The Thursday War

by Karen Traviss

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  For Sam,

  who always talks good Texan common sense when I need it

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My grateful thanks go to Frank O’Connor, franchise development director for Halo, and Kevin Grace, franchise manager for Halo, of 343 Industries; Jeremy Patenaude, franchise writer of Halo, 343 Industries, for being a walking Halo encyclopedia; Jim Gilmer, for moral support; and “Aryss SkaHara” (you know who you are) and the wonderful Russian Halo fans on Twitter for Russian language support. Bless you all.

  343 Industries would like to thank Scott Dell’Osso, James Frenkel, Stacy Hill, Bryan Koski, Matt McCloskey, Whitney Ross, Bonnie Ross-Ziegler, Rob Semsey, Matt Skelton, Phil Spencer, Karen Traviss, Carla Woo, and Jennifer Yi.

  None of this would have been possible without the amazing efforts of the Microsoft staffers, including: Ben Cammarano, Christine Finch, Kevin Grace, Tyler Jeffers, Carlos Naranjo, Tiffany O’Brien, Frank O’Connor, Jeremy Patenaude, Brian Reed, Corrinne Robinson, Eddie Smith, and Kiki Wolfkill.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Books in the New York Times Bestselling Halo® Series

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE, BRAVO-6, SYDNEY, EARTH: MARCH 2553

  This job is about trouble.

  Seeing trouble coming, neutralizing trouble … and causing trouble for others before they cause it for you.

  On a day when there’s no trouble, something’s wrong. There’s always trouble. You simply haven’t noticed it yet, so you have to seek it out before it comes looking for you. But today’s a normal day and I don’t have to hunt. Captain Serin Osman has just reported in from Venezia. She’s calling off the mission for the time being and breaking orbit to return to Sanghelios, because we have trouble.

  And where’s my damn coffee?

  Osman’s lost contact with her Sangheili language expert, Phillips. One minute he’s spying happily under the noses of his Sangheili hosts, and the next there’s an explosion. Now we’re scrambling to find out what’s happened. The Arbiter’s no fool. He invited Phillips to visit. He has a reason, and if he’s sane, he has to be suspicious of us. Yes, perhaps it’s all part of genuinely wanting to build bridges with Earth, but I can’t afford to assume the best. My job is about planning for the worst, and making sure that it happens—to Earth’s enemies, anyway. My job isn’t about okay.

  The whole point of this mission, the whole raison d’être of the Kilo-Five mission, is to make things as un-okay for the Sangheili as we can, to keep them feuding and fighting while we re-arm and neutralize them once and for all. But we have an operative stranded there with an AI, a civilian academic, not an experienced ONI agent like Osman. So she has to extract him. I’d do the same if I were her. Venezia can wait, after all: it’s been a terrorist haven since before the Covenant War, and it’s not going anywhere. Besides, Mike Spenser is there. A safe pair of hands, our Mike. In this job, you handpick your people. You need the best. You need the most loyal. You need the most ruthless.

  And ruthlessness and loyalty in a single human being is a rare combination to find.

  So … where’s my coffee? Don’t make me beg, Dorsey. I hit the intercom. “Flag, are you still alive out there?”

  “On its way, ma’am.” Lieutenant Dorsey knows my routine. He’s never normally this late with my morning mocha. “Sorry. I got stuck on a call.”

  “I’m not getting any younger, Flag.”

  He’s a good boy. I couldn’t wish for a better flag lieutenant. So the coffee is on its way. Let’s take a deep breath and assess the situation.

  On the plus side, we’ve managed to arm and foster a Sangheili insurrection, and we have both a live Sangheili prisoner and four Huragok, three of which have unique knowledge from the days of the Forerunners. With their assistance, we’re extracting a treasure trove of Forerunner technology from what’s left of Onyx. We’ve also arrested Dr. Catherine God-Almighty Halsey, who’s now making herself useful by incorporating that technology into Infinity. Oh, I waited a long, long time to get her, but it was worth every minute. She will now do my bidding.

  I’d call that a very productive three months’ work. Wouldn’t you? Excellent value for the taxpayer.

  On the down side, though, Phillips is potentially in real danger, and by that token so are we. He’s not been trained to resist interrogation. The AI fragment he’s carrying won’t be much use to the Sangheili if he’s caught, but the last thing I need is for ONI’s destabilization policy to become public knowledge.

  And there’s another fly paddling around in the ointment. There’s no lid on Venezia now that the Covenant’s collapsed. The rebels can come and go as they please—not just human rebels, alien malcontents too—and the black market’s flooded with hardware and vessels. Everyone’s dusting off their old grudges. We shall be busy.

  But on balance … things could be worse. Osman’s doing well: she’s proving good in the field, although I hope she doesn’t get a taste for it. She’s my anointed, my heir, my successor. The office of CINCONI will be hers before long, and she has to fill this chair. I have to admit there’s a delicious irony in having a failed Spartan head up the agency.

  And Kilo-Five is shaping up, too. There’s a lot to be said for a mixed bag of oddballs. A few ODSTs, a Spartan, a civilian linguist—and BB. God, I miss Black-Box, but he’s where he needs to be right now. It’s a strange squad. The best ones always are.

  Ruthless and loyal, as I said. I like ruthless and loyal.

  The door opens and Dorsey trots in, balancing a steaming cup and a small plate. “Here you go, ma’am,” he says. “And … ginger nuts. That was the cookie you wanted, yes?”

  He makes it sound like a strange perversion. He’s not been in Sydney long enough to understand biscuits. It’s hard to find ginger nuts these days. “Indeed it was,” I tell him. “Perfect for dunking. I insist you try some.”

  “Okay, ma’am. Thank you.”

  There. I’ve metamorphosed fully from Torquemada to a grandmother foisting cookies on the youngsters. It’s not just to maintain morale. This is my conscience intervening. The older I get, the more I find myself imposing affection and generosity on those around me, as if that can atone for all I’ve done and not done.

  I dunk the cookie in the mocha, hold it in the hot liquid for exactly four seconds, and then remove it. This is perfection. Ginger nuts are baked so hard that in a few seconds they absorb just enough coffee to soften the outer layer, but not enough to make them soggy. They yield to the bite, then the interior snaps and gives up its sweet, spicy pungency. A le
sser cookie would dissolve and sink to the bottom of the cup in surrender.

  Have a cookie. Forget that junior officers call me organized crime in uniform.

  I regret a great deal. I don’t regret much of the dirty work I’ve done, but I think I do regret the SPARTAN-II program. I regret it not only because it was built on something utterly wrong, but also—mainly—because the likes of Catherine Halsey can only do what they do if the likes of me let them, knowingly or otherwise.

  I should have kept a closer eye on her. I knew what she was like.

  I know what everybody’s like. That’s my job.

  I can remember far too much, so many things that I wish I could unsee and unhear. Life’s perverse. Most people in their nineties worry about losing their memory, not about being tormented by its clarity in the small hours each sleepless night. But such is power. You get it, then you do things with it, and then you have to live with it.

  I won’t apologize for saving my world from terrorists and aliens. I don’t owe God any explanations when the time comes. Halsey’s an atheist, so she can look forward to it all being over, really over, one day. But I’m … agnostic.

  And the closer to death I get, the more I’d prefer God to exist. I have some questions for him. I’m great with questions.

  If he made us in his image, why didn’t he make us nicer, kinder, gentler? Or did he make us like this just to see how vile an organism we could become? What kind of god would make us?

  Dorsey sticks his head around the door. “Are the ginger nuts okay, ma’am?” he asks.

  “Glorious,” I say. “Infinity had better have a supply of these.”

  (ADMIRAL MARGARET ORLENDA PARANGOSKY, COMMANDER IN CHIEF, OFFICE OF NAVAL INTELLIGENCE, UNSC)

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  ARBITER, I HAVE LOST HIM. THE BRUTES ARE REBELLING AND ONTOM IS IN CHAOS.

  (CADAN ‘ILMIR, PILOT AND BODYGUARD TO PROFESSOR EVAN PHILLIPS, GUEST OF THE ARBITER)

  TEMPLE OF THE ABIDING TRUTH, ONTOM, SANGHELIOS: MARCH 2553

  Evan Phillips could manage only one thought: Sangheili breath stank.

  It was like waking up face to face with an old dog who’d sneaked onto the bed, and it wasn’t just the terrifying mouthful of fangs. Avu Med ‘Telcam, religious zealot and ONI-sponsored insurgent, was kneeling right over him, staring into his eyes. Phillips could hear a tuning fork singing deep inside his head but the yells and roars around him were muffled, a world away. He struggled for breath in a fog of brick dust, smoke, and something that smelled horribly like ammonia. How could he smell all this if he couldn’t breathe?

  Oh, God. A bomb. I was walking into the temple, and …

  He was walking into the temple with ‘Telcam, and ‘Telcam had asked him a really awkward question about a Sangheili he wasn’t supposed to know.

  Jul ‘Mdama. Oh … shit.

  And then there’d been an explosion. But Phillips’s biggest problem right then was getting his breath, followed by checking that he had all his limbs and wasn’t bleeding to death light-years from home on a planet where they wouldn’t take kindly to ONI spies.

  Because that’s what I am now. Aren’t I?

  He kept trying to suck in air. His lungs felt disconnected from his brain, beyond his control, then they relented and a huge, convulsive wheeze shook him. He started coughing so hard that he almost vomited.

  “I thought you were dead,” ‘Telcam said. He sounded irritated, as if he thought Phillips had been shamming. “Can you speak? Are you injured?”

  Phillips’s eyes watered painfully. “Am I bleeding?”

  “Not much.” ‘Telcam stood up and started roaring orders, although Phillips couldn’t see who he was yelling at. “Is anyone injured? Answer me! Did anyone see what happened?”

  Voices called back from the gloom. “A wall has collapsed, Field Master. We’re still trying to find all our brothers.”

  “Be quick about it.” ‘Telcam drew his pistol and stalked toward the outer gates. “And secure the perimeter until we find out who did this.”

  Who would attack the temple? It was a sensitive target, sure to cause outrage. Perhaps the Arbiter had worked out where his opposition was coming from and had launched a preemptive strike. And I walked into the middle of it. Should have stuck with Cadan, shouldn’t I? I bet he’s panicking now, trying to find me in case the Arbiter shoots him for losing me. Phillips eased himself up and tried to stand. Razor-edged rubble cut into his palms. He could hear mayhem outside in the plaza, filtered by the thick walls around the temple grounds, and the thud of Sangheili feet echoing in the passage behind him. Now that the smoke and dust were settling, he could work out exactly where he was: about twenty meters inside the temple compound, right in the ancient doorway of the Forerunner building.

  Nobody seemed to be taking any notice of him. He got to his feet, tested his balance—not great, but at least he could still hear—and tottered toward the gates.

  At least this had killed the conversation about Jul. Phillips hoped ‘Telcam would forget he’d even asked the question, but he doubted it.

  Damn, I could have died. Really died. This is getting a bit too real.

  His legs were shaking. Now that he stopped to think about it, he realized he could have been killed any number of times in the past few months, but it hadn’t felt quite this immediate before. How did Mal and Vaz handle it? Now he understood something at a gut level, something he didn’t have words for, and suddenly the world looked different. Then he remembered.

  Oh God. BB. Where the hell is he?

  The AI would usually have been chatting to him in that arch, slightly bitchy way that was somehow incredibly comforting. BB knew all and saw all. He probably spoke Sangheili even better than Phillips. But now he was uncharacteristically silent.

  “BB?” Phillips whispered. He peered down at the coin-sized radio with its pinprick camera lens, unable to see any indicator lights. Military comms equipment was designed to withstand all kinds of shocks, and ONI was certain to have the very best kit that money could buy. “BB, are you okay? You can come out now.”

  But the radio remained lifeless. Phillips took it off his jacket to examine it, and it was only when he held it right up to his eye that he saw the chunks of metal embedded in it like lead shot. It took him a few moments to think that through. The realization made his stomach knot again.

  Shrapnel. That would have gone into my chest. Holy shit. So that kind of luck really happens.

  He tried to focus on the luck, that a potentially fatal injury had been deflected by that little device, but it didn’t keep him going long. All kinds of fears and worries were now flooding back. Cadan, the pilot the Arbiter had assigned to take him on a tour of Ontom’s ancient sites, would have heard the explosion and come running to find his charge. And did Osman realize what had happened? Phillips had been transmitting right up to the moment of the blast, so she must have known his last position. But how was he going to contact her now without a radio and without BB to guide him? Damn, he’d have to find Cadan and get him to contact UNSC. Searching the temple for Forerunner clues to the locations of the other Halo rings would have to wait.

  It could take me years to wheedle my way back in here. We might not have years.

  He made his way through the rubble in the courtyard. Walls that had stood for millennia, built by the Forerunners themselves, had collapsed in places, giving him jagged, chaotic glimpses of the huge plaza outside. It was pandemonium. Troops were stalking around, barking orders at Sangheili who were milling about, inspecting piles of what Phillips thought was more rubble until he realized there was no masonry close enough to fall in heaps. The plaza was an open space like a parade ground.

  The piles were bodies.

  He stumbled out of the gates, as if the notional line between holy ground and the public space would shield him. A crater about seven or eight meters wide had gouged a scar in the elegant geometric paving. That was where the device had detonated: not in the temple grounds, but ou
t in the plaza. Purple Sangheili blood lay in glossy pools or trickled into gutters. Phillips tried not to focus on the dead and injured. Mal and Vaz might have been used to seeing body parts, but this was all new and sickening for him. He didn’t recognize some things. He made himself look away before he did.

  It was sobering that even on an alien world, in a city of towering creatures with four jaws, the carnage that followed a bombing looked pretty much like any shattered street on Earth in the aftermath of a terror attack. And people were just as scared and shocked and grief-stricken.

  People. Yes. They’re people to me. Sorry, Vaz. I can’t see them any other way now.

  ‘Telcam stood absolutely still, fists clenched at his sides in an oddly human way. He was seething. Phillips edged up beside him.

  “So…” Nobody seemed interested in a lone human now. An hour ago, he’d been a sensation, an unlikely little pink creature who could rapidly unlock the arum puzzle that left most Sangheili perplexed. “Who did it? This isn’t about the temple, is it?”

  ‘Telcam scanned the scene with a slow sweep of his head, taking in the neatly trimmed shrubs and trees that lined the plaza. Phillips thought he’d spotted something suspicious. But he curled his lips back, parting that cloverleaf set of jaws and baring his fangs in anger.

  “What do you not see, scholar?” he asked.

  Phillips wasn’t back to his best yet. He tapped his radio again, hoping BB was just keeping his head down and gathering information. It took a while to check the scene and not pay too much attention to the grisly detail. A pair of Sangheili trotted past carrying something on a sheet of fabric, a makeshift stretcher. Phillips looked away.

  “Sorry. What am I missing?”

  “Where are the Brutes?” ‘Telcam demanded. “There were Brutes working out here. They were tending the gardens. Where did they go?”

  Phillips’s first thought was that they’d been killed or taken away wounded. He was about to suggest that when ‘Telcam caught his arm and hauled him into the plaza to inspect the scene for himself. Phillips had no choice now. He found himself looking down at a body, a male in his middle years, minus legs and part of his head. The smell—sweet, metallic, but also tinged with ammonia and sulfur—struck him more than the glistening shreds of flesh. Somehow he managed to switch off. He hadn’t realized he could do that. When he looked up, ‘Telcam had stalked away and was moving from casualty to casualty, grabbing troops by their shoulders and questioning them.