Halo_ Evolutions - Essential Tales of the Halo Universe - Eric Nylund [95]
Somebody was doing a lot of gambling here, and Lopez still had no idea for what potential gain.
Rebecca turned to Lopez, and said, “What the commander means is he wants you to take a squad in a Pelican and go investigate the Mona Lisa’s last known coordinates.”
Foucault looked grim. “Is that what I meant? If you say it’s what I meant, I guess it must be what I meant.” The sarcastic tone had become more pronounced, but, again, tinged with an odd kind of regret.
“Sir?” Confused. She’d never seen an AI contradict a commander in quite that way. “Sir, your orders?”
Foucault stared at Rebecca, as if the force of his gaze might burn two holes in her avatar. Then he said in a clipped cadence, “AI Rebecca is, of course, correct. Take a squad in a Pelican and investigate. Rebecca will coordinate the details. Good luck, Sergeant. Dismissed.”
Lopez saluted, rose in confusion, walked out the door. Thinking of John Doe’s warm hand. Puzzled. Wondering why neither Foucault nor Rebecca had even asked about the autopsy, or the nature of the man’s terrible wounds, or everything else that didn’t jive.
Lopez had scars from wounds of her own, collected from long years of making the Covenant pay and keep on paying. Along with a long white reminder on her wrist of why you didn’t surprise a sleeping cat.
Every time Lopez was about to go into combat, she was aware of those scars.
They were throbbing now, telling her: Something bad is coming.
>Foucault 1003 hours
Foucault sat there after Lopez had left, staring at Rebecca. He was, for all his former exploits, a cautious man who had used extreme tactics when it had seemed the only option for his continued survival. It had made him a hero and given him his command, but he didn’t feel like a hero. He’d just been trying to save himself. He wasn’t sure he had. Waking from nightmares, from memories, awash with sweat to find it was only one in the morning got old fast. So did losing to the Covenant.
Rebecca wasn’t helping. He’d had a good relationship with Chauncey. He’d trusted Chauncey. Rebecca, well . . . Theoretically she worked for him, but a directive from ONI’s upper echelons had imposed her on him—along with a couple of rookies who acted so raw it made him suspicious—and that was more than sufficient reason for him to be wary.
Foucault’d had a superior once with a prosthetic eye, except that no one knew. This man would call Foucault into his office and, without telling him why he had been summoned, close his good eye and fall asleep, still staring at Foucault. Inevitably, Foucault would lose the waiting contest and be the first to break the silence.
Rebecca was a man with a glass eye. She could outwait him.
So, finally, Foucault sighed, lifted his head, and stated, “You know more than you’ve told me.”
Rebecca didn’t quite shake her head. “We have our orders, Commander.”
Orders. Strange, simple orders, Foucault had thought upon first receiving them. Jump to coordinates classified higher than top secret, retrieve samples of an alien artifact for study, conduct basic recon, expect Covenant trouble. He’d stood on the bridge, staring at the pieces of the Halo, the wealth of such samples before him, and wondered why they’d deploy a Prowler on such a task.
As soon as the pod had come in, Rebecca had shown him the “expanded” orders. Even expanded, they remained strange and simple. Assess the status of the Mona Lisa, and if compromised beyond retrieval, destroy. There had been no mention of why the ship was in the area or what it might be compromised by.
The codes were current, the passwords secure. He didn’t question their validity. It was the only thing he didn’t question.
“Do you know what is on that ship?” he asked, knowing he would get no answer, knowing he wouldn’t believe any answer she gave. “I don’t like being kept in the dark, especially when