odd, and he felt a little nauseous.
Okay, where am I?
He thought back to the last thing he remembered. Images of the massed Mauler assault on the Rift Engine came back, but this time only in short bursts, as if the memories themselves were heavily damaged. He could see their armored forms as they braved the volleys of defensive guns. Every explosion slowed down to show him the carnage in exquisite detail.
The light flickered again in the distance, and then he found his eyes began to adjust. For now it was nothing but subtle shades of gray, but every additional second seemed to improve things. He breathed slowly and found the air cool yet dry. He could see more lights running in a uniform position down a wide passageway.
“Spartan,” whispered a voice off into the distance.
He lifted his hands to his face, and to his surprise found there was no visor. The last thing he remembered was the bloody battle for the massive Rift Engine. He knew he’d been wearing armor in that attack.
What the hell?
“Spartan,” said the voice again.
Keeping his hands out in front, much like a blind man trying to make his way along a road, he began to walk. That was the moment he realized he was now floating and that his feet were touching nothing.
Zero gravity, great!
He spun about until his arm caught on a bulkhead extension and he could pull himself down. Unsure whether he was now on the floor or walls, he began pulling himself carefully through the passageway. Each meter he covered brought him closer to the flickering lights, yet the voice had vanished. Seconds drifted by until he was halfway to the light. Something flashed, and then a shape drifted in front of him. For a moment the shape blocked out the light and left him hidden in the darkness.
Wait a minute.
The shape reminded him of something, and as it continued on its course, he noticed the form of a person. They tumbled off to one side, but from this far away it was impossible to tell if they were dead or alive.
“Hey, you there!” he growled.
His voice was muffled, as though he’d lost his voice. The person kept moving past, and it was then it occurred to him that the atmosphere in this place might be thin, perhaps leaking out into space. Spartan instinctively closed his mouth and squinted with his eyes, dreading the terrible problem that came from freezing temperatures in breached craft.
“Help us!” somebody called out. This time it was a woman’s voice.
The shape of the passageway was clear now, and Spartan could make out the diamond shape that ran for at least a hundred meters. Small hatches were along the walls at different heights, instantly betraying the internal design.
Zero gravity facility, this place must be as old as me, maybe older.
He kept on moving and finally reached the first of the working lights. They were small, no bigger than a fingernail, and only lit an area of a few square meters. It was enough to show the marks and stains on the wall.
Blood?
Spartan extended his arms and was shocked to see both of his hands. It had been so long since he’d seen his missing forearm that he hadn’t even noticed he’d wiped his own brow with both hands. He pulled back his hands and rubbed them together. His excitement was short lived on noticing the congealed blood now stuck to both of them.
This isn’t right.
Turning back to the lit section of bulkhead, he pulled himself in closer. The blood showed up as black, but Spartan was all too familiar with the sight of this kind of gore. He began to lose control and reached out, rubbing his hand on the side panel. His hand left a long streak until he twisted about to face a damaged panel. With his other hand, he grabbed on to it and stabilized himself.
Okay, concentrate. Let’s get this thing working.
He pulled on the unit, and it flipped open and revealed green letters on a small, very primate console; to the right was a tiny keypad with lit up letters. He moved his hand closer and tapped the screen;
Ismaíl Kadaré, Derek Coltman