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He felt a sickening sensation, a feeling of indescribable violation, and the comforting image vanished. He tried to remember what he was seeing, but the memory faded like smoke. All he could feel now was a sense of loss. Something had been taken from him . . . butwhat ?
The insistent buzz returned, painfully loud now. He could sense tendrils of awareness—hungry for data—wriggling through his confused mind like diseased maggots. A host of new images filled him.
. . . the first time he killed another human being, during the riots on Charybdis IX. He smelled blood, and his hands shook as he holstered the pistol. He could feel the heat of the weapon’s barrel . . .
. . . the pride he felt after graduating at the Academy, then a hitch—as if a bad holorecord was being scrolled back—then a knot in his gut. Fear that he wouldn’t be able to meet the Academy’s standards . . .
. . . the sickening smell of lilacs and lilies as he stood over his father’s coffin . . .
Keyes continued to float, mesmerized by the parade of memories that began to pile on him, each one appearing faster than the last. He drifted through the fog. He didn’t notice, or indeed care, that as soon as the bursts of memory ended, they disappeared entirely.
The strangeotherness receded from his awareness, but not entirely. He could still sense theother probing him, but he ignored it. The next burst of memory passed . . . then another . . . then another . . .
The Chief checked his threat indicator, found nothing of concern, and allowed the swamp to close in around him. “Make friends with your environment.” That’s what Chief Mendez had told him many years ago—and the advice had served him well. Bylistening to the constant patter of the rain,feeling the warm humid air via his vents, andseeing the shapes natural to the swamp, the Spartan would know what belonged and what didn’t. Knowledge that could mean the difference between life and death.
Satisfied that he was attuned to the environment around him, and hopeful of gaining a better vantage point, he climbed a slight rise. The payoff was immediate.
The Pelican had gone in less than sixty meters from the spot where Echo 419 had dropped him off—but the surrounding foliage was so thick Foehammer had been unable to see the crash site from the air.
The Chief moved in to inspect the wreckage. Judging from appearances, and the fact that there weren’t many bodies lying around, the ship had crashed during takeoff, rather than on landing. The impression was confirmed when he discovered that while they were dressed in fatigues, all of the casualties wore Naval insignia.
That suggested that the dropship had landed successfully, discharged all of its Marine passengers, and was in the process of lifting off when a mechanical failure or enemy fire had brought the aircraft down.
Satisfied that he had a basic understanding of what had taken place, the Chief was about to leave when he spotted a shotgun lying next to one of the bodies, decided it might come in handy, and slipped the sling over his right shoulder.