“Master Chief,” she said, “you recovered this rock—” She paused. “From an optical scanner. Is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. The aliens had placed the rock in a red metallic box. Visible spectrum lasers were scanning the specimen.”

“And the infrared pulse laser transmitter was hooked up to this scanner?” she asked. “You are certain?”

“Absolutely, ma’am. My thermal imagers caught a fraction of the transmission scattered by the ambient dust.”

The woman continued. “The rock sample is roughly pyramidal. The inclusions in the igneous matrix are unusual in that all possible crystalline morphologies for corundum are present: bipyramidal, prismatic, tabular, and rhombohedral. Scanning from the tip to the base with neutron imagers, we produce the following pattern.”

Again, a series of squares, triangles, bars and dots appeared on the view screen—symbols that again reminded John of Aztec writing.

Déjà had taught the Spartans about the Aztecs—how Cortés with superior tactics and technology had nearly obliterated an entire race. Was the same thing happening between the Covenant and humans?

“Now, then,” the first male voice interjected, “this business with the detonation of a HAVOK tactical nuclear device... do you realize that any additional evidence of Covenant activity on Côte d’Azur has been effectively erased? Do you know what opportunities have been lost, soldier?”

“I had extremely specific orders, sir,” the Master Chief said without hesitating. “Orders that came directly from NavSpecWep, Section Three.”

“Section Three,” the woman muttered, “which is ONI... it figures.”

The old man in the darkness chuckled. The faint glow of a cigar tip flared near his voice, then faded. “Are you insinuating, Master Chief,” the older man said, “that the destruction of all this ‘evidence,’ as my colleges would call it, happened because they ordered it?”

There was no good answer to that question. Whatever the Master Chief said was sure to irritate someone here.

“No, sir. I am simply stating that the destruction—of anything, including any ‘evidence’—is a direct result of the detonation of a nuclear weapon. In full compliance with my orders. Sir.”

The first man whispered, “Jesus... what do you expect from one of Dr. Halsey’s windup toy soldiers?”

“That’s quite enough, Colonel!” the older man snapped. “This man has earned the right to some courtesy... even from you.”

The older man lowered his voice. “Master Chief, thank you. We’re finished here, I think. We may wish to recall you later... but for now, you are dismissed. You are to treat all information you have heard or seen at this debriefing as classified.”

“Yes, sir!”

The Master Chief saluted, spun on his heel, and marched to the exit.

The double doors opened and then sealed behind him. He exhaled. It felt like he was being evac’d from the battlefield. He reminded himself that these last few steps were often the most dangerous.

“I hope they treated you well... or at least decently.”

Dr. Halsey sat in an overstuffed chair. She wore a long gray skirt that matched her hair. She rose and took his hand and gave it a small squeeze.

The Master Chief snapped to attention. “Ma’am, a pleasure to see you again.”

“How are you, Master Chief?” she asked. She stared pointedly at the hand pressed to his forehead in a tight salute. Slowly, he dropped his hand.

She smiled. Unlike everyone else, who greeted the Master Chief and stared at his uniform, medals, ribbons, or the Spartan insignia, Dr. Halsey stared into his eyes. And she never saluted. John had never gotten used to that.

“I’m fine, ma’am,” he said. “We won at Sigma Octanus. It was good to have a complete victory.”

“Indeed it was.” She paused and glanced about. “How would you like to have another victory?” she whispered. “The biggest we’ve ever had?”

“Of course, ma’am,” he said with no hesitation.

“I was counting on you to say that, Master Chief. We’ll be speaking soon.” She turned to the Military Police attendant waiting at the entrance to the lounge. “Open these damn doors, soldier. Let’s get this over with.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the MP said.

The doors swung inward.

She stopped and said to the Master Chief, “I’ll be speaking to you and the other Spartans, soon.” She then entered the darkened chamber and the doors sealed behind her.

The Master Chief forgot about the debriefing and Captain Keyes’ puzzling question about not winning.

If Dr. Halsey had a mission for him and his team, it would be a good one. She had given him everything: duty, honor, purpose, and a destiny to protect humanity.

John hoped she would give him one more thing: a way to win the war.

0915 Hours, August 25, 2552 (Military Calendar)

Epsilon Eridani System, Reach UNSC Military Complex, planet Reach, Omega Wing—Section Three secure facility

“Good morning, Dr. Halsey,” Déjà said. “You’re fourteen point three minutes late this morning.”

“Blame security, Déjà,” Dr. Halsey replied, gesturing absently at the AI’s holographic projection floating above her desk. “ONI’s precautions here are becoming increasingly ridiculous.”

Dr. Halsey threw her coat over the back of an antique armchair before settling behind her desk. She sighed, and for the thousandth time, wished she had a window.

The private office was located deep underground, inside the “Omega Wing” of the super-secure ONI facility, codenamed simply CASTLE.

Castle was a massive complex, two thousand meters below the granite protection of the Highland Mountains—bombproof, well defended, and impenetrable.

The security had its drawbacks, she was forced to admit. Every morning she descended into the secret labyrinth, passed through a dozen security checkpoints, and submitted to a barrage of retina, voice, fingerprint, and brainwave ID scans.

ONI had buried her here years ago when her funding had been shunted to higher profile projects. All other personnel had been transferred to other operations, and her access to classified materials had been severely restricted. Even shadowy ONI was squeamish about her experiments.

That’s all changed—thanks to the Covenant, she thought. The SPARTAN project—unpopular with the Admiralty, and the scientific community—had proven most effective. Her Spartans had proven themselves time after time in countless ground engagements.

When the Spartans started racking up successes, the Admiralty’s reticence vanished. Her meager budget had mushroomed overnight. They had offered her a corner office in the prestigious Olympic Tower at FLEETCOM HQ.

She had, of course, declined. Now the brass and VIPs that wanted to see her had to spend half the day just getting through the security barriers to her lair. She relished the irony—her banishment had become a bureaucratic weapon.

But none of that really mattered. It was just a means to an end for Dr. Halsey... a means to getting Project MJOLNIR back on track.

She reached for her coffee cup and knocked a stack of papers off her desk. They fell, scattered onto the floor, and she didn’t bother to retrieve them. She examined the mud-brown dregs in the bottom of the mug; it was several days old.

The office of the most important scientist in the military was not the antiseptic clean-room environment most people expected. Classified files and papers littered the floor. The holographic projector overhead painted the ceiling with a field of stars. Rich maple paneling covered the walls and hanging there were framed photographs of her SPARTAN IIs, receiving awards, and the plethora of articles about them that appeared when the Admiralty had made the project public three years ago.