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There was a lot to do—the morning passed quickly. Major Silva was back on duty by 1300 hours and sent a runner to find McKay. As she entered his office she saw that he was sitting behind his makeshift desk, working at a computer. He looked up and pointed to a chair salvaged from a lifeboat. “Take a load off, Lieutenant. Nice job out there. I should take naps more often! How are you feeling?”
McKay dropped into the chair, felt it adjust to fit her body, and shrugged. “I’m tired, sir, but otherwise fine.”
“Good,” Silva said, bringing his fingers together into a steeple. “Because there’s plenty of work to do. We’ll have to drive everyone hard—and that includes ourselves.”
“Sir, yes sir.”
“So,” Silva continued, “I know you’ve been busy, but did you get a chance to read the report Wellsley put together?”
A crate of small but powerful wireless computers like the one sitting on the Major’s desk had been recovered from theAutumn but McKay had yet to turn hers on. “I’m afraid not, sir. Sorry.”
Silva nodded. “Well, based on information acquired during routine debriefings, our digital friend believes that the raid was both less and more than we assumed.”
McKay allowed her eyebrows to rise. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that rather than the real estate itself, the Covies were after something, or more preciselysomeone they thought they would find here.”
“Captain Keyes?”
“No,” the other officer replied, “Wellsley doesn’t think so, and neither do I. A group of their stealth Elites were able to penetrate the lower levels of the complex. They killed everyone they came into contact with, or thought they did, but one tech played dead, and another was knocked unconscious. They were in different rooms but both told the same story. Once in the room, and having gained control of it, one of those commando Elites—the bastards in the black combat suits—would momentarily reveal himself. He spoke passable standard—and asked both groups the same question. ‘Where is the human with the special armor?’ ”
“They were after the Spartan,” McKay said thoughtfully.
“Exactly.”
“So, whereis the Chief?”
“That,”Silva replied, “is a very good question. Where indeed? He went looking for Keyes, surfaced in the middle of a swamp, told Foehammer that the Captain was probably dead, and disappeared a few minutes later.”
“Think he’s dead?” McKay inquired.
“I don’t know,” Silva replied grimly, “although it wouldn’t make too much difference if he were. No, I suspect that he and Cortana are out there playing games.”
With Keyes out of the picture once more, Silva had reassumed command, and McKay could understand his frustration. The Master Chief was an asset, or would have been if he were around, but now, out freelancing somewhere, the Spartan was starting to look like a liability. Especially given how many of Silva’s troops had died in order to defend a man who wasn’t even there.
Yes, McKay could understand the Major’s frustration, but couldn’t sympathize with it. Not after seeing the Chief in that very room, his skin unnaturally white after too much time spent in his armor, his eyes filled with—what? Pain? Suffering? A sort of wary distrust?