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ERIC NYLUND
71
the odd calligraphy of the Covenant. They also showed the space
surrounding them, and the five remaining Covenant cruisers
closing in.
The Chief caught a motion in his peripheral vision: An Elite in
jet-black armor materialized from the wall display, its
light-bending camouflage dissolving. It strode toward the Chief,
roaring a challenge.
The Chief's rifle snapped up, and he squeezed the trigger.
Three rounds spat from the muzzle, then the bolt locked open.
The ammo counter read oo—empty.
The shots flared on the Elite's shielding; a lucky round pene-
trated and deformed its shoulder. Purple-black blood spattered
on the deck, but it shrugged off the wound and kept coming.
Haverson charged into the room and leveled his pistol. "Hold
it!" he yelled, and thumbed off the weapon's safety.
The Elite drew a plasma pistol and fired at the Lieutenant—
but never took its eyes off the Chief.
Haverson cursed and scrambled out of the room as the plasma
charge slashed at him.
The Chief altered his grip on the rifle and crouched in a low
fighting stance. Even with the shield malfunction, he was confi-
dent he could take a single Elite.
The Elite removed its helmet and dropped it. The plasma pistol
clattered to the deck a moment later. It leaned forward, and its
mandibles parted in what the Chief guessed had to be a smile. It
moved closer, and a blue-white blade of energy flashed to life in
its hands.
The Elite raised the energy blade and charged.