... Catherine Halsey. 17 January 2537. World: Reach.
At the ONI base "CASTLE," built in mines under Mount Menachite, early morning. It is, as always, quiet and calm here. Regardless of what is happening outside—insurrectionists or Covenant—this multi-purpose complex, built atop a Forerunner structure, is always safe. Its primary defense is secrecy.
A Covenant attack would most likely result in Reach's destruction as an inhabited world, but insurrectionists are always around. Detonating a nuclear charge in this complex would be a major victory for them. Some might think the war with the Covenant relieved humanity's political tensions, but in reality it didn't. It didn't relieve them.
The government tightly controls the colonies, and they respond as they can. Uprisings. Terror attacks. The Covenant is far away; the tyrannical government, as they call it, is close. The region where Reach lies is no exception. And all this military infrastructure makes the planet a more tempting target, not less. Twelve years ago, terrorists dropped a passenger liner full of tourists into Reach's atmosphere. They all burned alive.
Only six years ago—already during the Covenant War—a major rebel cell operated on the planet, and the Spartans destroyed it. My Spartans. My pride, my joy, and my enormous sin. It's a shame, but there was no other choice. The supersoldier project would have been completed anyway—by less competent and more obedient people, with greater losses among candidates. A necessary evil. There will be work to do on that today.
The residential section in CASTLE includes every convenience the staff needs. Two rooms, a bathroom and shower, a cafeteria, and even a full restaurant. With their pay, both civilian and military intelligence staff have nothing to complain about—they can afford it. The room is sparse. As a specialist who moves a lot between labs and worlds, you don't want too many things to haul around. Of course there are personal items, but the main wardrobe is nine lab coats and field clothing for every situation and climate. Cold, jungle, thin atmosphere, starships and stations—work should be comfortable in any situation.
Today I'm at the base, which means a lab coat. It's warm enough inside the complex. Passing a mirror, I allowed myself to check that I looked good enough. A middle-aged brunette in a white lab coat and glasses. I like to think I'm beautiful—in the best age for a woman. Just over forty: not a girl, but the years haven't taken their due either. Like fine wine. Hair not long, so it won't get in the way. And too-long hair is hard to tuck into a suit quickly. Satisfied that everything was fine, I went to the kitchen.
"Perfect."
My thoughts jumped to Project SPARTAN-II. Spartans. My creation. My curse. Soldiers enhanced biochemically and with extensive cybernetics. People don't like remembering it, but they were created specifically to suppress rebels in the outer colonies—though against the Covenant they proved exceptionally effective. My children, my creations. Each of them was secretly replaced with a clone that died within months. The "dead" children fell outside many jurisdictions and were subjected to extremely harsh training and experiments. Not all of them made it. Those who handled the procedures well are dying now on the front lines of the war with the Covenant.
Entering the kitchen, I asked loudly:
"Déjà, what's new?"
The counselor AI—one of the dumb, development-limited AIs based on an advanced neural network—replied:
"You have seventeen messages, including two high priority. One from Doctor Fortenko, the other from ONI Major Debaltsev. Play the second?"
Unexpected. Problems with one of the projects? A lost document? The latter was possible—just as possible as my bedroom being clean while my office lab desk was a creative mess. Ha. They take rookies around and show them what not to do with classified documents. If it were urgent, they would've woken me at any hour. Debaltsev limited himself to a message, meaning I had at least some time. Still, I should find out what he wants.
"Play it."
A slightly hoarse voice came from the speaker.
"Doctor Catherine Halsey. You are to arrive as quickly as possible at Station 'Tangent' at the south pole. Orders allocating transport and assignment have been signed. I expect your arrival on site as soon as possible. The task is under Director Parangosky's oversight. You know what that means."
I looked at Déjà's hologram over a mug of coffee. Don't get angry. Endure, Catherine—they always behave like this. Secrecy, as they always say. Stupidity: if they gave general information about why I'm being called in, I could work with it en route. But all Major Debaltsev managed was threats toward a "civilian specialist." Now I'll have to wait until arrival and waste time doing nothing. These ONI secrecy protocols. Still, despite all the irritation, not a single extra emotion showed on my face. In the end, they are always like this. It would be surprising if they acted otherwise.
"Déjà, request transport in an hour."
"Completed."
Good. With that handled—since the military were too embarrassed to give even minimal information about the incident that required my presence, I could move at my own pace and see what my daughter wrote. In the end, I'm a civilian specialist.
"Déjà, any messages from Miranda?"
I wonder how she is on Luna? Unfortunately, I don't have time to be with her, and I can't care for a child and work on ONI projects at the same time. But my captain does a good job of it. Jacob—I should write to him. I smiled. A hologram of a twelve-year-old girl appeared and immediately waved, looking a bit sad.
"Hi, Mom. You're busy again, like always. And I…"
Listening to her monologue, I thought about what a terrible mother I was. My girl had every right to be unhappy. Since six years ago, when she moved in with her father, we rarely see each other. He's a Navy officer; I have classified projects with Intelligence. Not the best pairing for raising a child. Always short on time. Someday something will have to be done about it. We can…
"Doctor Halsey, transport services report that your craft will be waiting in the hangar in twenty minutes."
Oh—already. Well then. Time to go. Nodding to the AI and checking my glasses and badge, I headed for the transit station. CASTLE is fairly crowded, which isn't surprising: Reach concentrates an enormous amount of military infrastructure. The Fleet, training facilities of every kind—including Spartans. Of course, controlling all that requires a developed intelligence service. And then there are rebels and organized crime. All of it needs watching and dealing with. And the long, bright corridors of CASTLE—once a mining complex—hold them all: researchers, spies, soldiers. They walk those long bright corridors on their business.
Reaching the guard at the transit node, I handed him my card.
"Catherine Halsey. I have transport waiting."
The Marine in gray armor quickly scanned the card, then fingerprints, and nodded.
"Landing pad three, Doctor. Have a good day."
... At least these guys never do stupid things. They just do their job. If only everyone in ONI were like that.
A suborbital shuttle had been assigned as transport, already waiting in one of the hangars. About twenty meters long, streamlined shape. And an escort detachment from the ODSTs. Things were getting more interesting. These people are drawn from experienced soldiers who undergo additional training and take part in counterterrorism operations as well.
I looked at the unit patches: team "Wrangler." Familiar faces. Not our first joint operation. Six massive figures in heavy armor, painted black. Even the two women were quite large by normal human standards. On average twenty to thirty centimeters taller than me—broad and physically developed, though I don't suffer from gigantism. One meter seventy—rather short. I allowed myself a slight smile in greeting.
"John, Kurt, Molly, Lacey, Tom, and James. Good to work with you again."
Kurt waved; the others nodded as they rose from the crates they'd been sitting on.
"Doctor Halsey! So you're with us too?"
I nodded.
"That's right. Does anyone know what happened?"
"I do. Get aboard—I'll explain in flight."
I turned toward the voice and saw a heavyset man in an ONI major's uniform. He could stand to lose some weight. Debaltsev. A good organizer, but he has discipline problems, and he's been in his post for a long time now. More administrator than operator. Still, he wouldn't be here if he couldn't meet standards. And if he can handle that, it's not my problem. The key is that he does his job better than many around here.
We boarded quickly. I traveled light; Debaltsev too. But the Wranglers were loaded with weapons—clearly headed for a combat mission. I needed more information; for now everything was too contradictory.
After takeoff and a quick sweep for listening devices, the major spoke.
"So, Doctor Halsey. Wranglers. What do you know about the incident 'Lone Traveler,' which occurred almost two years ago?"
I shrugged.
"Nothing."
The soldiers exchanged glances, then Kurt said:
"We heard a Covenant ship came out near Reach, empty. Reactor damage or something—everyone aboard died. The crew's dead, so it's basically an empty ship for the split-chins, if you can get past the infection."
The major nodded.
"Seventh version. You'll name the source in your report."
"Yes, sir," the soldiers replied, out of sync.
After making a note, the major continued.
"Your clearance is sufficient, which is good. All those versions contain only part of the truth. Yes—two years ago, the patrol frigate 'Madrid' discovered an unknown high-tech dreadnought. But it is not a Covenant ship. It is far older and more advanced. That explains a lot, including all these secrecy complications. A source of technology—and a target for Covenant or rebels. Better if no one knows, or if there are only rumors. Easier than repelling constant attacks by saboteurs and spies. But that ship…"
"Forerunners?"
It looked like the major had been waiting for someone to ask. He held the pause, then dramatically said:
"Ancient humans of the Forerunner era." And seeing my raised eyebrow, he explained: "On board were partially decomposed, then frozen, mummified crew bodies. Plus materials analysis done by researchers. The ship is over one hundred ten thousand years old. A massive amount of materials—armor superior to your Spartans' MJOLNIR, energy weapons and shields, power sources, materials and technologies. Much has been damaged by time, but even so, it's hundreds of years of progress in one ship. Go on. Take it."
And no one said anything to me. They waited until they ran into trouble. I wouldn't be surprised if…
"Project oversight by Major Ackerson?"
Debaltsev smirked. Yes, I have enemies and the envious. Everyone does. That changes nothing. But I kept my outward calm.
"No. The major has nothing to do with the project. No one wanted to overload you, Doctor. Project ORION-II, AI work, other projects—you have no idea how much we found on that ship. So we didn't burden you with this as well. I am, essentially, dealing only with the ship; there isn't time for more."
I didn't believe him. And in any case, it was too interesting to refuse. I would have found time. This was a breakthrough—so much information. But I needed to keep face, especially in front of Intelligence.
"Then why do you need us?" Kurt cut in. "Nothing sounds bad so far, sir."
Major Debaltsev grimaced.
"There was a functioning ancient AI on the ship. We accidentally connected it to the station's systems. It took it ten seconds to suppress two dumb AIs working with the equipment and fully take over the station. It is currently holding the staff hostage."
Seriously? No—seriously? All the precautions, all of it? I understand scientific interest, discoveries. But you still have to be careful. Unbelievable. The Wranglers' faces were hidden by their helmets, but there was no doubt they were thinking the same thing. Debaltsev, clearly reading my reaction, exhaled.
"With help from an ONI AI acting as an observer, we were able to understand what happened. An engineering team found a massive, Pelican-sized device, assembled in a makeshift manner. In a nearby engineering bay we found the components," a hologram of the device appeared—an assortment of cylinders, tanks, pipes, wires, and crystals; truly crude assembly, "analysis suggested it was a communications system the crew attempted to restore after the accident. It was fully functional, unlike the other systems. The AI Norman—a dumb analyst AI—attempted to connect to the device. Six seconds after beginning the connection, Norman reported: Executing order. And an avalanche-like station takeover began. The second AI—xenotech Duplex—held for about a second. After that, the third AI—our observer—issued an order for physical destruction of the communications systems. Staff status unknown. That was twelve hours ago."
Incredible. Classic science fiction plot: hostile AI takes over a station. Given the age, it might have gone rampant. Though there are no guarantees. A warship AI that found unknowns around it would try to gather information and secure itself. Too early for conclusions. This could be defense.
John asked:
"What is the Wranglers' task?"
Debaltsev answered:
"Conduct reconnaissance. Escort the doctor to the AI core so she can shut it down. Even if it is not functioning properly, its systems likely contain valuable data we can extract. This is absolutely necessary."
The soldiers nodded. So did I. I needed to make sure no one had the idea of destroying the most valuable source of data. But that wasn't all.
"If the AI is sane, I want to work with it." Everyone looked at me. "This is an ancient and valuable source of knowledge. If it's a smart AI—not rampant, but simply defending itself according to protocol—it will be a valuable interlocutor and a useful ally. And since I've been informed, I want to be part of the project."
Debaltsev nodded to himself. The soldiers glanced at each other—probably speaking over internal comms.
"That was discussed. The Director gave approval—if you can resolve this crisis with minimal damage and as quickly as possible."
Good. It would be nice to study ancient human infantry armor too—maybe we could improve MJOLNIR—but one thing at a time. First, the situation had to be stabilized.
On approach, we squeezed onto the bridge to look at the station. They still hadn't given me data—secrecy. So I watched through the window.
"It's enormous," I exhaled in awe. "It's magnificent!"
The ship truly was immense. Around its multi-kilometer bulk were countless construction trusses, blurring the original rectangular silhouette. Portions of the hull had been detached and docked to other blocks; it was obvious the ship was being dismantled piece by piece. Numerous transports were docked, and at a safe distance a cruiser hung in space. One thousand one hundred seventy meters—Valiant-class. Compared to the giant, it looked like a frigate.
"Nine thousand four hundred seventy meters long. The station has no weapons, so we'll dock with the cruiser, and conduct operations from there."
The cruiser was pointed nose-on at the station, likely ready to use its magnetic railgun—or to destroy any ships departing the station. And of course, patrol craft were circling, one of which escorted us to the cruiser. From there, we were led into a briefing room: a square hall with a table and chairs. A duty officer reported to the major:
"No attempts to breach quarantine during your absence. No attempts at communication, no ship breakouts."
ODST James asked:
"Do you have a map of the complex?"
There was a map. And what an enormous ship. Even with dismantled and depressurized sections, it was still kilometers of corridors, with a space station of researchers attached to it. The AI compartment was deep in the hull, at the very edge of the explored zone.
"We can enter here," Lieutenant Kelly pointed. "Through the warehouses—six compartments and two laboratories before we reach the AI's chamber."
Possible. But we'd have to drop in wearing a vacuum suit.
"The shortest route could be dangerous," John objected. "If this is a military-type AI, it should have fortified the most vulnerable path."
"If it has anything left to use," Debaltsev noted. "The ship has been abandoned for a long time. Functioning equipment is limited; most of what works is our research gear. The staff is concerned with security. Without staff assistance, organizing defenses will be difficult."
The station staff. No information on what happened to them. But we needed to understand what we were dealing with. I was eager.
"Do you have any code samples? Programs? The language? What will I be dealing with? Better to know now than on site."
They had only general samples. Crew records, some programs. And a problem surfaced immediately.
"A different programming language. Different logic and syntax."
If there had been any doubt this wasn't Forerunner tech, it was gone now. Forerunner equipment is well studied, first—and intuitively understandable, second. It has often been noted that you can have never used Forerunner mechanisms, yet still easily activate their terminals, understanding what and where to press. Not in this case.
Ancient human tech simply refused to yield to familiar logic. On the other hand, it was now clear how this ancient AI had been able to breach our counterparts' protections: a language barrier and new offensive and defensive methods. Most likely, after subjugating and learning from the first analyst AI's knowledge, it could operate far more freely—while the second AI still had to learn how to work with it. And since dumb AIs are built narrow and specialized, and can't be equally good at analysis and cybersecurity, they were doomed.
It was interesting what the AI did to them beyond extracting their knowledge. In any case, trying to hack it right now was pointless—it would take too long. We needed to cut the AI off from power. And only later, after preparing everything and creating an isolated zone, work with it. I couldn't wait. That's what I said.
"There's no point trying to hack it here. The system is too unfamiliar—it will take too long. Far more effective to cut the mechanism off from its power supply, and then hack it later in a calm, isolated environment."
The plan was accepted easily—obviously they had time pressure. And the ODSTs, like the Spartans, were generally quite obedient; they just needed orders.
"We powered the device from our own grid—the ship's was too damaged. To cut the mechanism off, we'll have to sever the cable running along the floor. With a door, or just cut it. There's also the option to shut down the distribution panel here, two compartments away."
Overall, listening to the major's account, it was possible to agree the security had been done properly. Isolation systems in the right places. Several layers of protection. No one expected to encounter a functioning AI on an unfamiliar architecture—that was all. While the Wranglers handled the sweep, I could study. Since no on-site hack was expected, there was no need for me to fly over personally. And if it became necessary, I was still on the cruiser—they would call me.
The soldiers left half an hour later. I focused on gathering information and learning a new and fascinating language.
Unfortunately, information was scarce. There were files, some of which had been decrypted. They were crew records—likely last words. There were programs that survived in remnants of the system. But because they were written in an unknown manner on an unknown architecture, it was impossible to say what they were. The system had thrown me a challenge I needed to solve to speak with the ancient human AI. If I were a little dumber, I would have broken it into programs to advance my own work.
But if this was a smart AI—shipboard or command—such a specialist could be valuable in their own right. Of course it still had to be studied. But as a valuable colleague, not a test subject. Each AI is equal to a human genius—even dumb ones. What could a smart specialist, thousands of years old, know and do, hm? I want it. I want to know everything he knows. I will know.