamee's squad was pinned down under heavy fire in a hallway near the armory. At the end of the hall, two grunts were firing from Shade turrets while elites with carbines provided cover. The mutineers, it seemed, had taken the armory. Under the cover of plasma from the Shades, grunts began to creep along the walls towards 'Harlamee's squadron. The Fieldmaster tossed a plasma grenade, which adhered to one of them. The grunts screamed, running back towards the shades. They were fired upon by the elites, dropping one by one from headshots, but the others kept running towards them in mindless panic. The grenade, still stuck to the grunt, exploded in a plume of blue light between the two shades, killing at least six grunts and disabling the gun turrets. 'Harlamee and his squad charged forward, throwing plasma grenades and laying down a punishing field of plasma fire. Grenades chain-reacted with each other, killing the remaining elites. The way to the armory was clear.

"Onward!" 'Harlamee shouted.

# # # # # # #

More and more elites were arriving in the armory. Zuzat sat in the shadows, watching them. An Ultra was ordering elites about, securing the entrances to the armory, while grunts did the heavy work of moving shades and stationary guns. Zuzat watched, in deep thought. Both the separatists and the mutineers abused grunts. Both of them had blood on their hands. But which side was right? Zuzat remembered how Halo had activated, how it had done absolutely nothing. How many grunts had died for that light show? How long had the Covenant searched for those useless rings?

The goal of the mutineers was to try it all again. But how many more would have to die? Why would it work the second time? On this ship, there were no good elites. But there were less-worse elites. Zuzat did not know entirely why, but he knew what he had to do. He stepped out from between the two ammunition containers and approached a large group of grunts that were sitting in a circle, chattering. He spoke to them in their native tongue, an inferior language of barks and snarls that the elites had refused to learn. One by one, the grunts stood and walked over to the stacks of collapsable turrets, each taking one and lugging it out of the armory. An Ultra looked on in approval as the grunts took the initiative to help, but it was just Zuzat's excuse to get every grunt he could out of the armory. Zuzat took his gun up one deck before dropping his load and returning to the armory. He woke the sleeping grunts that guarded at the entrance to the second level and warned them away, as well. Fear of death or punishment began to grip him, but Zuzat forced his legs forward and looked down from the second floor at the many elites that were assembled in the armory. They had no idea what was coming.

Zuzat fingered the plasma grenade he had picked up. This is the right thing to do, he told himself.

"What business have you here?" a Sangheili Major asked, menacingly approaching him with his plasma rifle raised. Zuzat looked up at the elite, at least three feet taller than him, then back to the elites on the ground floor. He quickly activated the plasma grenade and threw it, turning to run. Plasma bolts burned into the wall behind him as he fled.

The tiny blue charge came to a rest between two crates of plasma grenades.

All seven tons of them.

The grenade exploded.

# # # # # # #

Corporal Jason Morelli yanked off his headset in pain. The sound had been amplified many times. He checked his equipment for a malfunction to see that most of the remaining eavesdropping equipment on the Pious Inquisitor had been blown out. Something big had just happened on that ship.

"Zoom and enhance," Keyes ordered the computer. The image of the ship came back a moment later. A panel of armor plating had been sheared off of its hull, and was now lazily floating in the moon's feeble gravity. A strange blue cloud emerged from the hole that had been blown into the top of the ship from hundreds, thousands of plasma grenades detonating in unison.

"Put me through with Hood," Keyes said.

# # # # # # #

The deck jumped under Fieldmaster Motak 'Harlamee, throwing him and his warriors three feet into the air and sending them crashing down to the deck. The air rippled with the concussion of the explosion, which seemed forceful enough to tear the ship in two. 'Harlamee climbed to his feet.

"Shall we proceed to the armory?" a minor Elite asked him.

'Harlamee shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "No," he said, "I find it doubtful that it is there anymore. Let us proceed to the bridge."

He heard a groan in a side corridor and took aim with his plasma rifle. An Ultra with only two mandibles and a black-armored grunt were pulling themselves to their feet. Zuka 'Zamamee looked at the Fieldmaster and his SpecOps elites with fear. Were they friend or foe? 'Harlamee lowered his plasma rifle and approached them.

"I remember you," 'Harlamee said. "From the mess hall. With whom do you stand?"

'Zamamee blinked, clearing his thoughts. "I stand with the Fleetmaster."

"Very well, Leader," 'Harlamee replied. "Then let us proceed to the bridge, and end this mutiny."

# # # # # # #

A terrible loud sound. Terrible rushing air, then stillness and silence.

Zuzat struggled to move, but every nerve in his body screamed at him. He was bleeding, but he didn't know from where. He knew that he must have had at least several broken bones. He looked back towards the armory. A pressure door had slammed shut between him and the armory. The explosion must have been powerful enough to punch through the top of the ship and expose the armory to the vacuum.

He had paid a great price, but he had destroyed the armory and the mutineers within. That had to be a good thing.

Zuzat struggled and pushed off the floor. He rolled himself over, then a pang of pain shot up his spine and he lost consciousness.

Two Grunts, formerly the guards to the entrance of the armory, walked over to him and picked him up.

# # # # # # #

Shipmaster Veli 'Calasee slammed his fist against his console. He had been a fool to congregate his forces in the armory. It was now gone, a gaping hole in the ship, as was his chance of success. In one fell swoop, a certain victory had been changed to a hopeless defeat. His remaining supporters, mostly the SpecOps elites that had originally taken the bridge, began preparing for what would be their last battle. He looked up from the display and activated his energy sword.

"My lord," one of the elites said, "reinforcements have arrived!"

'Calasee perked up. "Who?"

"It appears that there are twenty more SpecOps warriors on approach."

'Calasee looked at the entrance to the bridge, where storage containers had been stacked in front of the entrance following the destruction of the door. "Remove the barricade!" he shouted.

Four elites pushed the containers out of the way. Moments later, a spiderweb of green trails from carbines streaked into the bridge as Motak 'Harlamee's SpecOps squad opened fire. 'Harlamee and 'Zamamee entered the bridge first, and 'Calasee stared at them in utter shock. Plasma swords exploded to life across the bridge as SpecOps warriors poured through the open door. Yayap cowered in the hall outside the bridge, out of the line of fire as elites rushed by. A SpecOps mutineer raised a beam rifle and took off the head of one of 'Harlamee's warriors before the Fieldmaster's plasma sword returned the favor. 'Zamamee slashed his sword through the chest of another SpecOps mutineer, who fell to the deck with his plasma rifle still firing. Shipmaster Veli 'Calasee leapt down off of the commander's platform and decapitated a minor Separatist who was shooting the body of one of 'Calasee's own, then turned to face the Fieldmaster when another SpecOps warrior brought his plasma rifle on the back of the shipmaster's head, knocking him unconscious.

The remaining mutineers put up a valiant fight, but the last of them went down shooting exactly one minute after the first elite entered the room.

"The ship is ours," 'Zamamee said. A fierce war cry exploded out of the warriors in the room, echoing in the confines of the bridge. 'Harlamee sat down at the communications console and directed a message to the nearest MAC station.

# # # # # # #

Hood was surprised to see a black-armored SpecOps Fieldmaster appear on his console.

"The vessel is secured, Admiral," 'Harlamee said. "You may call off your fleet."

"Sir," an ensign said, "we are no longer reading small-arms fire on board the Separatist flagship. It's over."

"Send the word for all MAC stations to stand down," Hood said. He could barely conceal his smile. After so much doubt, the alliance had won. Perhaps it would work, after all.

# # # # # # #

Fieldmaster Motak 'Harlamee leaned back in the chair and sighed. The lives of many civilians had been saved, and a great threat to the alliance had been eliminated. Veli 'Calasee stirred on the deck, and instantly a dozen weapons were trained on him.

"Stay down, heretic," 'Zamamee said, placing a hoof on the shipmaster's back. 'Calasee glared and placed a hand on his aching head. 'Harlamee returned his attention to the comm board. A blip appeared on the display. The Fleetmaster had arrived.

# # # # # # #

Fleetmaster Aya 'Daulanee stepped out of the Albatross first, pausing for a moment as he took in the situation. On the ground floor of the massive hangar bay, he could see stains from the blood of dead Unggoy and Sangheili, and on the deck before him a firing squad of three SpecOps elites stood at ready with their carbines raised. 'Daulanee approached to see who was to be executed, and came face to face with the Ship Master of the Unfaltering Resolve. SpecOps leader Zuka 'Zamamee stepped between the Fleetmaster and the firing squad.

"There was a mutiny on board the Pious Inquisitor following the announcement of alliance with the humans," 'Zamamee said, "but through some great effort, it has been quelled."

'Daulanee's heart sank. "How many civilians were killed?"

"None, my lord. Both sides took care to evacuate females and children before the conflict began. The Ship Master you see before you now was the leader of the mutineers."

"Filthy traitors!" the Ship Master shouted. "May you be banished to the pit!"

"Be silent," 'Daulanee said. 'Calasee growled.

"How, might I ask, was he released from captivity?" the Arbiter asked. "Was he not confined to a heavily guarded room?"

"The movement began beyond his influence," 'Zamamee said, "but without leadership. Two Honor Guards were slain by the mutineers and the prisoner freed. I assume that they were looking for his guidance. The mutineers captured the ship's primary armory, but there was an accident in which the ship's supply of plasma grenades was detonated, destroying the armory and killing the majority of the mutineers. It is believed that a careless grunt is to blame."

'Daulanee shook his head. Was there no limit to the Unggoy's foolishness? For once, it seemed to have paid off, but at some price to the ship. "How much structural damage was there as a result of the explosion?"

"Some. The hull was breached in one area, but the ship is holding pressure. It should still be capable of travelling in the alternate space. Fortunately, High Councillors 'Kyrona and 'Ornala both survived the fray."

The Fleetmaster looked back at the other passengers of the Albatross. The Arbiter, 'Silnumee, and Haskins now stood behind him, but the pilot was watching from the cockpit in a sense of giddy horror.

"Shall the prisoner be executed?" 'Zamamee asked.

'Daulanee looked one last time at the Ship Master. Surprisingly, the Ship Master showed no anger, only... fear.

'Daulanee gave a quick nod to 'Zamamee, who barked an order to the firing squad. The three SpecOps elites fired their carbines simultaneously, two rounds entering the Ship Master's chest and one more entering his head. The pilot's eyes widened as he watched the Shipmaster flop to the ground lifelessly. He couldn't wait to leave the ship behind. The elites left the hangar bay, taking Haskins with them.

May God have mercy on his soul, the pilot thought. The hangar bay depressurized, expelling Veli 'Calasee's body into space as the Albatross retreated into the inky darkness.

# # # # # # #

The air was warm, but not uncomfortably so. A light breeze blew in off of the sea, but lacked the salty smell of an ocean. This water was fresh.

Pulo 'Arlonee stood on a grassy embankment overlooking a glassy bay. Waves lapped at the rocks twenty feet below, and exotic birds could be seen circling above the water. His home was perched on the edge of the embankment, with a small gravlift leading from a boat dock directly into the house. A few small boats were in the bay, sleek craft that swept along silently and left almost no wake behind them. The place was tranquil... serene...

Hearing a whirring noise, 'Arlonee looked up and noticed two toy banshees dogfighting above the bay. Down the bank he saw his son and another Sangheili child operating the remote controls and taunting each other...

Sangheili? It's ELITES! This is fake! Get out of my head! STOP IT!

The bay vanished, once again replaced with the murky sludge of frozen time. The Flood was playing tricks, showing Scalita memories that weren't his own, softening his resolve.

My name is Corporal Tony Scalita, nothing else. I've got to stay strong. I can't let the Flood pull this world over my eyes, can't let them blind me from the truth.

What truth? I'm probably a stinky brown blob of tissue on the floor somewhere.

Can't let go...

The alternative to the visions was this horrible gray nothingness. Through resistance he consigned himself to exile, to a world he couldn't smell or see or touch. Here, all was lukewarm. Here, he felt nothing at all. It was enough to drive any man insane...

Why do you resist?

It wasn't a voice, more like a thought popping into his mind without him thinking it. Thought rippling through the mist.

This isn't real.

It is as real as you allow it to be.

Another place began to appear. A playground. He recognized several of his childhood friends there. They were crawling around on the monkey bars, pretending to be soldiers on an obstacle course. Suddenly, the memory was violently ripped away from him, shredded to nothing before his eyes and discarded forever by a consciousness that was not his own. Scalita reeled in anguish as the Flood tore away that piece of him. Slowly his thoughts reorganized, recovering from the punishment.

The more you fight us, the Flood said, the greater the damage will be.

Why are you doing this? What do you want?

What we want is of no consequence. We have the power to give you a thousand lives to live on a thousand worlds... or to revoke both life and mind, piece by piece. The choice is yours to make... if exile is what you truly desire, we shall give it to you.

The presence began to withdraw, leaving Scalita's mind isolated in the icy gray nothingness.

Wait! Come back!

Scalita's resolve weakened and the void receded. He felt the presence in his mind again of the Collective, and another world appeared to him; a mountain range overlooking a forest of spruce trees. Scalita let the warmth of the illusion absorb him. He had nothing to gain by fighting it anymore.

And giving in was so sweet.

While Scalita immersed himself in the memories of another mind, others probed deeper into his, seeking the one piece of information that they needed from him. They found it. While this information proved useless, the Flood was not discouraged. There were more now, tens of thousands to search... and billions more to find.