Halo: First Strike Read Online Free PDF Page A

hurry."
     
    "Why not?  Since your return from Asia, you have not been
    productive."
     
    "I'm going to die, my friend."  The smells of lemon and mint
    drifted up to him, and he inhaled them deeply.  He said, "Today,
    maana, some day for sure  and I'm still trying to understand
    what that means to me now.  To be productive, that is fine, but to
    come to terms with my own mortality  I think that is better." 
    The taboulleh was finished.  It was beautiful; he wanted to rub
    his face in it.
    #
     
    Not long after he finished eating, a package arrived from
    Thailand.  Inside layers of foam and strapping were the memory
    modules the Thais had taken.  When he plugged the modules into the
    memex, they showed empty:  zeroed, ready to be used again.
     
    Gonzales stood looking at the racked modules in the memex
    closet.  I can't fucking believe it, he thought.  In effect, the
    audit had been cancelled out.  Whatever data he or anyone else
    collected at this point from SenTrax Myanmar would be essentially
    useless, Grossback having been given time to cook the data if he
    needed to do so.  A fatal indeterminacy had settled on the whole
    affair.
     
    Grossback, you bastard, thought Gonzales.  If you arranged
    for the Thais to grab these boxes, maybe you are smarter and
    meaner than I thought.
     
    "Shit," Gonzales said.
     
    "Is there anything I can do?" the memex asked.
     
    "Nothing I can think of."
    #
     
    >From the background of jungle plants and pastel walls and the
    signature pieces of curved silver, HeyMex recognized the latest
    incarnation of the Beverly Rodeo Hotel's public lounge.  Mister
    Jones preferred ostentation, even in simulacra.
     
    HeyMex settled into a sling chair made of bright chrome and
    stuffed chocolate-brown leather.  HeyMex wore the usual baggy
    pants and jacket of black cotton, a crumpled white linen shirt;
    was smooth-faced and had close-cropped hair.
     
    A figure shimmered into being in the chair opposite:  silver
    suit and red metal-laced shirt brilliant under lights; black-
    framed glasses with dark lenses; greased hair combed straight
    back, a little black goatee and moustache.
     
    "Mister Jones," HeyMex said.
     
    The other figure took a long, slow drag off a brown
    cigarette.  "HeyMex," it said.  "What can I do for you?"
     
    "It's Gonzales.  Since we got back from Myanmar, he's been
    passive, hasn't been taking care of business."
     
    "Post-trauma responsegive him some time, he'll be okay."
     
    "No, he doesn't need time.  He needs work.  Have you got
    something?"
     
    "Maybe.  I haven't run a personnel searchhe might not fit
    the exact profile."
     
    "Never mind that.  Give it to Gonzales.  He needs it."
     
    "If you say so.  You'll hear something official later today."
     
    The world went translucent, then turned to smoke, and Mister
    Jones disappeared back into his identity as Traynor's Advisor,
    HeyMex into his as Gonzales's memex.
     
    (Ask yourself why the two machines chose this elaborate
    masquerade, or why no one knew these sorts of things were
    happening.  However, as to the who? and the why? there can be no
    question.  These are the new players, and these are their games.
     
    So welcome to the new millennium.)
     
     
     
     
    4. Privileged Not to Exist
     
     
     
    When Gonzales returned home, he found a message from Traynor: 
    "Will arrange for transportation tomorrow morning, five a.m., from
    Northern Seattle Airtrack to my estate.  Be prepared for immediate
    work.  Pack the memex and twenty-two kilos personal luggage."
     
    "Shit," Gonzales said.  "We just got home.  Twenty-two kilos,
    huh?  That means we'll be going  where do you think?"
     
    The memex said, "Somewhere in orbit."
    #
     
    The airport limo held its spot in a locked sequence of a
    dozen vehicles moving away from the city at two hundred kilometers
    an hour.  Seattle's northern suburbs showed as patches of light
    behind shifting mist and steady-falling rain.  Overhead, cargo
    blimps