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ERIC NYLUND
95
"Acknowledged, Lieutenant," Cortana replied. "Be advised
that this ship traverses Slipspace much faster than our UNSC
counterparts. ETA to Reach in thirteen hours."
The Master Chief sighed and relaxed a little. There was an-
other reason for choosing Reach, one he didn't reveal to the
Lieutenant. He knew the odds of anyone surviving on the sur-
face were remote. Astronomical, in fact ... because once the
Covenant decided to glass a planet, they did so with amazing
thoroughness. But he had to see it. It was the only way he could
accept that his teammates were dead.
A wash of static covered the Chief, first along his spine and
then wrapping about his torso. There was an audible pop, and
sparks crackled along the length of his MJOLNIR armor.
The Engineer released its grasp on him and cluttered with
excitement.
Diagnostic routines scrolled upon the Chief's heads-up dis-
play. In the upper right corner the shield recharge bar flickered
red and slowly filled.
"They work," the Master Chief said. John was relieved to have
his shields back. He wouldn't forget what it was like to fight
without them, though. It had been a wake-up call: not to become
dependent upon technology. It was also a reminder that most
battles were won or lost in his head, before he engaged any
enemy.
"Impressive little creatures," Haverson remarked. He scruti-
nized the Covenant Engineer as it floated toward the wall of dis-
plays and began tinkering with one. "I wonder how the Covenant
caste system—"
"Sir!" Sergeant Johnson's voice blasted over the COM, break-
ing with static. "You've got to get down to the Pelican ASAP. You
and the Chief."
"Are you under fire?" the Chief asked.
"Negative," he replied. "It's one of the cryotubes you recovered."
"What about it, Sergeant?" Haverson snapped.
"Chief, there's a Spartan in it."