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The explosion washed away the Covenant Cruiser and its nameless gray escorts like a blizzard covering footsteps in the snow. And soon, all was quiet again. And cold. And peaceful. Like midnight.

DIRT

* * *

TOBIAS S. BUCKELL

THE FIGURE in the charcoal-black body armor picked his way over the top of a shattered, stubby wing, then walked past the ruined mangle of a Pelican dropship. A large BR55 battle rifle rested at the ready, cradled between his forearms.

He paused by the tip of the Pelican, which had plowed into the ground on its side, and looked through the shattered windows of the cockpit.

“Over here, Marine.”

The oval black helmet swung around to look at a clump of tall orange grass behind a thick piece of granite, the morning sun glinting off the upside-down T-shaped visor.

BR55 aimed forward; the Orbital Drop Shock Trooper moved toward the sound of the voice and pushed aside the tall fronds of grass.

The 70-millimeter chain gun from the tip of the Pelican dropship had broken loose and sheared the tip of granite clean off, then cratered into the dirt a few hundred feet away.

Lying between it and the rock was a man in battle dress uniform: simple camouflage with a few chest and hip pockets. Fairly standard.

He’d obviously been thrown clear of the cockpit on impact and bounced along the dirt. Both legs looked broken, and at least one arm. Blood seeped through the BDU’s legs, torso, and arms.

The man’s face was cut up. Enough to be unrecognizable.

He had an M6 Magnum sidearm pointed at the ODST, which he let drop to the dirt next to him in exhaustion.

Somehow the soldier had crawled out of his body armor, which lay all around him. A closer look revealed why: charred and melted, the ODST body armor would have burned his skin.

“Good to see you.” The man’s voice held the strange calm of someone who knew they were beyond help, so terribly injured they were past the pain. “I wasn’t sure if the call got through.”

The ODST crouched beside him and opened a medical pack. Biofoam, to stop the worst of the bleeding, and polypsuedomorphine to ease the man’s pain. He worked as best he could, though his hands shook a bit. This wasn’t training; this was a real, dying man, and the ODST was no medic. He looked around. “My SOEIV landed nearby, and I was ordered over to see if I could help with a downed Pelican. But sir, you need more help than I can give you. We need to get you out of here. There are Covenant forces moving in on our position. We don’t have much time.”

“We have time, Private.” The injured Marine grabbed the helmet of the crouched shoulder in a sudden movement, yanking the man down close to him.

“I’ve been doing this so long, rook, that somewhere along the line I forgot what it was all about,” the Marine on the ground hissed into the reflective visor. “But what I want you to remember about me is that it has been a long journey between where I started and where I’m sitting now. I would apologize for the things I’ve done, but sorry’s passed me by, rook. You don’t see the things I’ve seen and come out sorry. But sometimes, if you’re not a complete monster, you come out realizing what’s important.”

The ODST pushed back carefully, trying to make sure not to further hurt the man on the ground. “Sir?”

He coughed, blood staining his lips and chin. “All this crap started back in the Colonial Military.”

The ODST turned and looked back the way he’d come, helmet twisting, and murmured a situation report and request for backup as he reported his find.

“Of course,” the injured man continued, “I can see by your insignia you’re a private, just out of training, probably your first jump down to dirtside. You might not even remember the CMA . . . but back before there was the UNSC, there was the CMA . . .”

“Sir . . .”

“Shut up and listen, rookie! There’s something important I have to tell you.” The man’s face relaxed. He was slipping back into a world of thoughts and memories. “About friends. Betrayal. Loss. If you keep your head up and do what I tell you,