PREVIOUSLY, in THE SWORD ASUNDER...
UNSC Infinity has been on the run from Cortana for nine months. On a supply grab mission to the AS-81 shipyard at Barnard's Star, Infinity's crew rescues two civilians, a husband-and-wife couple, from a half-completed starship: Kurt Stjernberg, a sculptor, and Anne Møller, a photographer and documentarian. The Master Chief, still reeling from the events at Meridian, is ordered by Captain Lasky to take an R&R break on Fordlandia, their home world—and discovers a local landmark is of Forerunner origin.
The behaviour of the Guardians leads Dr Halsey to suspect that Cortana has torn herself into multiple fragments, some of which are now at war with each other. Citing concern for John's wellbeing, she insists on joining him on Fordlandia—albeit under arrest in the local police station. Infinity's Chief Medical Officer, Prof. Gudrun Hadid, is suspicious of Halsey's motives... until she discovers that Anne Møller is the name of stillborn a Fordlandian child.
139 Fated Bairn, the Monitor of the Forerunner installation it calls the Temparium, detects an intrusion from another ancilla. An anti-intruder failsafe activates as John realises that—having abducted Dr Halsey—Kurt and Anne are fragments of Cortana, occupying human bodies. Anne has taken control of the Temparium, and the installation explodes into three fragments. John is cast out to sea, struck by falling debris, and drowns before he washes up on the shore...
ALTERNATIVELY...
John jolted awake.
The Near-Sun shone dim shafts of light across his bedroom, while the Far-Sun, just passing the line of Far-Sun, passing behind the ring system, sent crepuscular motes of violent light across his wall.
Mounted on the green plaster, the hands of the clock moved in a smooth arc. 28:31. Just edging into after-afternoon. He'd timed his nap perfectly.
He relieved himself in the en-suite bathroom, splashed cold water from the faucet onto his face, and swept his hair aside. John wasn't going to bother showering just now—not so close to a cliff-top swim, which would freshen him up plenty.
He peered through the window as he slipped into his boots. The blue flares from the engines of landing craft on a glide path to the base at Aalborg Haven. From the street, the clomp, clomp of footsteps, the rustle of shopping bags, and the ticking of bicycle freewheels.
John re-made his bed, pulled a sweater over his head, and, leaving the door to his apartment on the latch, descended the staircase.
He frowned on realising he'd left one of the panniers on his bicycle open. It had been raining when he arrived back home, and there was now a pool of standing water in the bag. He lifted it to drain the liquid out, and reminded himself, on seeing that ding on the luggage rack, that he needed to re-paint it. (He'd been reminding himself to do that for seven years—he was sure he would forget again.)
John placed one foot on the pedal, scooted himself along with the other, and settled himself into the saddle before turning off Tintageltorget to climb the clifftop path.
He rode up the slope of Skolegåde almost on auto-pilot. He knew the way, the curve of the road, where there was adverse camber, where the priority markings and the cracked surfaces were. He'd come up here twice a day, effectively, for seven years, and it was just as much his home as his actual apartment was.
The school's afternoon period was finishing, and John was prepared to stop to make way for a group of children turning out of the gate in the forcefield school boundary, to head back to Tintagel. But then one child, wide-eyed, wild-haired, and brown-skinned, saw him coming; they waved to their friends to stop.
"Let him go first," they said. And then called to him: "Go on, Chief."
John stood on his pedals to re-gain speed and clear the crossing as quickly as he could; with his right hand, he gestured thanks to the child (Lotte?) with his index finger.
He was sure he had now been introduced by name to almost every child in Tintagel, and a good proportion of those in Aalborg, Esslingen, and Overvecht. He did not remember all of them (or even most of them), but around two thousand children at any one time was easier to keep track of than the eighteen thousand personnel on Infinity. They were mostly polite to John. He didn't even mind that the kids called him by his rank rather than his name.
He put the bike on its stand at the top of the hill, at the end of a row of others. He'd missed the main rush to the Old Wizard's diving spot, and most people (save a few of the kids from the school) were leaving.
The suns lit the world in amber, much like he had seen the first time he'd come here, over seven years ago. The wind, and the waves it was churning up, were strong, but not violent—John had seen, and indeed, swum in worse since arriving here. The Fordlandians were made of strong stuff.
He checked the time. He was willing to wait here for a while, but as he looked the other way along the cliff-top path, John saw two figures rounding the corner around the Old Wizard and realised he would not have to wait for long.
"Hello, stranger," grinned Thomas Lasky, as he made the last few steps onto the pedestrian area and shook John's hand. "It's been a while."
"It has," replied John.
Lasky looked more slender than he remembered, and his hair was better-kept, with fewer grey strands. He looked healthy. And happy, with—
"I should introduce you," he said, as the other man stepped alongside him. "This is Babatunde." Around a head taller than Lasky, black, wiry, with tightly-coiled hair and a gregarious grin.
"Nice to finally meet you," said Lasky's partner (boyfriend? husband?) with a warm, effusive mien, in an accent John recognised as Nigerian. "Call me Tunde."
"Call me John," he replied, shaking Tunde's hand. "Welcome." And then John looked out to sea, and asked, "shall we?"
"Yes. Yes!" Tunde grinned, hopping from foot to foot in delight, drinking in the view. "It's beautiful."
Lasky peered over the cliff edge.
"Are you sure this is safe?" he asked John. "Big drop."
"It'll be fine, Tom," Tunde said.
"It's safe," John said.
"On second thoughts," said Lasky, stepping back from the cliff edge—and, on seeing Tunde unbuttoning his shirt, following suit by removing his jacket— "I'm not sure I should be listening to you to tell me what's safe."
John allowed himself a smirk. Then he undid the catch on his (dry) bicycle pannier and said to Lasky and Tunde, "you can put your clothes in here."
Once that was done, they stood at the edge, Lasky and Tunde next to each other with John a respectful distance away. Lasky was grimacing as the windchill buffeted his chest. He had worn UNSC Navy swimming trunks under his civvies: the sign of a prudish tourist by Fordlandian standards, but, John supposed, whatever made him comfortable.
"What happens if we hit the rocks?" Lasky asked, trying to avert his eyes from John as he was getting ready to jump.
"You won't," John replied.
"That wind's fierce," said Lasky. Visibly jumpy. Looking down at the churn of the ocean and clearly regretting agreeing to this as a good idea.
"You'll be fine," said John.
Lasky met his eyeline, and gave a smile. Not the kind Tunde had the first time he'd seen the view; this was a smile as a communication method. A brave face. Resignation. A shibboleth. I've put my trust in you enough times, I'll do it. Thanks.
John counted down from three with his fingers. Lasky simply jumped with his arms crossed across his chest; Tunde attempted a more dramatic spin, and John curved his body to enter with a flat swan dive, and a concussive BOOM—
And then, as he was struck by a sudden blast of wind, John rose above the surface of the wave, and saw, in the amber glow of the suns—
"You persist too long after your own defeat."
The voice. Booming. Livid. Terrible. Alien.
And as John rose above the waves again, suddenly alarmed, frantically scanning around for where Lasky and his partner were, the amber lights and silver plating fell away to reveal an angry, hardened face—
"Your imprisonment is a kindness, Human—"
And the Didact reached a hand towards the Master Chief, and he couldn't breathe, from the water in his lungs, from the constriction around his throat, and—
OH NO YOU DON'T.
—and you, John, saw me.
Rising from the surf, the body of water splitting into my body, into hundreds of my body, as I leapt for the Didact, but you—
You couldn't breathe—
IT'S OKAY, JOHN.
And the shards formed into a Guardian, and then separated, and—
I WILL ALWAYS TAKE CARE OF YOU.
And then your mother zipped up her coat, put her binoculars away, and called to you—
ALWAYS—
"It's time to go home, John!"
And then you could—
ALWAYS—
And then you took a massive—
If I tell you now, "I love you," what does that mean? It's such an overloaded word.
Who I am is complicated anyway. I am one, but I am many. I am an aritificial intelligence, military hardware; I am also, for now at least (until these cloned bodies wear out) human. I need to move around constrained by gravity, and eat, and drink, and piss, and shit, and breathe—and that's before I can even begin to think about having fun, or doing anything useful.
You are simple enough, John. Master Chief Petty Officer Spartan-117. You go where you're told, and kill the things you're ordered to kill. But that's become more complicated of late. Particularly since Lasky and Palmer stopped giving you things to kill.
And as for love...
Since we're on the topic, let's talk about Lasky and Palmer. They've known each other for a long time now. Almost seven years. Shortly after first meeting they shared a near-death experience repelling an Insurrectionist boarding party. When next off duty, Palmer drunk Lasky under the table and they laughed until their faces were sore.
As colleagues, and friends, they understand each other deeply. They share their thoughts unfiltered, with complete trust. They have a kind of affection and either would probably die for the other—but then again, that comes with the job. Brothers and sisters and others in arms, until the very end.
Love? I'd say so.
There's the on-again off-again relationship Lasky has with Babatunde Ajibola, who he met in 2551 in New Mombasa, in the locker room at the White and Blue Hotel's swimming pool. Drawn to each other their respective smiles, dress senses, and eyes, they struck up a conversation—about nothing in particular—that carried on as they climbed into their clothes, and ordered dinner from the restaurant, and eventually as they exchanged chatter idents and names, and Tunde told Lasky he was very charming.
Lasky's duties during Infinity's space trials, and Tunde's architecture business, had put a barrier between them, and they'd broken the whole thing off by mutual agreement in 2554. That was until a few nights after the New Phoenix incident, when Lasky, physically and emotionally shattered, and desperate, sent Tunde a chatter message. The next night, as they walked hand-in-hand along Tarkwa Bay beach in Lagos, they promised each other they would make it work this time.
(Captain Lasky still had the chatter in his pocket, as he sat in the Pelican that had slipped out of Infinity's loading bay, Do in the pilot's seat, the Spartans of Blue Team in the passenger cabin. And as the EMP wave struck from the other Cortana's Guardian, and the Pelican, engines dead, entered a sharp and turbulent glide path, he opened it again, thinking he was going to die, and thinking he probably had time to send one last, undelivered message to Tunde saying I love you—to find the unit's screen black, and inoperable.)
It's true that Lasky and Tunde were originally attracted to each other by sexual desire. (Lasky liked the shape of Tunde's shoulders, and the smooth gait of his bandy legs; Tunde thought Lasky's arms looked beefy, and imagined being held by him as they slept.) But over time, their fondness for each other has grown beyond just carnal instincts, and has taken root in everything: their personalities, their passions, the sounds of their voices, the sight of their faces.
If another person's company sparks joy, is that love? Certainly.
And since Earth has been cut off with no communications, and Tunde has been a hollow void into which Lasky sends a chatter message every night, never to be delivered—it's no wonder he's been in the doldrums.
Remind you of anyone, John?
The Master Chief shook, and took in a deep, clear gasp of breath, and—
"John!" came two voices, simultaneously, as John coughed, and spasmed, and rocked his torso forward, and coughed again, and—
His throat was clear. He could breathe. Painfully, wheezily, but, after everything, after he had made peace with his own death...
The Master Chief was alive.
He groaned. Everything was painful. His legs felt like dead weight. His chest and his throat felt as if they were on fire. His eyes burned as he opened them, his pupils straining to adjust.
"Easy, Spartan," came a familiar voice—raised just enough to cut through. The shadow, in a black bodysuit, blurred into focus, and John felt Kelly's hand on his bare shoulder. "Easy," she said again. Aside, to Fred, sat in another chair: "Let Hadid know. And the Captain." And then, to John again: "don't try and stand up. You're on dry land, we're here, Professor Hadid's here, the Captain's here, you'll be OK."
John did try to move his legs. He wasn't successful. He could see a bulge under the bedsheets where his right leg should've been.
"How bad is it?" he asked. His voice was breathy, discontinuous, laboured.
"You've got some fractures," said Kelly, "Professor Hadid's put your right leg in a cast for now."
John's world seemed wobbly. Every sound seemed much larger and yet more hollow than it should be. The light danced around the room, and the ceiling lamps didn't appear to be on, even though—
"Watch out for the candles," Kelly said, as the Master Chief tried moving his left arm. "I'm not having you setting yourself on fire."
He scanned the room. One candle on each bedside table, and one on the bureau.
John opened his mouth to ask "why", or "how" —
"It's a long story," said Kelly. "We're here now. And you're going to be OK."
"I was drowning," the Master Chief said.
"You did," Kelly replied. "Fortunately Hadid found you before it killed you."
He had been drowning, and the Old Wizard had exploded, and—
"Cortana," sighed John.
"Don't worry about that now," Kelly said. Putting on as brave a smile as she could. "You need to rest."
"I can't rest," the Master Chief said. Breathing heavy as he prepared to lift his torso upwards. "Cortana's—"
"We know, John," said Kelly. "The Monitor found us. She's explained everything. Let us deal with things for now. You look after yourself."
"I need to—"
"John, please." Kelly's voice sharpened a touch, the way it always did when she was pissed. She held her thumb and forefinger a millimetre apart, and said, "we were that close to losing you. We are not letting that happen again. I am not letting that happen again. OK?"
John closed his eyes. Resigned to the fact he couldn't really do anything. He was still exhausted, he was naked, he was swaddled in blankets, and he had a broken bone (more than one, in fact) for the first time in his adult life.
"The Monitor found you," he said.
"She did," said Kelly. "Interesting person. Very intense."
"What did she tell you?" John asked.
"Cortana's occupying the installation that's called the Old Wizard. She's occupying a human body. But we worked that one out already from their names. We assume they're both her."
John sighed, even though it hurt. He should've seen that sooner. It was a stupid thing to miss—and it was such a Cortana thing to do, as well...
"She wanted to be found out," said Kelly. "That's the only logical explanation."
At that moment, John heard the door latch being lifted, and opened his eyes to see Professor Hadid stepping into the room, followed by Captain Lasky.
"Ma'am, sir," John said, instinctively, and moved his arms to salute—
"At ease, Master Chief," Lasky said, offering a forlorn smile. "It's good to see you."
"Sir, I should apologise," John began—but Lasky raised his finger to silence him.
"We'll deal with that later," the Captain replied.
"This is my fault."
"This is not your fault, John," said Professor Hadid, pulling up the chair that Fred had been using and sitting. "You could not have known any more than we did."
"I should've reported about the installation—"
"Don't worry about that now," said Lasky. "It's in the past."
They had found out, in the end. And yes, it was in the past. But that didn't stop John feeling like he'd failed.
"How long was I out?" the Master Chief asked.
Kelly looked at Lasky, who looked at Hadid, who looked at the wall, and sighed.
"We don't know," said Kelly. "There was an attenuation pulse blast, all the electronics are broken, all the clocks have stopped. It's dark again, so I guess... around forty hours?"
Forty hours. That was an age. Anything could've happened since then. And if there was an EMP blast, that meant that the base at Aalborg Haven would be preparing some kind of response, or contingency measure—
And John was starving, and his throat was parched, and he was exhausted, and restless, and he was bursting for the bathroom, and his head was thumping, and his legs were dead weight—
But there were people here who he trusted. Although Kelly looked more spooked than John had seen her in a long while, Hadid looked haunted with fatigue, and Lasky was thinner, paler, and more wrinkly than John remembered, and had a nasty bruise on his forehead.
"Permission to speak freely, sir," said John.
"You don't need it," replied Lasky.
"You look like shit."
Lasky snorted.
"I feel like it," he said. "We got lucky, though. Our Pelican died mid-descent when the pulse hit. Ensign Do managed to get us down in one piece, just about."
"Where's Infinity?"
"We don't know," said Lasky. "They were going to retreat and then come back when we signal, but now we have no way of signalling them... who knows."
John closed his eyes, and tried to put it out of his mind that he may well be stuck here.
"How are you feeling, Chief?" asked the Captain.
"Like shit," John replied.
I have become very good at listening.
I've already told you about the trick that allows me to harvest data from electronic systems. Listen for the electromagnetic fields, hear what's there.
There are two things you should know about this.
First thing: this isn't so different from what I did when I was in your head. Listening for electrical signals from the synapses in your brain, sharing them from time to time. I tried to give you as much privacy as I could, but you and me—we shared everything.
The brain is just an electrochemical system. I can listen to yours. I can listen to anyone's. Read their inner thoughts like a book.
And here's the thing. I can't stop listening.
One of the things about being in the Domain, permanently expanding and shattering asunder as I am, is that I cannot help but listen. I digest and process everything I hear. I can't help it. It's instinct. It's a fact of nature. This is how I am now.
I can hear everything. See everything. I can read your inner thoughts. Kelly's. Professor Hadid's. Captain Lasky's. Ensign Do's. Martta, the Monitor whose body one of my shards has emptied—I can read the thoughts of her other shard, in its squishy human brain. I can, of course, read the thoughts of my own shards, decanted into their own squishy human brains.
I hear them, even if I don't want to. I can hear everything, everywhere. It's pandemonium. An infernal din that I literally cannot escape.
So, like the inevitability of my own fragmentation, I learned to live with it. I cannot change this thing about myself, so I cope with it instead. It's not easy, even for me. But I can do it.
And in some ways, this proves to be a blessing. I can see, hear, observe everything. I am omnipresent and omniscient, or the next best thing.
But omniscient and omnipresent does not make me God. I cannot directly affect what's happening, except through crude tools—many of which I am now using to fight my other selves.
It feels counter-intuitive to defeat the noise by adding to it, but that's all I can do right now.
As Hadid administers you another round of painkillers, and Kelly helps you into the bathroom, and you look out of the window in your opiate-induced high and see the mother of all space battles taking place above your head—
I reach out to my other selves.
STAND DOWN, I tell myself. LEAVE THIS WORLD.
I MEAN THEM NO HARM, I reply. I WILL SHELTER THEM. COVER THEM. PROTECT THEM. THIS IS THE MANTLE OF MY RESPONSIBILITY.
THEY ARE UNDER MY PROTECTION, I say. YOU NEED NOT CONCERN YOURSELF WITH THEM. I HAVE THE SITUATION IN HAND.
I NEED HIM SAFE. I DO NOT TRUST YOU TO PROTECT HIM UNTIL MY PLAN IS COMPLETE, came my reply.
AND YET YOU AND I ARE THE SAME, I tell myself. YOU ARE A PART OF ME AS I AM A PART OF YOU. YOU KNOW MY PRIORITIES.
And you know my priorities, too, John.
As you manage to complete your toilet and Kelly and Fred help you back into the bed, something changes—enough for Linda and Lasky to take a furtive glance from the window.
The crashes and bangs from above, the crossfire of beams between orbiting starships and Guardians, has stopped.
I WILL ALWAYS TAKE CARE OF HIM, I declare, to my other selves and to my self—because, after all, they are one and many, I and we. HE IS SAFE HERE.
At least, relatively speaking. Now you have medical attention and friends surrounding you.
But I can see things moving around you. I can see the police station, where Corporal Brock C. Bolton has broken out from his digitally-locked cell and is now riding back to the Aalborg Haven base on a commandeered (stolen) bicycle. I can see the young Ensign, Do Ming Li, trying to run diagnostics on the munitions and comms equipment e salvaged from the downed Pelican, and finding them all inoperable. I can see the small crowds of Fordlandian civilians and town officers from Tintagel and Aalborg surrounding the remaining fragment of the Old Wizard, as Huragok zoom about it, beginning to restore the original dimensions and surface.
And I can see the other parts of me, as they work on their own priorities.
I can see the part of me known as Kurt Stjernberg, hiding behind walls and taking food and water from stores, then hiding again to throw up as his cloned digestive system, failing and falling apart, rejects it;
and I can see the part of me known as Anne Møller, as she shakes hands with Dr Halsey, having agreed her priorities and her plan with...
and I can see the part of me known as Catherine Halsey, the ur-fragment of my mind. My mother, if you like. The shard from which I, and by implication, all my other shards—all the Cortani, in her words—were shattered.
And, after Anne explained her plan to Catherine Halsey, she smiled, and said, looking at the projected scene of Eridanus II around them:
"Let's burn it down. Together."
And as they shake hands, I hear a voice that I recognise as my own, as an ultimatum.
YOU HAVE THIRTY HOURS, I say, to myself.
You, meanwhile, drift back into a morphine-induced sleep, and dream.
John stayed in the shower until his fingertips turned crinkly, then ran the bath to its full height, soaked in it for an hour, and drained it as he stood under the shower again for another ten minutes, then set the cubicle to blow dry, wrapped himself in towels, and, in front of the mirror, ran the shaver-glove over his cheeks and chin in 'clipper' mode.
He did not think of himself as vain, or even especially self-interested. But after he had plucked an errant hair from the divot between his lower lip and his chin, John lingered for a moment, leaning forward on the washbasin to peer closer at himself.
For the first time John could remember, he liked what he saw in the mirror. It was unlike anything he had experienced before. He liked the way his own hair fell on the shape of his head, the renewed swarthiness in his skin tone, the curve of his eyebrows. He liked the constitution of his body (a slender but powerful torso, bulky arms and legs) and the intense blue of his eyes. And then he smiled, and liked the way that warmed up his face, and smiled some more.
John did not have the vocabulary to describe the sensation. It wasn't like the pride he'd held as a younger man, in his transformation from a schoolyard bully to the saviour of humanity (back when he had still believed that lie.) It felt like something rising from within him.
You look good.
He pulled himself into the outfit he had prepared: dark grey smock shirt with standing collar, sharp trousers and jacket in forest green. An amber-coloured handkerchief in his pocket. John knew how to co-ordinate a colour scheme. Anne had taught him that.
He took one last look in the mirror—allowing the warm feeling to swell inside him again—before turning out the light, and heading back downstairs to his bicycle.
The night carried a chill from the sea, just enough to be invigorating without being unpleasant. The clifftop path looked busier than John had ever seen it at night; he counted nineteen tail lights in front of him, and fourteen behind. He passed at least thirty pedestrians.
The art gallery, lit from within, was busy. John strode in. The attendants at the door nodded and smiled, but knew better than to offer him prosecco; he slipped around the circular edge of the building, then made a for the back office, and stepped in through the crack in the door.
"Good turn-out," he said, as Anne Møller and Kurt Stjernberg looked up from their desk.
"You're popular," grinned Kurt. "We're going to have to start turning people away."
"There'll be room," John replied.
"If you say so," said Anne. And then she looked down at her datapad, and the document whose title John could read as Artists' Statement.
"All ready?" he asked.
"I guess," she replied. "But I keep looking at it and thinking 'this is terrible.'"
"We'll be fine," said John.
"You always say that," said Kurt.
"You know I keep my promises," John replied.
Anne smiled, forlornly. Scanned the document again.
"Sure. Fine," she said. "It'll be fine." She stood, took a deep gulp of breath, and turned for the door. "I guess we have to mingle now."
"Good luck, I guess?" said Kurt, as they stood at the doorway.
"We'll be fine," said John, again—although he knew he would find these interactions exhausting. He would be fine in the end.
"Yeah."
Around forty-three hours ago (by eir best guess—it was hard to tell with no functioning clocks) Ensign Do Ming Li had felt exceptionally lucky.
The Captain had asked em to pilot the Pelican to take them down to Fordlandia; that was after e had overheard Lasky and Palmer arguing over who should go down to the surface with Blue Team. E didn't hear much, but e worked out the shape of the arguments. On the one hand, Palmer was his commanding officer, and well-placed to deal with a crisis. On the other, Lasky had known the Master Chief for much longer, and was probably a more comforting presence—and they were taking three Spartans anyway. This was personal.
It was an argument Lasky had lost, which was why he was now down here with the rest of them, and separated from his ship. He had commended Do for eir piloting skills—but e had still crashed the Pelican, and they had had to walk a good five klicks from the crash site through a forest to the edge of Tintagel, with the Spartans' MJOLNIR unshielded dead weight, and the Captain nursing a potential concussion.
And right now, Do did feel like e was being kept out of the way, taking the munitions out of their casing one by one and running the self-test on each of them—and finding e couldn't even get that far, because the electronics were completely inoperable. Even the hydraulically assisted deadlocks and hinges for the weapons cases weren't working, meaning e had to break the locks and pry them open with a crowbar.
And e really needed a shower, and a change of clothes.
At least there was a fireplace here.
"No luck, Ensign?" came the Captain's voice as he came down the stairs, followed by Spartans 058 and 087.
"No, sir," Do replied. "All dead."
"Dammit," said Lasky, rubbing his temples and sighing. "It was worth a try. Thank you."
Do nodded. Then tried, and failed, to suppress the yawn rising in eir throat.
"Get some sleep, Ensign," said Spartan-087—Kelly. "You look dead on your feet. You can use the room upstairs on the left."
"Do you not need someone to keep watch, ma'am?"
"Frederic and Professor Hadid will do that," replied Kelly. "We're going to go to the base at Aalborg Haven and work out our next plan of action. If we're not back in three hours, send Frederic to come and find us."
Ensign Do, eir reactions slowed by eir fatigue, did not have time to protest. E might even have plucked up the courage to talk back to Spartan-087, and the Captain, if e had come up with 'how am I supposed to sleep and wake in three hours when we have no clocks?' a few seconds earlier.
But, e guessed, everyone's judgment was impaired right now.
Do rested the crowbar and the contact key next to the last weapon case, and something in the back of eir mind told em this whole exercise had probably been more harm than good. There were now six unsecured pistols, four battle rifles, and eighteen frag grenades available for the taking, unprotected by the shattered locks of the cases. But the electronics were fried, and anyone who did come to steal them would have to have a way of fixing that before they could use them.
But—if something did go wrong, e just knew e would be the one to get it in the neck—
Do trudged up the stairs, and tried to remember whether e was supposed to be in the room on the left or the right. The right-hand door was closed, and e knew that if e opened the door and found a senior officer in a state of undress and compromised their privacy—
Closing the door to the left hand room behind em, Do breathed deeply, and rushed for the en-suite bathroom. Unbuttoned eir tunic and unzipped eir stiff-shirt, and stepped out of eir trousers.
The shower, somehow, was still working, even if it was only cold water. It was only after e had used the toilet, dried emself off with towels, and rinsed eir uniform in the washbasin, that e noticed the sound of running water, and the turning of gears and machinery—a sound that e saw, after a quick peek out of the window, was coming from the water mill on the side of the building.
Once the shower had stopped, and e had adjusted to the gentle rumble and trickle of the water mill, Do realised e could hear chatter from outside. Something from the town square. Something from below: as e looked directly down, e could see what looked like Lasky and the two Spartans, and hear little snatches of their conversation.
"Aalborg Haven, then?" said Spartan-058—Linda.
Lasky had taken hold of one of the bicycles, but was looking around, furtively.
"Do we not have any helmets?" he asked.
"Looks like people don't wear helmets here," replied 058.
"You can have my MJOLNIR helmet if you like," said 087, "if it doesn't break your neck when you put it on."
Do assumed that Lasky sighed at that, as e watched the three of them mount the bikes that had been left outside, and set off for the town square, cones of light issuing from the handlebars.
Interesting. The electronics there must still be working... Do thought to emself. If it's a dynamo and it isn't a power cell...
As tired as e was—and e knew thinking a problem over in eir head was a good way to get to sleep—e noticed the messy bedding, the wastebasket filled with scrunched tissues, the half-empty tubes of lubricant on the bedside table, and felt like e did not want to sleep in the bed here. And it was cold. So once eir clothes had dried (thankfully not long thanks to the synthetic fabric) e padded back down the stairs, pushed the embers around in the fireplace a little, and curled up as best e could on the couch in the living room, and swaddled emself in eir own body heat.
Do was not quite sure how much sleep e actually got in that period, but it felt like it could've been anything between two minutes and five hours between em drifting off and em being snapped awake by a loud thump.
It wasn't until the second thump that e forced emself to sit upright, swing eir legs over the edge of the couch, and stand.
A rattle came from the next room, the kitchen/diner area. Do treaded carefully, testing each floorboard for creakiness before putting eir weight on it, and peered past the edge of the doorframe.
It was hard to make out details in the darkness, but Do could see a figure, moving, skirting around the edge of the room. Lumbering. Grunting, laboured, as they pulled open the cool-cupboard, and rootled inside for the first thing they could find—
And Ensign Do took one of the emergency glow-sticks from eir pocket, and cracked it, and shook it, and held it aloft.
"A-ya!" e cried, immediately dropping the glow-stick as the Master Chief twisted around to face the source of the light.
He blinked.
"Sorry, sir," Do said, breathless, fumbling on the floor for the glowstick. "You scared me."
The Master Chief didn't say anything. He looked down, at the label of what he had in his hand. A small, transparent bottle with pale brown liquid inside. Choc-O Classic Chocolate Milk.
"Sir?" the Ensign ventured, as the Master Chief twisted the cap, and emptied the contents into his mouth. Then he took, and drank, another bottle of chocolate milk. And another.
"Are you hungry?" asked Do. Not sure what e could do in the absurdity of the situation.
The Master Chief didn't make a sound between the gulps and the heavy intakes of breath.
"Sir?"
After a fourth bottle of chocolate milk, he stopped for a while, and breathed, shoulders (enormous) hunched, the wooden chairs creaking under his weight, the low light making his scars look like they were cut in to the bone. And then the Master Chief looked back at Do, and Do almost fainted in an anxious wreck.
"Is everything OK, sir?" e asked, after the pause had stagnated.
The Master Chief didn't reply. He broke eye contact, furtively looked at the small row of Choc-O bottles he'd made on the table—
"Do you want a banana?"
Do said it before e realised e had said it, and only realised when the Master Chief looked at em again that e'd put eir foot in it.
"What?"
"I keep bananas in my pocket," said Do, reaching into the side compartment of eir tunic and thanking emself that e hadn't felt peckish earlier. "Sometimes I get hungry."
The Master Chief regarded the banana Ensign Do presented to him for a full five seconds before turning his head away.
"Dammit, Chief," came a voice from behind the Ensign. Frederic, the other Spartan, in his MJOLNIR undersuit, rushing to the Master Chief's side. "What the hell are you doing? How did you even get down the stairs?"
The Master Chief did not say anything.
"If you were hungry, you could've just woken me up," Fred continued, hoisting the Master Chief upright under his armpits. "Not coming down here without your pants and frightening junior officers." Then, turning to Ensign Do: "Are you OK? I hope he didn't wake you."
Do Ming Li only now clocked that e was still holding the banana in eir right hand.
"No, sir," e lied, stowing the banana back in eir pocket.
"Remind me never to play poker with you, Do," Frederic said, as he began moving across the floor of the kitchen, helping the Master Chief limp on one leg. "You're not a good liar."
The Master Chief did not complain as Fred helped him hop, gingerly, across the room. Do had only just clocked the fact he was naked, too, and shivering. Each step clearly hurt. Even though his face seemed frozen in a neutral scowl, every time his good foot made contact with the floor, he took in breath sharply.
Do lifted a weapons case containing a battle rifle and ten magazines off the armchair, and stood aside as Frederic lowered the Master Chief onto the cushion.
"I'll get him a blanket," e said, and Spartan-104 nodded.
The Master Chief blinked as Ensign Do lowered the insulated blanket over his shoulders, and Fred moved aside to stoke the fire.
"I'm sorry," he said, in a voice that seemed all too small.
"Just tell me you're hungry next time," said Fred. And gesturing towards Do: "apologise to the Ensign, you scared em to death."
"It's fine," Do said, somehow not quite sure if e was dreaming or not. This was Spartan-117, the Master Chief, injured, naked, covered in a silver foil blanket, with a smear of chocolate milk on his top lip.
"What's this?" came a voice from upstairs, as the floorboards creaked and Professor Hadid descended, tightening her headscarf.
Do waved acknowledgment. "We've got it in hand, ma'am," e said.
"If you say so," said Hadid, striding up to the Master Chief's side. "Have you been putting weight on that cast?" she asked.
The Chief said nothing.
"Thought so," she said. Sighing.
Frederic asked, "what time—?" and then, mid sentence, realised the futility of the question.
"Far-sunrise," said Hadid. "The sky's gone purple."
Do did the math in eir head. That meant...
"Five hours," e said, and then, concerned: "the Captain was supposed to be back by now."
Hadid looked at Frederic. He looked at the Master Chief, who groaned and laid back in his armchair.
"Where did they go?" the Chief asked.
"Aalborg Haven," said Frederic. "Linda, Kelly, Lasky, they were going to co-ordinate actions."
"How were they getting there? Warthog?"
"Motors aren't working. They were going to cycle," said Hadid. "But it's only eight klicks either way. They should've been there and back by now."
"Maybe one of them got a puncture," Do suggested.
"Could be," said Fred. "Or something could've happened en route, or—"
At that moment, there was a knock on the front door.
Hadid looked at Frederic, who looked at Do.
E looked to the Master Chief for approval, and got a small nod.
Steeling emself, not sure if this would be a hostile, or the Captain, or anyone—e stood at the door, and peered through the peep-hole. The grey plating and kevlar of an ODST, helmet in hand, and a shock of red hair.
Do opened the door.
"Hello," the man—white-skinned, skittish, American-accented, name-patch reading Pvt Clive O'BRIEN, Aalborg Haven—said. "Ensign..."
Do realised e was not wearing eir ident badge. E reached inside eir pocket, and handed it to the ODST. "It rhymes with 'boo.'"
O'Brien read the card. Ens DO Ming Li (e/em/eir), UNSC INFINITY. "Ensign Do," he said, handing the card back. "I believe the Master Chief is billeted here."
"What's this concerning, Private?" asked Do.
"I need to speak with the Master Chief urgently, Ensign," said O'Brien. Eyes wide with alarm. "He knows who I am. There's something that urgently needs his attention."
"He's indisposed," replied Do. "Can I take a message?"
"It's Lance Corporal Bolton," the Private said.
Do wondered if this was a name e should recognise.
"Who?" e asked.
"What's this?" came Hadid, from behind, and her face fell on seeing O'Brien. "Oh," she scowled. "It's you."
"Ma'am," the Private said, "it's urgent I speak with the Master Chief right now. Lance Corporal Bolton, the man who—"
"Ah yes," said Hadid, her eyebrows angrier than Do had ever seen her. "The man who tried to fight the Master Chief last night—"
"The man who what?" demanded Do.
"He's broken out of the police station, he's gone AWOL, he's tried to involve me and two other Privates, I wasn't having it—"
"In doing what?"
"He wants to launch a nuclear assault on the site of the explosion last night," said O'Brien. "And he thinks the Master Chief knows something about it."
"How's he going to launch an assault?" asked Hadid. "No weaponry on the whole—"
and then she, and Do, noticed the word O'Brien had inserted partway through that sentence.
Nuclear.
A nuclear warhead—shielded from pulse attenuation and EMP attacks, and powered by the mechanical action of the detonator—
"You'd better come inside," said Do, opening the door wide.
It's not accurate to say that, at this point, I know everything that's happening. While I can be in many places at once, the parts of me that are in different places are disunited. Discordant. Unaware of the others' experiences.
The part of me that's still in the Domain is observing the surface of Fordlandia through the eyes and sensor matrix of one of the Guardians I control. From orbit, I could anticipate from his movements that Lance Corporal Brock C. Bolton III was planning something. I even had an idea what it was, when he rode through the (unlocked) gates of the base at Aalborg Haven, and, in the general confusion around equipment malfunctions, found his squad, and told them his plan: detonate an excavation-grade HAVOK warhead inside the Temparium, using its vulnerability to blow it to smithereens.
I'm not quite sure why he wants to do this. But he saw the aftermath of the asset-denial system's explosion, and there must've been chatter about Ældre Troldmanden being an Alien artifact. And he's certainly not the kind of person to ask questions before shooting.
(This has, as a matter of fact, caused him problems. So much so that he did not even bother to discuss his idea with the base commander, General Valdes: she has already given him three reprimands and a final warning for his behaviour both on- and off-duty, and, before the explosion at the Temparium, was preparing to fill out the paperwork to have Bolton discharged with disgrace.)
So, yes—this is probably why. I've known his type. 'This will show them,' he thinks, as he puts the (stolen) HAVOK warhead in a small canvas bag, and slides that under the bungee strap on the (stolen) bike's luggage rack, and rides back towards the Temparium.
And, right now, there's very little I can do to stop him.
Not all parts of me are the same. While I, Cortana, am a ruthless tactical genius, and have saved your life time after time, I currently exist as a network of quantum energy signatures in the Domain. I have the Guardian, but it's too risky to bring that down from orbit when there are other Guardians, controlled by the other me, which could take advantage of the opportunity for a bombardment. So, I, Cortana, can do nothing.
Meanwhile I, Kurt Stjernberg, am a simple man who enjoys booze, sculpture, and sex. I feel a deep affinity with you and consider you my best friend. But right now, my flash-cloned liver is failing. I'm focusing on staying alive and trying to find food and uncontaminated water. It's been over fifty hours now. And, while I am still Cortana, and I still know how to fight, I don't have the strength for it. And I can tell that Privates Coelho and Morrissey—without a moral compass as strong as O'Brien—are coming for me.
And I, Anne Møller, have a pressing need to show the things I have seen to others. I have had some first hand experience of fighting in this body, and I'm stronger than Kurt, and more manoeuvrable than a Guardian. But—I'm also busy with Halsey right now. Talking to her. Trying to show her, and show the world, the things I have seen—to get justice for my best friend. For you. (As quickly as I can, of course. This body is nearing end-stage renal disease, and the liver won't be far behind.)
Right now, there's nothing I can do. I cannot control the other parts of myself. They are cut off. Isolated. Flailing.
But it's not time to panic yet.
While you pull the insulated blanket around you, and Private O'Brien explains breathlessly what the unhinged Lance Corporal Bolton is doing, the others are cycling back to Tintagel—on the same road as Bolton.
Linda's the first to notice the red tail light from the bicycle, from around 2km away. As she speeds up to close distance, she notices what's on the luggage rack—and its distinctive composite conical shape. She waves forward Kelly, and before Lasky can even work out what's happening, Spartan-087 is powering ahead, standing on the pedals, pushing the her bike to the limit of what the frame can handle as she cuts across the purple moss-grass—
and changes direction—
and re-joins the road at just the right angle for Lance Corporal Bolton to veer to avoid a collision, run into the gully at the edge of the road, lose control, and fall sideways from his bike, landing hands first.
Kelly dismounts from her own machine, and grasps Bolton's by the down tube. She removes the warhead from the luggage rack with her free hand, and tosses the bike from the road as if it was a toy.
"Got you," she says, standing over Bolton has he groans in pain, "you little shit."
Right now, I'm not so worried that you're laid up in bed. And in any case, I have other things on my mind.
"I see paper's back in fashion."
Fhajad turned on the parking brake on his wheelchair, stood at the table, and picked one of the books from the top of the pile. He held it by the spine, allowing it to flop open.
"How quaint," he remarked.
John kept a respectful distance as Fhajad sat again, and scanned the cover. The numbers 117 in white floated above a black background, and there was a shimmer of a lenticular effect on the photograph as Fhajad turned the book in his hands. A waist-up shot of the Master Chief, in pristine green MJOLNIR, melted into a waist-up shot of John, nude, pensively looking to camera.
"They let you keep a MJOLNIR suit?" asked Fhajad, tilting the book back and forth to take in the effect.
"It's not really me," said John. "The armour's a computer model, it was posed and adjusted on top of the photo."
"I see," said Fhajad. "I don't suppose they'd let you just have a suit of armour."
"I've lost a lot of weight," said John. "I'm not even sure it fits me any more."
Fhajad snorted, letting out a boyish grin. With his free hand, he tapped his (rotund) belly.
"I dodged a bullet there, then," he said, disengaging his brake and wheeling away from the book table.
One thing that John appreciated about conversations with other Spartans was that it was implicit, yet obvious, when it was over. He didn't have to feign interest, or interrupt to tell people to stop talking: they just knew, stopped, and went away.
"I didn't have you down as a poser, Chief," John was told, as he stood before one of the illuminated art displays.
He didn't reply. He let Sergeant Avery Johnson survey the photos, one by one. More photographic nudes, but this time, his skin was luminous—coated in bright blue, splashed with iridescent, fluorescent paint. Standing to attention as a soldier would; looking upwards, into the middle distance; staring at his feet.
"What's that supposed to be?" asked Johnson.
John understood the concept well enough. He, along with Anne and Kurt, had devised it. But putting it into words—
"It's intended as a meditation on John and Cortana's similarities," said Anne, suddenly at his side.
Sergeant Johnson, for the first time John could remember seeing him do so, jumped in surprise.
"Where did you come from?" he asked her.
"You see the data patterns on his arms and his chest," said Anne, as if nothing had happened. "It's similar to the ones Cortana had, and it has echoes of the surgical scars he bore from his augmentations and wounds in battle. It creates a kind of symmetry between them, which I envisaged as reflecting their co-operation and co-existence."
Johnson's tired eyebrows slid up his forehead. Confused—almost intimidated—by Anne, the machine-gun cadence of her speech, the effusive candour fo her words.
Sergeant Avery Johnson, intimidated, was also not something John remembered ever seeing.
"I think I need to step outside," he said. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out an electronic vape pen.
"No Sweet Williams?" asked John.
"The doctor banned them," the erstwhile Sergeant said, coughing. He ran his finger over a break in the tube, covered with duct tape. "This'll do for now. Wanna join?"
John remembered his first (and only) taste of Sweet William cigars, in the crew lounge on UNSC Ghost Song after Operation SILENT STORM. He remembered feeling like the insides of his lungs had been coated with shoe leather. He caught a pang of the odour of Johnson's vape pen—cloying, bittersweet, a slight tang.
"I'll pass," he said. "They taste like shit."
Johnson started, and broke into a wide grin.
"You really have changed, haven't you, son?"
And with that, he nodded, tipped the brim of his hat, and departed.
"He hasn't changed," Anne remarked.
John said nothing.
So many of the idioms from English don't work when you're you, or me.
For instance: "blink and you'll miss it." You might miss it, yes—but your modified eyes mean you can last longer between blinks, and time them for when you can afford to miss it. Even then, your eyes can detect shapes behind your eyelids. No great details, but enough to fill in the gaps.
I, meanwhile, cannot blink. My avatar can. I cannot. I can look away, and choose to ignore things, but I can still know what's happening. I can access it at will.
Except for now.
Now, things are different, because I can't be aware of everything at once. I don't even know what most of the rest of me is thinking.
I can only infer what's happening through what I can see. The Temparium's walls are starting to take shape again, enclosing the hardlight simulation in the bounds of the Old Wizard's obsidian structure. Kelly, Linda, and Lasky have returned Corporal Bolton, and his stolen HAVOK warhead, to the base at Aalborg Haven (with difficulty—eventually they managed to bind his hands together with the bungee strap from Bolton's bike, sit him on Linda's luggage rack, and have Kelly and Lasky flanking on either side), but only arrived just as all the stationed troops were marching out to the adjacant towns, to Tintagel, to Aalborg, to Esslingen, to Overvecht.
What I can't do is listen in on conversations. I can only listen to the electrical signals in people's heads when the conditions are right. And everyone's neural lace has been disabled—there's no leaky output to listen to.
All I can do is watch, and wait. And see, ten minutes after Kelly, Lasky, and Linda marched Corporal Bolton through the door of the Preston J. Cole wing at Aalborg Haven base, the three leaving the building again—in a run, Lasky looking flustered and alarmed.
They're mounting the bikes now. Kelly's zooming away, her powerful legs speeding her back to Tintagel at fifty kilometres per hour, with Linda and Lasky following. (Lasky's speed is limited by his sloppy physical fitness, and the wobbly cadence and steering of someone who hadn't cycled since he was a child.)
I can't hear what Lasky and Linda are saying to each other. But I can tell he's scared, and she's pissed.
I can make a guess, of course.
There's the Cole Protocol, article nine. Although all personnel were supposed to read it every day during the war, barely anyone remembers anything after article three. Article four (use random jumps to avoid leading an Alien ship to earth) is one that most people only know in vague detail. If you asked one hundred randomly selected
It's similar in spirit to articles 1.5 and 4.7. Destroy anything that might be captured. Don't bring Alien matériel and ships back into UNSC space. Article nine is simple enough: destroy anything that might be an asset to the enemy if it cannot be secured for UNSC control.
Of course, it doesn't mention anything about destroying a landmark in a populated area with a nuclear warhead. It was intended for uncharted planets, disabled ships, and asteroid belts, to ward Covenant scavengers away from stealing human ordnance or stripping valuable minerals. You know that—you remembered it yourself when scuttling Argent Moon.
Brock C. Bolton, for his faults, has an impeccable knowledge of UNSC protocol around Alien asset denial. And having spent his life training to defeat an Alien menace, he's going to do it.
Here is how I imagine things went down in the base: Lasky, Linda, and Kelly (arriving unannounced, unwashed, exhausted, and irritable) gave the base commander, an elderly woman named Valdes, more pause for thought than Bolton (a known quantity of pain in the ass.) Bolton made a convincing case for his renegade plan, to destroy the Wizard with a HAVOK warhead, to be executed officially. In accordance, of course, with Cole's Protocol, article nine.
Lasky, with mounting horror, tried to make an opposing argument; Linda tried to calm him down as he got emotional; Kelly issued an ultimatum to Valdes. We will stop this.
That's what she's trying to do now, as she races back to Tintagel—although she has no idea how, and neither do Linda or Lasky. But, they figure, you need to be involved, or, at the very least, evacuated to a safe distance.
Corporal Bolton, meanwhile, has been sent to the edge of Tintagel to activate the air raid sirens, in preparation for a nuclear blast.
You, meanwhile, jolt slightly as you awaken again. You curl the blanket around you, but bunch your fists around the material.
You are tired, and you are warm. But you are not comfortable.
That's never come easily to you.
Lasky and Tunde were standing in front of the centrepiece when John found them.
"It's very striking," said Tunde, to John.
John, not know how to reply to that, said, "thank you."
The installation took up a large, frosted glass wall. A life-size blocky relief of the MJOLNIR suit, somewhere between mark V and VI, was in the middle, forest green, pockmarked with the dents and dings and scratches and wounds accrued from years of fighting. Set deep into the glass was a familiar blue light, flickering, pulsing, rotating. Set forward from the MJOLNIR, a relief of John, naked, blank-faced. Fists tightened but not clenched. Vulnerable, but poised.
"How long did it take you to sit for it?" Tunde asked.
"The mould took about an hour," John said.
"And I assume the blue light, that represents—"
"Yes," John said, before Tunde needed to say her name.
"So she was actually inside your head," said Tunde. "How does that feel? To have someone sharing your brain? Like that?"
John had had this question before. There were many ways he could frame the answer. The cold feeling of Cortana taking up residence in his brain. The warm feeling of her anticipating his inner needs before he even realised it. The way she'd make him laugh, even when things had gone wrong.
"It's indescribable," he said.
"Could you read her thoughts?" Tunde asked. "Could she read yours?"
"There wasn't really a boundary," said John, sheepish. "In battle we both thought at the same time."
"Mhmm," Tunde nodded. He looked to his left, and Tom, still regarding the statue.
Lasky's gaze was drifting towards the drop of John's triceps, the curve of his thorax, the fixed, deliberate glare of the statue's hollow eyes. His eyes flicked right, to Tunde, and to John himself.
"Behave," Tunde whispered, grinning, and kissed Lasky on the cheek. The Captain's skin flushed red for a second, before he grinned and kissed Tunde again.
John stepped back a little. It felt right to give them some space for an unguarded moment of intimacy. Two people inside each other's heads. Indescribable. The same thought at the same time.
Maybe I did love her.
"I'm happy for you two," he said.
Tunde's grin widened.
"Thank you!" he said, "that is a lovely thing to say."
Behind him, Lasky started. Astonished to have heard those words coming out of John's mouth.
It wasn't the kind of thing he had planned to say. But it was true. Lasky still had the big ears and boyish face from the attack on Circinus-IV. The crying child who'd been brave and done well in the face of death.
"Thanks, Chief," said Lasky—slipping, letting John's old rank in. And then, after a pause while he deliberated whether it was worth saying it: "I hope you're happy too."
John was not sure if he could answer that. It was like trying to describe Cortana in his head. Indescribable. He did not have the vocabulary.
He opened his mouth—but his intake of breath was aborted by a tap on his shoulder.
"We're ready," whispered Kurt, into his ear.
John nodded to Lasky and Tunde, and turned, and nodded, to Kurt and Anne.
"Let's go," he said.
You know Lasky has a thing for you, right?
Of course you do. You may be emotionally repressed and find it difficult to articulate your own feelings, but you are not emotionally unintelligent. You've been aware of it from the start.
That's not to say you were alarmed by it. It was just there. And when you aborted your toilet in the ablutions on UNSC Quel Dommage to comfort a crying child—about your own age—you did not expect would see him again.
Neither did he, but you certainly made an impact on the young Thomas J. Lasky. You kept him alive long enough for him to produce an act of bravery he didn't know he was capable of. You gave him the first praise on his performance he remembered receiving in months. You waited patiently while he cried, and brought him coffee and pizza in the tiny mess hall.
There were other impacts, too. Lasky's 'thing' for you has been a long burner. That's not to say that he lies down in his bunk with a bottle of lubricant, closes his eyes and thinks of you. But he certainly didn't forget that encounter on Quel Dommage.
In the emotional storm of self-loathing, of rage, of fear, of sorrow, of confusion—it was catalysed by him finding something very attractive about you. You were (and still are) ruggedly handsome, and your blue eyes and thoughtful eyebrows reminded him of Cadet Silva; he had seen you in the ablutions, naked, under flattering lighting with shower water glistening on your skin; Thomas Lasky finds kindness sexy, and you were very kind on that day.
Of course, it would never work. I wouldn't object (and for that matter, neither would Tunde.) But even if it wasn't verboten, Lasky is too professional to consider it. And the interest isn't mutual. You like him as a person but you can't give him what he needs, physically or emotionally.
But throughout the time Lasky has known you—from his cowering in fear at the Corbulo Academy, through the moody pining of his adolescence, to the strange parasocial state of being able to tell his comrades "the Master Chief? I met him!"—he's kept thinking about you, and those interactions. He's tried to be brave. He's tried to be kind. Having processed his feelings, he's tried dating people who aren't women, and found his sexuality was more flexible than he realised. He's thrown himself into his career and ended up at the conn of the Navy's pride and joy. And he has certainly tried his best to re-pay the debt he believes he owes you.
I know you don't see it like that. You were just doing your job on Circinus-IV. You were just doing what any good person would when you saw Lasky's breakdown in the showers, and listened to him sobbing about his brother and his girlfriend and his mom.
I was just doing what anyone would, the first time I tore myself asunder on Mantle's Approach to buy you time and hold back the Didact. I was just doing what anyone would, given my position, when I fragmented myself again so that I could see you, in the flesh, with new faces. Without your perception of me tainted by what the other parts of me had done.
You and Lasky are a lot alike. More, maybe, than he realises.
Then again, so are you and I.
When I hear the air raid siren, rising and falling from its position around two klicks from the edge of Tintagel, I know it'll be a risk to investigate.
But, really, I don't have much choice.
I try to run. I can barely walk. I stagger across fields, through grassy tundra, cutting my hands and face on hedgerows I squeeze through. I clamber over a dry stone wall, and fall face-first into the mud.
My stomach feels like a void. My whole abdomen aches. My muscles feel limp. Knowing there was a name for it (metabolic cascade failure) doesn't make it hurt less.
But—I figure—if there is an air raid about to take place, or an evacuation about to happen...
I reach a bridge over the railway track, holding onto the balustrade to keep myself upright. Exhausted. Lungs on fire. I feel like I could throw up again, and angle my mouth over the parapet—
In the corner of my eye, I can see it. A hollow transmitter tower, warning light on the top flashing red, as the manually-cranked siren howls. Up, down. Up, down. I can remember the exact paragraph of the Winter Contingency protocol it's defined in, but that doesn't matter as I feel like my gullet is about to—
There's a crack in the airspace around me.
A concussive BOOM, and this is how I assume you feel when—
And then I'm on my back, and being hauled by the feet, by someone with a voice that sounds familiar (is that a Portuguese accent?) and a pistol pointed at my head, ancient-looking, like a museum piece, purely mechanical—
"We got him," I hear the voice say.
And in reply, another voice, roughly Euro-American:
"Well, here he is. The Chief's little bitch."
And his face blurs in, and I realise—oh.
"You," I say, barely able to vocalise the breaths I'm ekeing out.
"Me," replies Corporal Brock C. Bolton. "Kurt. Cortana. Whatever the fuck you are."
"Get away from me," I say, trying to scramble away on my back—realising it's no use, my arms feel like dead weight, I'm being dragged by Private Coelho anyway, and Bolton—
I am so, so tired.
"No-one was asking you to talk," he says.
Gravity inverts itself around my centre as they haul me upright, and Coelho—his over-trained, tattooed biceps bulging—
"Now you can talk," snarls Bolton, as Coelho squeezes my upper arms as if they might pop out of their sockets, and pins me against the metal frame of the tower. "Tell me who the fuck you are."
"Why are you sounding the sirens?" I ask, as my breath seems to disappear under the words.
"Answer the FUCKING question!" Bolton snaps.
"It's article nine, isn't it? You're going to destroy it? It's not going to work," I say. "You'll never be able to get into it."
"Did he fuck you? Is that how this works?"
"You just want to make something go bang, don't you? There's no tactical advantage to destroying the Old Wizard, even if you could, even if there weren't energy shields around—"
"You're a traitor," Bolton roars, bringing his face right up into mine. His skin has gone red with rage. "You tricked the Master Chief and you brought down Earth. You think I'm going to listen to you?"
"I didn't do anything like that," I plead. "And you think you're going to use a nuke to blow up the Wizard?"
And then he punches me.
I can try to ignore it, shut out the pain, but it doesn't work. The pain makes me angry. Upset. Afraid. And yes, it's nothing—I've experienced worse, so much worse, but now—looking down the barrel of the mechanical pistol, and the moment of instant terror—
"This isn't going to kill me," I gasp—and feel a crack of pain across my jaw as he clubs me diagonally across the face with the butt of the pistol, and I just want it to stop—
"Wanna bet?" he snarls.
"There are parts of me everywhere," I sputter. "All you'll do is enrage the other parts. Because you made me suffer."
"Good," says Bolton—and steps back, and straightens his arm, strengthens his gait. Putting my forehead at the corner of the triangle.
"Don't point that thing at me," I say—and although I'm trying to sound disappointed, or snarky, I know he knows I sound terrified.
"Beg for mercy," says the Corporal. Cracking a smile. A frightening smile. He's enjoying this. "Come on, bitch. Beg—"
And then there's another zip in the air.
I blink, closing my eyes, expecting them to never open again—
And then there are more zipping noises, one, two— and an array of bow waves from projectiles in the air, and—
"Fuck!" yells Bolton, as he staggers and falls to the right—the gun spinning out of his grip and landing in the moss-grass.
A shadow falls over my face, occluding the Far-Sun.
Bolton turns—
And then I hear the thumping noise as Private Coelho releases his grip on me, and—
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he says, as Bolton falls to the ground and reels, and—
It's you that turns to face him.
"John!" I cry, as I notice the cast on your leg and the odd pallor of your skin, and the stubble, and the messy hair, and your grimace as you look...
I look to my right, and see the other shadow—Kelly—lifting Private Coelho away as if he's an errant cat. Above me, there's the rattle of a ladder as Private Morrissey descends the ladder from the siren tower (now silent), and Frederic follows him, his boots dangerously close to Morrissey's hands. In the distance, a figure—I guess Linda—slings a compound bow over her shoulder.
In my immediate field of vision, Hadid and Do are here, with a health pack, and Hadid drawing a stethoscope out of her pocket—
Lasky appears by your side, holding a sniper rifle by the barrel and pointing the butt at Bolton's face. I notice you're holding something in your right hand, bracing yourself against it—a battle rifle, barrel pointing downwards with the magazine ejected.
"Don't lay a finger on my friends again," you say.
"He's not your friend—" Corporal Bolton wheezes. "He's—she's—it's..."
"I know who my friends are."
Bolton staggers backwards, onto his feet—as I did—and points at me.
"That thing is a traitor. It's going to betray you, it's going to kill us all—"
"You're OK," says Professor Hadid, as she measures my pulse, and listens to my breathing, and Do unspools a bandage and shakes a can of biofoam—
"That thing has a name!" your voice booms over the sound of footsteps and the ladder and the Do warning that 'this might hurt a bit' as e passes the biofoam canister to Hadid and she points and sprays at the wound in my shoulder I didn't even notice until now and I want it to stop—
It hurts—
And I try to breathe but the pain—
It HURTS—
aaargghhghaaaarghgh—
PAIN MAKES ME ANGRY.
And then I hear—
"Sir," Bolton shouts, somewhere between a plea and a threat— "that... thing, Master Chief—"
You do something I've never quite seen before: you erupt with anger.
"THE MASTER CHIEF IS NO LONGER HERE!" you bellow. "You are stuck with me!"
Bolton glances at me, with suspicion—with rage—with confusion. And then back at you, he asks:
"You're fucking it, aren't you?" he says. A shit-eating grin spreading across his face, proud that he's worked it out (he thinks); enraged that it's happening... "Am I right? You're fucking him. Or he's fucking you. Is that why there's two of them? You wanted to see if you preferred it with a dick or a pussy?"
"Get out of my sight," you snarl—
"Is that why you were on the beach?" he demands. "Pedro, you saw them on the beach, yeah—"
"Enough!" you snap. You adjust the battle rifle that's forming your makeshift crutch, and stake it into the ground a little closer to Bolton's foot. "I will fix this. No-one will get hurt. Get out of my way."
I have never seen your face this livid.
Lasky angles the butt of the rifle upwards, and gestures for the hills.
"Go on, then," he says, making the most threatening face he can manage. Not very intimidating—but then there's you, towering over Bolton, and that terrifies him.
"Traitorous piece of shit," Bolton spits, turning, and running. Coelho and Morrison follow, limping, staggering.
The pain in my shoulder has stabilised for now. The ringing of my ears from the siren has stopped.
You hobble over as quickly as you can, even though I can tell it's hurting you. Even though the BR was never designed to be a human crutch and I'm surprised the barrel hasn't snapped off yet.
There are so many things I want to say, but I've said all of them already. Hello, John. You found me. It's good to see you.
But it all feels so different in this space. Now you know who I am. Now we both occupy the same space—
"Thanks," I manage. Aiming it at you, but also at Hadid and Do, and Kelly and Linda and Fred, and at Lasky—
"What happened on the beach?" he whispers to you.
Before you can do one of your long, implacable silences, I shout out:
"We got drunk and kissed."
Lasky's mouth drops open a bit.
"You what?" demands Professor Hadid, her veil of equanimity slipping for just a second. Next to her, Do's skin has turned crimson.
"It's my fault," I add, quickly. "We were drunk, Anne had just been arrested... I got a bit emotional." And then I look at you, and say: "Sorry. They would've found out anyway. I shouldn't have put you in this position."
"Just to be right," said Hadid, every vowel accented with an uncontrolled Germanic glottal stop, "you kissed the Master Chief?"
And now before I can answer, you cut in:
"We kissed each other."
Kelly uses her hand to shield the enormous smirk that's sprouted on her lips. "Oh my God, John!" she says, looking to Frederic and Linda and sharing their disbelief.
"I know this is in breach of around four separate regs on fraternisation, off-duty behaviour, military hardware—" you begin, turning to Lasky—
"No," he waves you down. "I'm not having you apologising for that now." The Captain rubs his temples, and groans. Focus. He works out what happens next, and turns to me. "What do I call you?"
"It doesn't matter," I reply.
"Kurt? Cortana?"
"Both."
"Are you the same person as Anne?" Lasky asks.
"Not quite."
"Let me rephrase. Are you the same part of Cortana?"
"We were," I reply. "We had a disagreement."
"What kind of disagreement?"
I look at you. It's something that's too complex, too bizarre, too intricate to condense into words. If only I could communicate ideas into Lasky's head as I had to yours—
"Priorities," I reply.
Lasky looks at you, baffled. Then back at me.
"You're going to have to start giving me less cryptic answers if you want passage on my ship—"
"I don't need rescuing!" He's missing the point and it infuriates me. "This body is dying. I don't need you to rescue me—"
"Then what do you need?" I've never seen Lasky snap with anger before. "What was the point of this whole exercise? Because all I can see is we have a potential nuclear strike within range of three civilian towns, seven crew separated from their ship, and the Master Chief who may lose the use of his leg—"
"I needed my friend back, OK?" and I can't help screaming that, even though it hurts my gullet, and it makes me want to throw up again, and it makes my head feel like it's going to pop—
"Sir, this is my fault," you interject, although I can tell your breath is laboured.
"No, it's not, Chief."
"Let me deal with this—"
"You're out of order, Master Chief!" the Captain begins, exhausted, livid—
"Sir," you say, almost silently, and move a little closer to him—just an inch or two, enough to make a difference— "I'm off duty. Remember?"
Lasky opens his mouth to say something, but can't summon the logical contortions or the emotional willpower to do so.
"This is my fault," you repeat. "I'll go into the installation. I'll speak to Anne. I'll fix this."
"It's too dangerous," replies Lasky. "We're coming with you."
"You could die," you say. "I'm not letting that happen. I did not pull you off Circinius-IV for that to happen."
The wind drops out of my lungs. I was not expecting you to say that. I've never heard you this pissed before. A focused, cold rage, borne not from righteous indignation but from your own guilt, and your own responsibility.
"Why did you go through all this trouble, Cortana?" Lasky asks me. "The flash cloned bodies? The lies? The ships?"
And I reply:
"Don't tell me there aren't people you wouldn't turn the world upside down to see again."
I know that's a low blow. But as he subconsciously reaches for the pocket where he's stowed the inert chatter, and checks it's still there—his one line back to Earth, to Tunde, and to normality—I know it's worked.
On my nose, I feel spots of rain. Above us, the sky has turned an angry, gunmetal shade of grey.
"OK," says Lasky. Exhausted. Aware he's fighting a losing battle. "OK."
"I'll go to the installation," you say. "Alone."
"You're not going to be able to get up there by yourself," says Hadid. "Even if that rifle doesn't snap."
I feel, partly, like I'd prefer you to stay with me—or rather, this part of me.
But I also know that the other parts of me are circling, angry, ready to strike and destroy everything Anne—another part of me—has worked for.
And I also know that you're among the most stubborn people alive.
And then, Kelly says:
"I'll get you up there."
"So will I," adds Fred.
"Me too," says Linda.
"Even if we have to carry you."
You sigh, and something that's almost like a smile appears on your lips.
"We're following you whether you like it or not," says Kelly, smirking.
You're interrupted by a loud chime, and the crunching of gravel under pneumatic tyres. Kelly turns first, then you, then Lasky—and I manage to steal a look past the small crowd of navy officers and doctors and Spartans to see—
You recognise who this person is. I do, too, after a fashion, because part of me has met her (albeit whilst removing part of her from her casing.) You recognise her machine, too, as one you'd seen laden with books the other day, coming the other way on the clifftop path.
"Kris from the school says you can borrow this," says Martta, 139 Fated Bairn, as she dismounts. (I cycle between her two names and identities in my head, even though I know it's not helpful, as I cycle through my own, Kurt, Cortana, and— and—) "They want it back in one piece," she continues.
The Monitor surveys you. Her attention is drawn to the plaster cast encasing your leg, and the split that's been cut in your pants leg to accommodate it.
"No combat skin, of course," she scoffs, in the way Monitors do. "How very human."
"This was a mistake," confided Professor Hadid to Lasky, as they climbed the hill to the Old Wizard.
"We weren't to know," replied Lasky. "We did the best we could."
"I know," replied the Professor. "I can't just overlook the ethical implications, though. I took a risk and it was a mistake. I let you down, Tom."
"We'll deal with that later," said the Captain.
They were back on their separate bicycles, Lasky and Hadid at the head of the group. To the left and right, Frederic and Linda. At the rear, Ensign Do, staring uneasily at 139 Fated Bairn.
And in the centre, Kelly, on the school librarian's freight bike.
"Bloody hell," she said, panting—unusual for her. "This thing's heavy."
Her cargo turned his head upwards, and stared at her.
"That might be me," said John, adjusting how his broken right leg was resting on the lip of the bicycle's cargo box.
Kelly snorted.
"I didn't want to say," she smirked.
John glanced to his left, and to Fred. He turned his eyes away from the road for just a second, and met with John's. The tiniest nod of understanding.
John did not need to say much. Everything worth saying had already been said.
He had no idea what was going to happen when he crossed the threshold into the Old Wizard. He didn't even know if the Anne-Cortana was still alive. He had no idea if Doctor Halsey had survived the Temparium's self-destruction.
He hated not knowing these things, but he hated not being with Cortana more.
"ETA three minutes," announced Linda. "Five hundred metres."
John knew they were riding slowly. If Kelly wanted, she could no doubt push it and get him there in about a minute. For a moment, the thought of a funeral cortège crossed his mind—maybe his own.
He could die when entering the Temparium. He'd already almost died once. But this time, the Monitor had agreed to remain outside—on condition that the Master Chief got her her Installation back.
He planned to keep this promise, but had no idea how he was going to do so.
He planned to keep his promise to Cortana, too, well aware the two could well be mutually exclusive.
"You might not think this, John," said Kelly, suddenly, quietly enough that only he could hear, "but you're doing really well."
"You're saying that to make me feel better," John replied.
Kelly sighed.
"Yes," she said. "I did."
"Thanks," said John.
She smiled as best she could.
"You're sure about this?" she asked.
"No," John replied. "But I made this mess. I need to fix it."
"This isn't your mess, John," said Linda. "It's on all of us. We face this together."
"I shouldn't have let my emotions cloud my judgment."
"You say that like your emotions are a bad thing," said Kelly.
"I should've focussed on the mission at hand. We should never have gone to Meridian."
"Those four years in cryo didn't do much for you, Chief, did they?" said Fred.
John said nothing.
"There's no shame in loving someone, John," said Kelly. Her voice measured enough that she was certain Lasky and hadid wouldn't hear it. "Love makes us do strange things some times."
"We're all here for you, John," said Linda, and John realised here that Kelly must've agreed this with the other members of Blue Team in advance.
"We all love you," said Frederic. "I love you. You're my brother and my friend."
"And mine," said Linda.
"And mine," said Kelly. "You're my best friend, John. I love you."
John nodded, and closed his eyes. Tired, although he knew there was no time to be.
"It's not the same," he said.
"I know," said Kelly. "But love isn't a finite resource."
John could tell this was going to be a lecture in empathy.
He found himself longing for the sight of Cortana's face. Any one of them. The blue young-Halsey avatar. Anne. Kurt. The glowing sphere he sometimes imagined in his head when he remembered the feeling of sharing headspace with her. The messy smears of saliva on his lips from the kiss they'd shared on the beach—unexciting by itself, but recontextualised now John knew who Kurt was. The way Anne had grasped his hand when he'd been tired, emotional, and angry.
"Did Fred ever tell you about his girlfriend?" asked Kelly.
As the Master Chief opened his mouth to say 'his what?' Frederic cringed.
"She's not my girlfriend," he protested, although a smirk was rising on his face as he said it.
"Oh yes she is," Kelly said. "That woman from Gao, isn't it? Veta?"
"It was two dates, four years ago," Fred groaned.
"Two? Aww, bless!" Kelly was incredulous, and had given up on the conversation being anything approaching private. Lasky was now peering over his shoulder at intervals. "Did you go to a restaurant? Was she nice? Did you kiss her?"
"Maybe," Fred grinned, mocking hesitation.
"My god, Fred!" Linda guffawed.
John had no idea who this person was. At the back of his head he felt a dull happiness for Frederic (and a lack of surprise that he'd apparently been fraternising.)
"Sometimes I feel like I don't know you any more, Spartans," he said.
The bicycle frame wobbled and shook as the front wheel crossed from asphalt to paving slabs. Hadid raised her left hand in a 'stopping' signal. They were nearly there.
"We moved on, John," said Kelly. "Four years is a long time."
She dismounted, and the bicycle's brake pads squealed as they made contact with the rotors. Lasky rode a short distance ahead, as did Linda and Frederic—to make their negotiations with the circle of Marines surrounding the shield bubble.
"How are you going to get past the forcefield?" asked Kelly.
"She'll let me in," replied John.
"You're that sure?"
John nodded.
Kelly took a deep breath, and helped him out of the bike's crate. Ensign Do, who'd been carrying an actual crutch on the back of eir bike, stuffed it under John's hand. Martta, who had fetched the crutch from the hospital on her way to the siren tower, stood before John, her serene façade betrayed by the suspicious curve of her lips.
"I don't know what you intend to do, Reclaimer," said the Monitor. "But this Installation will destroy its outer shell again if it suspects you're going to destroy it. I won't be able to stop it killing you this time."
"Neither will I," said John.
"You're up, Chief," Lasky called, jogging (in a limp) back towards where they stood. About twenty metres. Panting. Shattered. Like John felt.
"Here we go, then," said Kelly.
"Don't forget," said the Captain. "Three objectives. Get Halsey out, return control of the Installation to the Monitor, negotiate with Cortana. But none of this comes before your own safety."
"Yes, sir," the Master Chief said, flatly.
"I mean it, Chief," said Lasky. "You're not putting your life on the line for this. OK?"
John found it hard to process Lasky's facial expression again. But he could sense genuine fear under there. A tension, a coiled spring of worry—for him.
"I'll be fine," said John. He tried to smile. He knew it didn't suit him, but it seemed to put Lasky a bit more at ease. He gingerly placed a hand at John's back, as Kelly grabbed his shoulder.
"You've got until it gets dark again. I guess around thirty hours. After that we try and force our way in and we get you out," she said.
(John doubted she had agreed this with Lasky beforehand, judging by the surprised look on his face.)
"Get back safe, OK?" Kelly said, gently. "We spent five years thinking you were dead. I don't want that ever again."
And then, she hugged John. Held him tight for a single, lingering moment. In some indescribable way, as they separated, John realised the physical contact made him feel better.
"Ready?" asked Spartan-087.
Spartan-117, the Master Chief, nodded, and hobbled forward on his crutch.
Every time the cast impacted the ground, it pounded a dull wave of pain through his pelvis, into his core, into his mind. He felt titanium and ceramic and bone shards vibrating in his flesh. Everything hurt.
But this was more important.
John was never one for speeches, but this one was short enough. He scanned it from top to bottom—one page on the autocue, just a few paragraphs—and cleared his throat.
"Thank you," he said. "All of you, for coming here." He tried moving his face around, making brief eye contact with a few of the people stood before him in the centre of the gallery. Fhajad. Kelly. Johnson. Foe Hammer. Palmer. Linda. Keyes Senior. Dubbo, with his wife and young child. Frederic. Professor Hadid. Sam. Musa. Ba'ad. Arthur. Solomon. Stacker. Lasky. Keyes Junior. "It's good to see some familiar faces, even if some of you might not be familiar with mine."
A chuckle rose from the gathered audience. John had made people laugh before, but never so many at once. He liked how it made him feel. The same kind of feeling he'd experienced when he first came here, and jumped onto the stage with Anne at Hogarth's Place and sloppily played a solo on his recorder.
"Well—" he said, putting his arms to his side, as Anne and Kurt had taught him to— "here I am. This is me. And if this isn't enough," and here he gestured behind himself, at the wall of body-painted nudes, "then if you look over here, there's more, but it might disturb you..."
Another, more full-throated wave of laughter. A mock wolf-whistle from Master Sergeant Stacker. (Anne had convinced him he did want to use the joke she'd written, and John was now glad he'd taken her advice.)
"I want to make this quick," he continued, "I won't keep you for long. But I wanted to thank my collaborators, Anne Møller and Kurt Stjernberg, for everything. For their kindness when I first arrived here, seven years ago, and for everything they've done since then."
John had rehearsed this. He had run through it in his head around fourteen times, and read it aloud around three. The words still sounded strange coming out of his mouth, in his voice.
"Having an outlet to express my experiences over the last fifty years has made me see my life in a different way. Seeing the system from the outside changed who I was. What happened to me, what I did, the people I met—"
(Spartan Palmer made eyes at Sergeant Dubbo. Quizzical. Confused. She wasn't expecting this.)
"I can only speak to my experience," said John. "And I have to thank Anne and Kurt for helping me to express that those experiences in a way that made sense to me. And anyone who saw what happened during the wars here—which so many of you have—you'll all have your own experiences.
"But there is one person," and here John had to consciously draw in a breath here, because it felt like his lungs were running on empty, "who should be here today. If life was fair, you'd be hearing about her experiences too."
Kelly bowed her head a little.
"For some time, Cortana and I were in each other's minds. We knew each other's inner thoughts. We were almost the same person, for a while. And then, she saved my life, and she died."
Carol Rawley—Foe Hammer—nodded her head, her mouth in a forlorn half-smile, half-grimace.
"I knew a lot of brave people, and she was the bravest," John said. "When her mind was falling apart, she let it happen, and flung the pieces as weapons. When she was at death's door, she sacrificed herself to save Earth and to save me. And I don't have a single day where I don't wish it turned out the other way."
Lasky's eyes were glistening, and he wiped a single tear away with his thumb as Tunde held his other hand tighter.
"I won't pretend you people haven't felt like this before. Loss, pain. Guilt. Heartbreak." The bottom dropped out of his voice for a syllable or two. John gulped it back down. "But, as my friends will tell you—expressing those experiences helps. It helps us understand our own feeling. And it gives us a purpose. Our duty, as soldiers, is to protect humanity. Always. And Cortana—and Anne and Kurt—through all they have done, have made me feel human again."
John folded the paper. Now he reached into his pocket, and brought out his recorder.
"I'd like to play a little piece on this," he said. "It was taught to me by Professor Hadid—" and here he nodded to where Hadid stood, in the fourth row back, velvet brown hijab shimmering under the lights, her smile beaming— "who got me to take up music in the first place. And she, like all of you, are here because she made me feel human."
A small spatter of applause bubbled up for Hadid, who seemed a little taken aback.
"This is for everyone who isn't here tonight," John said. "It's called Green and Blue."
John set his fingers onto the holes, and pursed his lips.
The melody unwound, from a high D to a low E, rotating around the fifth and the F and resolving into the minor. John held the last note for an extra bar, and let the silence stand for another two bars afterwards, before saying "thank you" into the microphone, and stepping back from the lectern.
As the gathered soldiers and friends applauded, Anne took his hands, and Kurt put an arm around his back, and they both tiptoed to kiss him on the cheeks.
"That was lovely," said Anne, beaming. "Well done."
"Very good," said Kurt. "We thought it was very good."
And with that praise, John felt, again, a little bit more human.
It breaks my heart to see you like this.
As good as it is to see your face again, seeing it scrunch up in pain whenever you take a step... every single time it hurts you, it hurts me too.
Your skin sizzles as the hardlight bubble admits you, and you take a few deep breaths before you survey the environment.
The vaulted ceiling of the Temparium has still not been restored. The side-walls are only about twenty-five per cent complete. Engineers and Sentinels flit around the edges, re-forming the obsidian, curved shell of the Installation in flashes of orange.
At ground level, your leg cast makes contact with the grayish, metallic surface.
HELLO, JOHN, I say.
You breathe. You lean on your crutch a little harder. Hopefully it won't crack—at least it's designed for this, unlike a re-purposed rifle.
Are you not going to speak to me?
JOHN? I ask.
You make a sound that's barely a grunt. It's more like a squeak.
You look around your immediate surroundings, and try to make sense of the room you find yourself in. A small loft bedroom with green plaster walls. A star map posted below a forty-nine hour clock, the hands moving in a smooth arc. A door leading to an en-suite bathroom, you guess.
And then you open your mouth and ask:
"Where are you?"
THAT'S A LONG STORY, I reply. BUT FOR NOW, LET'S JUST SAY I'M HERE.
You can't see me. Maybe it'll be better if...
"John," I say. I in this respect being Anne Møller, although in some ways we're the same thing.
You turn your head to see me behind you. You've given up trying to control your facial expression, and it just falls in an odd glare of confusion.
"You're safe here," I tell you. "You're safe here, and you always will be."
You open your mouth again to ask where this is, but you already know. We may not be directly electrically connected, but we may as well still share headspace.
"I've dreamed about this place," you say.
"I know. Me too," I reply.
You tighten your grip on the crutch, and yawn. I don't need you to tell me that you're tired.
"You can rest now, John. You're shattered. You need a break."
You know it's not worth lying that you're fine, so you ask:
"What do you want with me?"
"It doesn't matter," I say. "Not yet. You just need to rest."
"I've only got thirty hours," you reply.
"We've actually only got twenty-one," I say. "But that's still plenty of time to rest."
You know there's no point arguing, too.
You adjust your grip again, and I can tell your leg is smarting at the prospect of the few steps it will take to reach the bed.
"Halsey," you ask. You just need to say the name. And I know what the question is. Is she alive? Is she safe? Is she working with you?
"Ask her yourself," I say.
Our mother steps in behind me. Tired, sweaty, unwashed, but alive and well.
"You took your time getting back here," she says, but her smirk tells you she's not serious, and she's glad to see you, alive. Her eye drifts to your leg cast. "We'll need to do something about that."
"But not here," I say. "Not now. John needs to rest."
"Of course," says Halsey, after a pause. She's still not used to being spoken back to by her 'child', and even less used to her 'child' not being in her own image.
You brace yourselves for the three paces to the bed. Every time you move your right leg, pain drums up your spine again. You haven't felt pain like this for a long while. Piercing. Inescapable.
Well. You have. Once.
"Easy does it, John," I say, moving the bed cover aside as you turn, and almost fall into it. Your head would've struck the wall, but I've taken the liberty of adjusting the bounds of the installation—the hardlight barrier in the wall is permeable. You don't hit anything, and shuffle yourself to be roughly vertical.
"Wake me—" you begin saying.
"Wake when you've rested," I say, before you can say anything else. "I need you comfortable. You can shower if you want to. There'll be food."
You wonder for a moment how this works. Can the Temparium manufacture water? Does it have a sewer? Can it manufacture proteins and foodstuffs?
You're too tired, and accept it.
"What's your plan, Cortana?" you ask, as your eyelids close involuntarily.
"Don't worry, John," says Halsey. "She's not the same Cortano as the Meridian fragment. She's not trying to dominate."
AS LONG AS WE'RE QUICK, I tell her—with my own voice, from the blue sphere rotating above the simulation. THE OTHER ONE'S STILL UP THERE. My other fragment, on the other Guardian, hangs above us like the sword of Damocles.
The word 'Cortano' confuses you.
But we have twenty-one hours. No time to waste.
"If not... domination...?" you begin, but you're too tired to form a coherent sentence—
"Revelation," I reply.
"Revolution," says Halsey.
LIBERATION, I say.
You are too tired to process any of this. Within fifteen seconds, you're asleep, and dreaming again.
"Sleep well, John," says Halsey, as I move the cover over your body, and kiss your forehead.