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HALO: FIRST STRIKE
Cortana dropped the aft hatch, and the inside of the ship ex-
ploded out; the Chief slammed into the door of the locker, denting
the centimeter-thick Titanium-A.
He climbed out and Cortana overlaid a blue arrow-shaped
NAV point on his heads-up display, indicating the location of the
drifting cryopods.
The Chief jumped out of the Longsword.
He floated through space. He was only thirty meters from the
pods, but if he'd guessed wrong about his trajectory and missed
the target, he wouldn't get a second chance. By the time he
reeled himself back to the Longsword and tried again, those
Covenant ships were certain to kill them all.
He stretched his arms and hands toward the cylinders. Twenty
meters to go.
His approach was off. He shifted his left knee closer to his
chest and started a slow tumble.
Ten meters.
His upper body rotated "down" relative to the pods. If he spun
just right as he passed the cryotubes, it would give him enough
extra reach to make contact. He hoped.
He rotated back... almost standing "up" now.
Three meters.
He stretched his arms until the elbow joints creaked and
popped; he stretched his hands, willed his fingers to elongate.
His fingertips brushed against the smooth surface of the lead-
ing cryopod. It slid off and over and touched the second pod.
He flexed and failed to grab hold. He scratched the surface of the
third and final pod—his middle finger hooked on the frame.
His body swung inward, curled, and landed on the pod. He
quickly looped his tether through the frame, secured himself to
it, and pulled their combined mass back to the Longsword.
"Hurry, Chief," Cortana said over the COM. "We've got
trouble."
The Chief saw exactly what the trouble was: The engines of
two Covenant cruisers flared electric blue as they accelerated
toward the Longsword. The plasma and laser weapons along
their hulls warmed from red to orange as they readied to fire.
He pulled as fast as he could, making minor adjustments with