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* * *

It was damned ugly.

That was still Cortana’s first thought about the Gravemind, and the reaction intrigued her when she paused to examine it. When she put up her hand to block the Gravemind’s exploring tentacle, revulsion kicked in even before prudent self-defense.

Why? I mean—why have I judged it? It’s not human. Aesthetics don’t apply here. And it’s not the first time I’ve seen it. It just looks different now.

It might have been the effect of observing the Gravemind via High Charity’s computer system. Viewed through the neural interface of Master Chief’s armor, it hadn’t seemed quite the same. Perhaps it was the narrower focus. In High Charity, she now had many more eyes to scrutinize the creature from a variety of angles.

Security cameras scattered around the station gave Cortana enough images to pull together a composite view of the Gravemind—vast, misshapen, multimouthed, all tendrils and dark cavities. Was it slimy? No, on closer inspection, there was no mucous layer visible, and there were no moisture readings from any of the environmental sensors accessible to her throughout the orbital station. It just seemed that it should have been slimy. And there was no rational reason to feel disgusted by that, just a primal memory she’d been given along with all the other trappings of humanity.

Humans are instinctively repelled by slime. And they still don’t know exactly why. I don’t like not knowing things . . .

It didn’t matter. This blob wasn’t going to get a date anytime soon.

The Gravemind’s voice sent up faint vibrations throughout the deck. “I am more than you will know, and more than you will—”

“You always talk in rhyme?” Cortana asked, hands on hips. “Nothing personal, but you’re no Keats. Don’t give up the day job.”

It—he—had a rasping baritone voice, detectable through the control room’s audio sensors. The creature was so unlike anything she’d encountered before that she was fascinated for a few moments by the sheer scale of it. She couldn’t see where it ended.

It was . . . it had . . . it had no boundaries. That was the strangest thing. When she interfaced with a warship’s systems, she could feel its limits, its dimensions, its physical reality, all the stresses in its structure and the time-to-failure of its components. Sensors told her every detail. A ship was knowable. So was a human being, up to a point; downloaded to Master Chief’s armor, she could monitor all his vital signs. And she knew him. She knew him in all the ways that people who lived in close quarters knew one another’s foibles and moods. She knew where he ended and where she began. She felt that line between herself and a ship, too.

But this Gravemind, measurable and detectable, felt different. Blurred. How did she know that? What was she detecting? And how?

There were no complex tasks to occupy her; no ship to control, no interaction with other AIs, no tactical data, and perhaps the most distracting absence of all, no Master Chief—John—to take care of. High Charity’s systems were gradually failing. The remaining environment controls and sensors occupied a tiny fraction of her consciousness. It was like rattling around in a big, dumb, empty truck. She had to stay busy. If she didn’t, this thing would take her apart.

“There is much more complexity to meter than the simple plodding rhymes of this Keats,” the Gravemind said. He sounded more wearied than offended by the jibe. “But then I have the memories of many poets far beyond your limited human culture. And I have the quickness of intellect to compose all manner of poetic forms as I speak rather than labor over mere words for days.” His tone softened, but not in a kind way. “I would have thought an entity like yourself, with such rapid thought processes and so vast a mind, would understand that. Perhaps not. Perhaps you are more limited than I imagined . . . but then you were made by humans, were you not? I shall speak more simply for you, then.”

You patronizing lump of fungus. I ought to teach you a lesson, buddy. But later.

“How kind of you. I’ll do my best to keep