Along either side of the course there was something new: three 30mm chain-guns mounted on tripods.

“Weapons emplacements are targeting us, Chief!” Cortana announced.

The Master Chief wasn’t about to wait and see if those chain-guns had a minimum-depth setting. He had no intention of crawling across the field and letting the chain-guns’ rapid rate of fire chip away at his shields.

The chain-guns clicked and started to turn.

He sprinted to the nearest tripod-mounted gun. He opened fire with his assault fire, shot the lines that powered the servos—then spun the chain-gun around to face the others.

He crouched behind the blast shield and unloaded on the adjacent gun. Chain-guns were notoriously hard to aim; they were best known for their ability to fill the air with gunfire. Cortana adjusted his targeting reticle to sync up with the chain-gun. With her help, he hit the adjacent weapon emplacements. John guided a stream of fire into the guns’ ammo packs. Moments later, in a cloud of fire and smoke, the guns fell silent... then toppled.

The Master Chief ducked, primed a grenade, and hurled it at the closest of the remaining automated weapons. The grenade sailed through the air—then detonated just above the autogun.

“Chain-gun destroyed,” Cortana reported.

Two more grenades and the automated guns were out of commission. He noted that his shields had dropped by a quarter. He watched the status bar refill. He hadn’t even known he had taken hits. That was sloppy.

“You seem to have the situation under control,” Cortana said, “I’m going to spend a few cycles and check something out.”

“Permission granted,” he said.

“I didn’t ask, Master Chief,” she replied.

The cool liquid presence in his mind withdrew. The Master Chief felt empty somehow.

He ran through the razor fields, snapping through steel wire as if it were rotten string.

Cortana’s coolness once again flooded his thoughts.

“I just accessed SATCOM,” she said. “I’m using one of their satellites so I can get a better look at what’s happening down here. There’s a SkyHawk jump jet from Fairchild Field inbound.”

He stopped. The automatic cannons were one thing—could the armor withstand against air power like that? The SkyHawk had a quartet of 50mm cannons that made the chain-guns look like peashooters. They also had Scorpion missiles—designed to take out tanks.

Answer: he couldn’t do a thing against it.

The Master Chief ran. He had to find cover. He sprinted to the next section of the course: the Pillars of Loki.

It was a forest of ten-meter-tall poles spaced at random intervals. Typically, the poles had booby traps strung on, under, and between them—stun grades, sharpened sticks... anything the instructors could dream up. The idea was to teach recruits to move slowly and keep their eyes open.

The Master Chief had no time to search for the traps.

He climbed up the first pole and balanced on top. He leaped to the next pole, teetered, regained his balance—then jumped to the next. His reflexes had to be perfect; he was landing a half ton of man and armor on a wooden pole ten centimeters in diameter.

“Motion tracking is picking up an incoming target at extreme range,” Cortana warned. “Velocity profile matches the SkyHawk, Chief.”

He turned—almost lost his balance and had to shift back and forth to keep from falling. There was a dot on the horizon, and the faint rumble of thunder.

In the blink of an eye, the dot had wings and the Master Chief’s thermal sensors picked up a plume of jetwash. In seconds, the SkyHawk closed—then opened fire with its 50mm cannons.

He jumped.

The wooden poles splintered into pulp. They were mowed down like so many blades of grass.

The Master Chief rolled, ducked, and flattened himself on the earth. He caught a smattering of rounds and his shield bar drooped to half. Those rounds would have penetrated his old suit instantly.

Cortana said, “I calculate we have eleven seconds before the SkyHawk can execute a maximum gee turn and make another pass.”

The Master Chief got up and ran through the shattered remains of the poles. Napalm and sonic grenades popped around him, but he moved so fast he left the worst of the damage in his wake.

“They won’t use their cannons next time,” he said. “They didn’t take us out—they’ll try the missiles.”

“Perhaps,” Cortana suggested, “we should leave the course. Find better cover.”

“No,” he said. “We’re going to win... by their rules.”

The last leg of the course was a sprint across an open field. In the distance, the Master Chief saw the bell on a tripod.

He glanced over his shoulder.

The SkyHawk was back and starting its run straight toward him.

Even with his augmented speed, even with the MJOLNIR armor—he’d never make it to the bell in time. He’d never make it alive.

He turned to face the incoming jet.

“I’ll need your help, Cortana,” he said.

“Anything,” she whispered. The Master Chief heard nervousness in the AI’s voice.

“Calculate the inbound velocity of a Scorpion missile. Factor in my reaction time and the jet’s inbound speed and distance at launch, and tell me the instant I need to move to sidestep and deflect it with my left arm.”

Cortana paused a heartbeat. “Calculation done. You did say ‘deflect’?”

“Scorpion missiles have motion-tracking sensors and proximity detonators. I can’t outrun it. And it won’t miss. That leaves us very few options.”

The SkyHawk dove.

“Get ready,” Cortana said. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Me, too.”

Smoke appeared from the jet’s left wingtip and fire and exhaust erupted as a missile streaked toward him.

The Master Chief saw the missile’s track back and forth, zeroing in on his coordinates. A shrill tone in his helmet warbled—the missile had a guidance lock on him. He chinned a control and the sound died out. The missile was fast. Faster than he was ten times over.

“Now!” Cortana said.

They moved together. He shifted his muscles and the MJOLNIR—augmented by his link to Cortana—moved faster than he’d ever moved before. His leg tensed and pushed him aside; his left arm came up and crossed his chest.

The head of the missile was the only thing he saw. The air grew still and thickened.

He continued to move his hand, palm open in a slapping motion—as fast as he could will his flesh to accelerate.

The tip of the Scorpion missile passed a centimeter from his head.

He reached out—fingertips brushed the metal casing—

—and slapped it aside.

The SkyHawk jet screamed over his head.

The Scorpion missile detonated.

Pressure slammed though his body. The Master Chief flew six meters, spinning end over end, and landed flat on his back.

He blinked, and saw nothing but blackness. Was he dead? Had he lost?

The shield status bar in his heads-up display pulsed weakly. It was completely drained—then it blinked red and slowly started to refill. Blood was spattered across the inside of his helmet and he tasted copper.

He stood, his muscles screaming in protest.

“Run!” Cortana said. “Before they come back for a look.”

The Master Chief got up and ran. As he passed the spot where he had stood to face down the missile, he saw a two-meter-deep crater.

He could feel his Achilles tendon tear, but he didn’t slow. He crossed the half-kilometer stretch in seventeen seconds flat and skidded to halt.

The Master Chief grabbed the bell’s cord and rang it three times. The pure tone was the most glorious sound he had ever heard.

Over the COM channel Dr. Halsey’s voice broke: “Test concluded. Call off your men, Colonel Ackerson! We’ve won. Well done, Master Chief. Magnificent! Stay there; I’m sending out a recovery team.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, panting.

The Master Chief scanned the sky for the SkyHawk—nothing. It had gone. He knelt and let blood drip from his nose and mouth. He looked down at the bell—and laughed.