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ERIC NYLUND
221
we scavenged from the Gettysburg when we give the all-clear
signal."
John eased his boots onto the hull. Their magnetic soles
clamped onto the metal with a satisfying click.
Polaski had landed the Covenant dropship so that its mandibles
cradled the hole and gave them some shelter.
Overhead, Slipspace was on fire. It looked as if someone had
doused the night with jet fuel and ignited it. Bloody, boiling
streaks of flame tore across a midnight-blue sky. Meteors flashed
past and sprayed molten metal in trails of glittering Stardust.
A fist-sized projectile blurred past the Master Chief and
rammed into the ship's starboard side. Sparks and liquefied alloy
spattered into space. His shields flickered as debris ricocheted
from the armor's protective field.
They had to move fast. The Admiral was right: This was a
shooting galley. The quicker they sealed that hole and got out of
here—the better.
John turned and swept his rifle over the terrain. There were
bumpy sensor nodes, kilometers of conduits, and a dozen gaping
canyons in the hull. A legion of Covenant warriors could hide in
this mess.
No enemy contact. Nothing on his motion sensors, either.
He stepped close to the main-drive conduit and examined the
hole. The pipe was five meters across and still red hot, even
though Cortana had shut it down three minutes ago. The hole
was round, a three-meter-wide gap, with ragged edges that all
pointed inward.
"If that was from a plasma strike," Grace said, "the metal
would have been boiled away. If it was from an impact, the edges
would be scraped on one side, compacted on the other. This hole
was deliberately made."
"Eyes sharp," John said. "We have company. My guess is
camouflaged Elites. Maybe some of the original crew still alive.
Blue-Three, -Four, and -Five—move out."
"Roger," Will replied.
Anton emerged from the dropship hefting an arc welder,
while Will and Li maneuvered the three-by-three-meter hull
plates.
"Fred and Grace, you're on the welders," John ordered. "An-