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ERIC NYLUND
283
hasn't been trying to kill me off, though." Locklear turned to the
robotic dolly. "Right, amigo?"
Its treads spun, and the flatbed dolly turned to the right.
"No, no, stop." He sighed. "Man, I gotta buy myself a ticket
out of this outfit. Next thing, I'll be asking one of the Spartans
out on a date... if I could even tell the boys from the girls in that
squad." He shuddered.
The doors of the large cargo elevator squeaked open; Lock-
lear stepped off, and whistled for the dolly to follow.
Storage Bay Two had racks and shelves that rose from the
deck five meters to the ceiling. He played his flashlight over the
uneven surfaces. He spied a desk and terminal in the corner.
"Hello, inventory control," he said. "The place to go for good-
ies in any Navy outfit." He strode to the desk, sat down, and
tapped in a search for medicinal-grade ethyl alcohol.
A tone chimed in his earpiece, and Cortana's voice said, "Cor-
poral Locklear, I have an urgent request from Admiral—"
Locklear squelched his COM. "Enough chatter, lady," he
murmured. "The bar just opened."
The location for MED34-CH
3
CH
2
OH popped on screen.
"B-I-N-G-O,"hesang.
Locklear jumped up. "Come on, amigo. You and me are going
to throw a party."
The deck lurched under Locklear's feet. "What the?... We're
moving?" He turned the inventory display to face him and
tapped in a command to switch to external camera mode.
Craggy asteroids moved past them—no, it was the Gettysburg
that was moving. Locklear squinted and saw a flash of blue. He
magnified that part of the screen and found a dozen blurry blue
flares from engine cones and the pulsing lateral lines filled with
plasma. Covenant ships.
"Ah hell," he said and backed away from the desk. "So much
for happy hour."
Something moved in his vest. Locklear reached in his pocket
and pulled out the crystal Dr. Halsey entrusted to his care. The
elongated stone rippled, facets moved and rearranged like the
pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
He spied the same blue color on the inventory monitor—