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ERIC NYLUND
97
He wasn't mad at Cortana; he was mad at himself—furious be-
cause of the ugly necessity of his act.
"The Covenant are imitative—not innovative," he said. "The
Engineer you ordered to repair the Chief's armor just got a first-
hand look at our shield technology, a technology we stole from
the Covenant and improved upon. If it somehow managed to re-
join the Covenant, that improved technology would be theirs.
How would you like to see that technology manifest as better
personal shields for their Elite warriors? Or on their warships?"
Cortana was silent.
"Corporal Locklear was right," Haverson muttered. "I really
hate this shit, too."
"I understand," Cortana finally replied, but her voice was so
cold it could have frozen helium.
Haverson sighed and looked at his hands. The Engineer's
blood tattooed his skin with tiny pinpoints of blue-black. "Do
you think that the Master Chief will find what he's really looking
for on Reach?"
"What do you mean 'really looking for'?" Cortana said. Her
voice was still frosty, but curiosity thawed her tone.
"I mean the other Spartans." Haverson gave a short laugh.
"True, his argument to go to Reach was valid—we wouldn't be
going otherwise. But that's not what he's after. He sent his team
down to the surface of Reach... sent them to their deaths. What
commander wouldn't go back? And what commander wouldn't
hope that they were alive? No matter what the odds?"