One-Way Trip

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Prologue
The Light at the End

Once upon a time, William-043 had jokingly referred to a flash-bang grenade's detonation as “the light coming outta the end of the tunnel.” That had been thirty-two years ago, back when they were just kids, barely big enough to hold their own rifles properly. Why Jorge remembered the statement was irrelevant; the fact was, whatever light had been lurking at the end of his tunnel was now shining directly into his eyes, no matter how hard he blinked. To add to this anomaly, there was the most unsettling sensation of vertigo, something Spartans had been trained not to feel. Yet it forced itself upon him now, as whiteness with the intensity of burning magnesium tormented his retinas.

The only thing that kept him from staggering backward from the wave of intense nausea and dizziness was the knowledge in the back of his mind that just a few meters away was the gaping maw of the Corvette's hangar. Instinct took over and he pitched forward, one armored hand slamming unceremoniously into metal. The Pelican. Bracing himself against what he assumed was the dropship that had been directly in front of him minutes ago, he retched, grateful that he hadn't touched his rations in over 24 hours. If he had grown his hair out, it would probably be standing on end right now; the air felt dangerously thick with energy, like static was crawling over his exposed head. It was uncomfortable and unfamiliar, and the sudden painful blindness only made things worse.

Dimly he was aware of his ears ringing and a hammering pain throughout his head. He could have sworn he heard voices, but they were far away, almost like some combination of words and singing and speaking in a language he did not understand. The lack of balance drove him to one knee, then both, and he placed both hands on the smooth metal floor, as his guts churned and his brain waged fierce war against the confines of his skull. The only thing he could know for absolute certain at the moment was that he was arguably alive. What was it Mendez had told him once? If you feel the burn, it means you're not ashes yet. He had been expecting something to happen when he activated the bomb, as he had always suspected he'd end up somewhere when his biological life ended, some sort of hereafter. This didn't feel like death, it felt like dying, and that meant he still had some fight left in him.

He wanted to just think about what had happened, attempt to reach some logical conclusion, and fear sprang up that maybe the bomb hadn't worked, but his mind was in a whirl that resolved itself with another wave of overpowering nausea. The fierce whiteness in his eyes was less painful now, less like looking directly into a supernova. He could feel his eyelids close and open again, but no darkness came with the effort. When he realized he was shaking he tried to get up again, but couldn't get his legs to cooperate. He tried to crawl to the left but his forehead struck something hard, and when he reached out to investigate, he found that it was part of the Pelican's landing gear.

''Was UPPER CUT a success? Did we win?''

Those questions would have to be answered another time. He slumped against the supporting titanium-alloy leg and let the back of his head rest against its cold, smooth surface, blind and deaf and more stunned than he ever remembered being even as a small child beset by angry drill instructors armed with electric batons. He clung to the unrelenting confidence he had felt when he pressed his hand to the Slipspace bomb's detonator; it hadn't cost him anything to throw his life away, because he had everything to lose if he didn't see Kat's plan to fruition. His homeworld, his comrades, his friends. All it took was a simple motion on his part to remove the one thing standing between Reach and survival. He thought it would be quick and simple and, as Six had bluntly and sadly put it, a “one-way trip.”

Six.

The last thing he thought of before sinking into blissful oblivion was how her small hand had clamped his like a vise, grinding his dog tags into his palm, and the image of her free-falling into Reach's atmosphere, something gray and lonely against the planet's war-scarred visage.