Slowly, the submarine slipped back beneath the grey waters of the Arctic. Having collected Alyx, D-9 and the Resistance observation team, the vessel was now heading back to Kraken Base.
From his position atop an iceberg several kilometres from the Borealis, a Combine Sniper watched the rippling water at the base of the iceberg. Satisfied that the Resistance had left, the soldier keyed his radio.
"City 13, this is Observance Team 3."
"Go ahead, Team 3."
The soldier brought up an image window on his helmet computer, cycling around until he found a picture of the foredeck of the Borealis. Rapid blinking with his left eye applied colour filters and zoomed the image in on a white-suited figure on the deck, surrounded by Resistance members.
"Requesting City 13 Personnel Database search."
"Granted. Unit A-45 cleared to access records."
"Search...Unit D-9, Elite designation."
There was a burst of static on the line as the Personnel Computer cycled through the Combine archives.
"Match found. Unit D-9 deserviced, cause of death unknown."
The soldier's brows furrowed under his Overwatch helmet. An error?
"Unit A-45 reports database error. Unit D-9 online, in Anticitizen captivity."
Despite Gordon's protests, the medics had insisted that Alyx be placed in the submarine's infirmary for the duration of the journey, for treatment of her original wound, as well as hypothermia and burns to her hands. The supposedly rogue Combine had been shut away in the forward cargo compartment, under armed guard.
Gordon exhaled deeply, and continued his pacing of the submarine deck. He felt strange, almost naked without the familiar bulk of his Hazard Suit, and it was comforting to be behind at least some kind of metal skin. The thought brought a smirk to his face. The world beating, alien decimating Freeman needed a security blanket, albeit a steel one. Cute.
Something was still nagging him, though. That conversation with the crewman on the Aurora. The disappearances of the crew, the strange lights, the ship having supposedly shifted over a period of weeks. What was that all about, and why had they not seen anything like that while they were onboard?
The goal was in sight now. The Xen Grunt, blood still pouring from the wound in its chest, dragged itself through the silent corridors of the Borealis. Packing the hole with ice had done little to stop the bleeding, and death now looked inevitable. Yet this had not changed the parameters of the mission, only given them a new urgency. In his clawed fist was clutched a rectangular parcel, swathed in strips of clothing torn from past human meals. The Key must be fitted to the Lock, it had been told. The Key must be turned, like it was for the brown haired woman and her companions only those few weeks ago. Fit the Key. Complete the task.
The Grunt stumbled into the hold, fragments of shattered crystal crackling under its hooves. Slowly, it unwrapped the cloth from the package, revealing a long box constructed from porous stone. Inside, nestled in impact absorbing jelly, was another Xen crystal, one that still glowed with the purpl flames of the Borderworld. Absorbed by its beauty, the Grunt briefly forgot his pain, and with a mighty effort slotted the crystal into the drive receptacle. Then, satisfied that the crystal was safe, the Grunt leaned back against the receptacle, emitted one last, rattling breath, then expired.
The Key had been fitted to the Lock. Now it had to be turned.