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HALO: FIRST STRIKE
is also too damned clear. Even if we stay and fight... they'll all
bejustasdead."
"Capacitors at foil charge," Cortana announced. "Preparing
to enter Slipspace. Waiting for your order, sir."
The Master Chief saw the energy from Ascendant Justice's re-
actor drain to 5 percent. Motes of blue-green light appeared
on the forward screen, and the stars stretched and smeared like
watercolors.
But something was wrong: The shields of the Chief's
MJOLNIR armor rippled. The radiation monitors spiked. Where
was it coming from?
"Hundreds for billions," the Admiral whispered. "Duty be
damned ... I'm still going to burn in hell for this." Admiral
Whitcomb inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.
"Go, Cortana. Get us out of here. And God forgive me."
Corporal Locklear whistled, and the robotic dolly obediently
followed him. The rolling robot was stacked with rifles, pistols,
ammunition crates, and enough C-7 foaming explosive to blow a
half-kilometer crater in the side of the Gettysburg.
He made his way to the cargo elevator and then down to
B-Deck. He had seen on the Gettysburg's inventory that that was
where they stored medical supplies... and he wanted a few cans
of biofoam handy for the Master Chief's extremely well-planned
suicide mission.
Not that Locklear had anything against a good suicide mis-
sion. He'd been on plenty before, and they seemed to give him
the most bang for his buck. Only now, after so much fighting, he
just wanted a break: twenty-four hours of sleep, and some R&R.
He idly tugged at the bandanna tied to his biceps.
"Damn girl," he whispered. "Why'd you have to die? I had
plans for you and me."
What was he doing mooning over a woman? And a Navy flier
to boot? His squad would have laughed themselves wet if they
knew... only they were all dead, too.
"Screw this," Locklear said. "I'm still alive. I'm not going to
die. And I'm not going to feel guilty for any of this."
He laughed and told himself, "It's not like the entire universe