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ERIC NYLUND
235
tiny figure, strobing with symbolic logic code, waved to him,
and when he didn't immediately respond she crossed her arms
impatiently. "MRIs show no concussion, no subdural or epidural
hematomas. You must have a thicker skull than I thought."
"Where am I?"
"Deck thirty-two on the UNSC frigate Gettysburg" Cortana
told him. "Or what's left of it, anyway."
"What happened?"
Cortana sighed. "Are you referring to what happened since I
left you on Reach? Or the outcome of the Slipspace battle? Or do
you mean what happened since that battle?"
"The battle, first," he said and struggled to get up. "I presume
we won."
Standing was too painful, though, and the strength seemed to
have been drained from his muscles. He eased himself back to
his original horizontal position.
Cortana's pale blue light dimmed and her gaze dropped to the
deck. "Blue Team successfully repaired the main-engine conduit."
"I remember," the Master Chief murmured. "The repair part
of it, at least. There was an explosion..."
"A plasma bolt," Cortana corrected. She sighed. "I'm sorry,
Chief, but only you and SPARTANS-093, -043, and -104 sur-
vived that blast."
Grace, Will, and Fred were alive, but Li, Anton, and Warrant
Officer Polaski had been killed in action. He remembered
Po-laski's scream, then Anton's outline as the flash of white-hot
fire swept over the hull.
"Acknowledged," he said as graciously as he could muster,
but he heard bitterness give an edge to his voice.
It struck him as odd that Polaski's death affected him as well.
He'd seen thousands of UNSC soldiers die. She hadn't hesitated
to transport Blue Team on a mission that was insanely danger-
ous. She had survived the battle of Reach, the crash landing on
Halo, the Flood, and everything else—then she had bravely vol-
unteered for this mission, too, and perhaps saved all their lives.
She might have made a good Spartan. There were worse
eulogies.
The Master Chief sighed, called up his team roster on his
heads-up display, and marked Anton and Li as Missing in Action.