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ERIC NYLUND
333
"Aye, Chief," Will said. "Thrusters responding."
The side viewscreens showed a hailstorm of molten metal
streaking toward the drone's cameras—then their view was
obscured by the black- and silver-pockmarked surface of the
tiny moon.
"Cortana, is the Gettysburg ready to jump?" the Chief asked.
"Slipspace capacitors charged, Master Chief. Ready when
you are."
"Stand by." John waited a minute. No one spoke. "Will, bring
the drone back out."
"Roger, Chief."
The side viewscreen changed from moonscape to space.
There was little left of the fleet or the command-and-control
station—only clouds of smoke, glittering metal, and ashes.
A few Covenant warships survived. Those that could slowly
moved away from the blast site ... others drifted dead in space.
Perhaps a dozen of their original five hundred craft had come
through the explosion.
"A brilliant strategic victory," John whispered, the Admiral's
last words echoing in his mind.
"Cortana, get us out of here."
The Master Chief stood on the bridge of the Gettysburg and
watched the stars blur and vanish into the absolute blackness of
Slipspace.
They had jumped away from the battle zone over the Unyield-
ing Hierophant, emerged in normal space, and plotted their po-
sition. Cortana adjusted their course, and now they were finally
on their way to Earth. Although they had overwhelming evidence
that the Covenant knew the location of Earth, "overwhelming"
was not absolute proof. The Cole Protocol still applied.
"Slipspace transition complete," Cortana said. "ETA to Earth
in thirty-five hours, Chief." The tiny hologram of Cortana con-
tinued to stare at him, and her slender brows knit together.
"Was there something else, Cortana?" he asked.
The furrow in her brow deepened. She sighed and crossed her
arms over her chest. "I was wondering about the copy of my in-
filtration programming." Cortana's color cooled from blue to
ultramarine. "I've reviewed your mission logs. Maybe it was the