Halo®: Mortal Dictata

by Karen Traviss

  Staffan stared down at him. Maybe he just didn’t know how to test this. Mal was almost expecting Vaz to do something really mental and ask to put in a call to Naomi, but would Staffan recognize her? Mal had been scared that he would, and now he was scared that he wouldn’t. She didn’t even remember being Naomi Sentzke, so he couldn’t ask her questions that only she would know the answers to. Even a DNA test wouldn’t prove much. The clone that had replaced Naomi would have passed that one.

  But the longer Vaz could keep Staffan looking for answers, the longer Osman had to find the transponder signals.

  “You know what happened to Naomi,” Staffan said. “I want every detail. And I’ll get it, if it’s there to extract. Where did you get the information you gave me so far? Why have you got it? Are you higher value prisoners than I thought you were?”

  “We’re just marines.”

  “Is my daughter alive? Is she still alive?”

  Vaz could do that expressionless look to perfection and just shut people out. But the question was a little too close to the bone even for him. Mal saw a split-second of indecision.

  Christ, Vaz, are you going to pull the pin or not?

  Mal didn’t know what the truth—all of it—would do to Staffan. He’d tried to test it on himself some nights when he couldn’t sleep, lying in his bunk and imagining how he’d react if he’d found out that his kid had been treated the way the Spartans had. And that was without the trauma of the abduction. He was sure it would have tipped him over the edge. No amount of revenge would ever have been enough. Now he was back in the circular debate again about whether telling Staffan would be right in moral terms, but then he snapped back on the immediate operational problem. What impact would it have on their chances of staying alive and stopping a glassing run aimed at Earth one day?

  “Yes,” Vaz said suddenly. “She is. She’s alive. So ask me something that’ll prove whatever you need.”

  If he’d punched Staffan in the face, he couldn’t have landed a more shocking blow. Staffan looked blank for a moment, then slightly wide-eyed, but he just stared through Vaz and didn’t say a word. Mal braced for tears, anger, a torrent of questions, or maybe even a heart attack. Staffan was as pale as Naomi. If the blood had drained from his face, it was hard to tell. He looked like a ghost either way.

  “Does she remember me?”

  Mal had expected him to ask whether she was happy, married with kids and doing well, or even where she was. But that sounded like the question of a man who’d spent years thinking where his daughter might be at this minute or that, and what she might be doing, and had worked out that if she was alive, then she would probably have forgotten who she was. He’d probably faced the fact that if she’d survived, she would have called some other man Dad.

  He could never have imagined Halsey, though. Who could?

  Vaz was as straight as a die. If there was one line that described him, it was that. He never told Mal what he wanted to hear. That was part of what made him such a good mate, but it also didn’t mean that the truth was easy. It just meant that you could guarantee getting it.

  “No,” Vaz said. “She doesn’t remember anything at all from Sansar. She was too young. But she does know she was abducted.”

  Staffan holstered his pistol and took a couple of fumbles at it before he got the muzzle aligned. The news had clearly pole-axed him. Shame that Halsey isn’t here to see that. Would she give a shit? No, probably not. People were assets and units to her, things that either served her purpose or didn’t.

  “If you’d been stringing me along,” Staffan said at last, “I think you’d have told me something I wanted to hear.”

  Then he just left and locked the door behind him. They seemed no closer to getting a drink or a pee break.

  Mal looked at Vaz. “Well, I can’t tell if that was an act of genius, mate, or if you’ve made him go and get a chainsaw. You know, because shooting us would be too quick.”

  “Get some sleep while you can. It’s the middle of the night. You know what sleep deprivation does.”

  “What, makes you tell people things you didn’t intend to?”

  “I let something slip. Maybe I wish I hadn’t.”

  Mal couldn’t tell now whether that was a comment for an unseen eavesdropper or not. Vaz had a point, though. Lack of sleep screwed your judgment and willpower worse than drugs or alcohol, and if it went on long enough it’d kill you. Mal closed his eyes for a moment. His head started filling up with hazy what-ifs and worries, which was exactly what he didn’t need, because that was doing these bastards’ jobs for them.

  Okay, we’ve been knocked about a bit, but they could hurt us a lot worse. Are they useless at this? Or playing a clever psych game? Or what? What are they waiting for?

  So it’s the middle of the night, and most of them have gone home. Yeah, even torturers work shifts, I suppose.

  I bet Gareth’s arm hurts. Hah bloody hah.

  If only they’d tied his hands in front, then he could at least have taken a leak. He was starting to drift in that borderland between sleep and consciousness, having weird and vivid thoughts about getting his wallet back, when the door opened again. Staffan came in and hauled Vaz to his feet.

  “Okay, better make sure you’re in a fit state to answer more questions.” He gave Mal a weary look. “Your turn later. Don’t go rabid again.”

  Mal didn’t want to lose contact with Vaz. Getting separated didn’t just increase the anxiety about what was happening to him. It stopped them from making some kind of joint effort to get out. On the other hand, if Vaz was getting out of a locked room and there were fewer people around, he might stand a better chance of escaping. When he came back—assuming that Staffan wasn’t just taking him outside to finish him off—then he’d have a better idea of where they were and the layout of the building.

  Vaz glanced over his shoulder as he left and gave him a look that said don’t worry.

  But Mal did. He consoled himself with the knowledge that no matter how hard you were, you still reacted the same way inside. He was in danger of losing his focus. The whole point of keeping him like this was probably to disorient him and wear down his morale. He had to concentrate on what he had to do once he got out, and ignore all the tricks he thought were being played and that might just have been his own imagination.

  I have to make a break for it before the others come back in the morning. When Vaz comes back.

  What if he doesn’t? How will I know? How long do I give it?

  Mal drifted off for a few minutes, maybe longer, and woke with a start. Whatever had disturbed him had gone. He was sliding off the chair. Maybe that was it. The light was still on and Vaz wasn’t back.

  This isn’t long at all. It just feels like it. They rely on you feeling abandoned. Any minute now, some prick’s going to come in and tell me that I’m all alone and my unit’s given up looking for me. Maybe even that Vaz has told them everything so even my best mate’s dumped me.

  Mal was ready for it. He didn’t know how long it was before the door opened again, but when it did, it wasn’t Staffan. It was the guy he’d seen outside, one of the ambush party, but he’d forgotten his name already. He was a tired-looking bloke with thinning hair and a tactical vest that looked like CMA surplus. Mal could probably put together a history of the colonies exhibition out of the kit he’d seen in New Tyne.

  The bloke looked wary. “I’m taking you to the lavatory,” he said, clutching an old pistol. “And if you try sinking your teeth in me, I’ll just shoot you. Got it?”

  Mal stood up and flapped his elbows a bit. “You bloody well better take these off, then, because I insist on holding my own.”

  Tactical Vest walked around him, trying to juggle his sidearm and a penknife. For a second or two, Mal had a clear line to the door. So … he has to cut the tie, then I can swing around, disarm him, and I’m out.… But the bloke pulled him away from the chair and turned him to face the wall.

  “Lean against it,” Tactica
l Vest said. “Forehead against the wall. Go on. Lean against it.” He had hold of the back of Mal’s collar while he stood to one side. “That’s it … now move your feet back a bit … see? I’m not as stupid as I look.”

  Mal was now stuck. He couldn’t push back or straighten up. He was taking his upper body weight on his forehead, and it hurt. The plastic tie gave way and his wrists were free. In the moment it took him to put his hands flat on the wall to take his weight, a reflex he couldn’t resist, Tactical Vest had sorted himself out and had his pistol to Mal’s head.

  “Just a piss, no dumb-ass stuff, okay?” he said. “You’ll never get out of here anyway. This armory’s more secure than the Sydney Central Bank. Now hold your hands out front.”

  So it’s the armory after all. Thank you, tosser. Keep it coming.

  Tactical Vest put another tie on Mal’s wrists and walked him down the corridor. Mal knew he was getting the upper hand now. It was funny where people still drew a line, even in a situation like this. Gareth hadn’t seemed keen to touch another man’s hair, and Tactical Vest obviously didn’t want to deal with the creepy practicalities of helping another bloke take a leak, so he’d compromised. He’d tied Mal’s hands in front of him so that he could do the deed himself. Mal thought it through. Even if the bloke had been willing to do the necessary, he’d have risked standing so close to Mal that he’d have been asking for trouble.

  Saved by my best feature. I’ll dine out on this story for years.

  It was a small but pivotal advantage. If the insurrectionists here were such a bunch of hard cases, they’d have left Mal to marinate in his own waste and speeded the process of breaking him down. It could have been part of their technique—nice one second, nasty the next, just to snatch away what little hope he started building up—but Mal had the feeling they were simply rusty on prisoner skills. Keeping prisoners alive was a time-consuming, messy business, like having a demanding toddler who wasn’t potty trained, hated your guts, and could turn on you at any second. It made more sense to do what the Sangheili did and just not bother. Staffan probably did the same most of the time.

  The only prisoner Mal had ever taken apart from Halsey was Jul ‘Mdama.

  Bloody dangerous. Nearly broke Vaz’s neck. Smashed me against a bulkhead. So that’s what Tactical Tosser here is probably thinking.

  The walk was an opportunity to look, listen, and orient himself on the way, so Mal counted his paces carefully. No sounds, other than their own footsteps: then they passed an outside window, and it still looked pitch black outside. So he was being held about thirty meters, maximum, from an exterior wall. That would come in useful. He memorized every turn—left, left, then right—to form a map in his head and plan his fastest route out. Tactical Vest still had hold of him by the back of his collar, but in much the same way that Mal would have held a pissed-off snake. He was scared he’d get savaged like Gareth, then. Mal would capitalize on that. This psych shit worked both ways.

  “There.” Tactical Vest steered him into a toilet the size of a broom cupboard. “Leave the door open. And wipe your face. You look like a goddamn vampire.”

  That confirmed it. He thought the dried blood around Mal’s mouth was Gareth’s, and that was making him uncomfortable. Mal made the most of the psychological edge. It was still a struggle to unzip, but his spirits rose as the level in his bladder dropped. Now he could think straight. He felt pretty good about himself. If he had to, he could do it again, except he’d go for something really demoralizing this time like the bloke’s nose, where there was no bone to stop him biting all the way through. Yeah. He’ll be too busy with all that bleeding to keep a grip on his sidearm. It wasn’t macho and graceful like martial arts, but it definitely did the job.

  “Do I get a glass of water?” Mal asked, zipping up. He pressed the lever on the basin and scooped water over his face as best he could. There was no towel. The water ran down his chin, leaving diluted streaks of blood down his shirt. “A cup of tea would be nice.”

  “Not a glass.” Tactical Vest walked him back to his makeshift cell. “Because you’d smash it and carve me up with it, wouldn’t you? But yeah, I’ll fetch you some. Funny. We had a bet on who’d be the most difficult bastard. I had money on the Russian. He looked more the biting and gouging type than you.”

  There was still no sign of Vaz. Mal tried hard not to fill in the silence with worrying what was happening to him, but he couldn’t hear any sound at all: no water gurgling in distant pipes, no floorboards creaking, no generator humming. He couldn’t tell if there was a floor above him or not, but if there was, then he might have an exit via a roof space. He’d investigate that as soon as Tactical Vest brought his water and left him alone again. He had a chair to stand on. Yeah, that might work.

  Tactical Vest came back about fifteen minutes later with a flimsy waxed paper cup and a metal jug. Mal couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a paper cup anywhere else. Everything here seemed to be recycled or recyclable stuff that was easy to manufacture—paper, glass bottles, easily workable metals. The planet was actually a single town with few of the invisible industries that Mal took for granted on Earth.

  He held the cup as best he could and managed to get most of the water down his throat. Tactical Vest topped it up again.

  “Where’s Vaz?” Mal asked.

  “Oh, he’ll be okay. Staffan’s taken him somewhere safe. Safe from Edvin, anyway.”

  Taken him. Shit. Mal’s gut tightened. Well, it made sense to separate them, but how the hell was he going to find Vaz now? Mal had to consider why Tactical Vest was telling him this. Just bored, feeling uncomfortable playing guard, or trying to rattle him? He had to resist if this was bait.

  “So I’ve got to worry about Edvin, too, eh?” Mal drank another refill, safe in the knowledge that he could pee in the corner here if he had to. Hydration was what mattered. If he lost too much body fluid, he wouldn’t be able to think straight. It didn’t take much to tip the balance. “Nutter, is he?”

  “Not usually. He doesn’t like people taking advantage of his dad, though. Very protective.”

  “So he thinks we’re winding him up.” Mal held out the cup again. “Getting his hopes up.”

  “He thinks you’ve seen security files on people here, so you’re doing the fortune-teller trick and making Staffan think you know more than you do.” Tactical Vest poured at arm’s length and took a step back, still gripping his pistol. “So he wants to put you out of your misery, dig out your implants, and space them so your buddies don’t follow you. Because you haven’t got a ship on standby, have you?”

  Ha. Up yours, dickhead. They couldn’t detect Port Stanley, or even Tart-Cart come to that. They really weren’t sure what size of infiltration force they were dealing with.

  Mal grinned. Everything still hurt, but he could set the agenda now. “We’re just a couple of lonely deserters. Honest.”

  “Well, I’ve been told to stop him shooting you, so let’s have some goddamn gratitude. I’m going to move you out of here shortly. That doesn’t mean I can’t drop you if you try to escape. Do we understand each other?”

  “Perfectly.” Mal couldn’t tell if his act had done the trick, but if Tactical Vest wasn’t worrying about reinforcements, he should have been.

  He disappeared with the metal jug, leaving Mal to reassess his situation in the knowledge that he was being moved. When the man came back, he dragged a chair into the doorway and sat down on it.

  “Twenty minutes,” he said. “A vehicle’s coming for us. Just making sure Edvin won’t find you.”

  “I’m touched.”

  “Personally, I think he’s right. But Staffan thinks you know stuff, so he wants you alive and chatty for as long as possible.”

  It looked like they were going to have to sit and stare at each other for a tediously long time, then. Mal decided to wind him up by looking at things with the air of a man who was calculating size and distance. He scanned the door frame, the ceiling, the walls, and the
n the door frame again. He did it without moving his head, knowing the effect it would have on a bloke who thought he was dealing with a feral cannibal anyway.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Tactical Vest said. “Really.”

  “I’m just playing I Spy.” Mal kept looking. This time he tipped his head back to look up. Christ, it was painful. But he thought he heard a sound above him. Maybe Vaz hadn’t been moved out of the building after all. “It keeps me occupied. I spy … with my little eye … something beginning with…”

  Crack … creak … crack …

  Tactical Vest looked up. The ceiling bulged for a second, like there’d been a slow plumbing leak that had finally pooled into a flood.

  “S,” Mal said. He hoped he was right. “Something beginning with S.”

  Plaster, joists, and dust exploded everywhere just as he raised his hands to shield his face. An instant storm of white light and deafening noise left him reeling and a huge, familiar, wonderful shape dropped between him and the door, blotting out the light from the wildly swinging strip fitting. Tactical Vest only had time to aim his pistol before he was hit by two rapid shots—chest and head—at close range. He dropped in the doorway. An alarm started ringing somewhere else in the building.

  Mal spat dust out of his mouth and looked down at Tactical Vest. “Did you get it? No? S is for Spartan. I win.”

  Naomi grabbed him by the shoulder. “Come on, wrists.” She pulled out her knife, sliced through the ties, and handed him a magnum. “Seeing as you misplaced yours. Let’s go.”

  “We need to find Vaz.”

  “Dev’s tracking him.” She looked him over, then sized up the hole she’d smashed in the ceiling. “BB? Stand by with the medical suite, okay? Mal, can you make it through the ceiling?”

  Mal tucked the magnum in his belt and dragged the chair under the gaping, jagged hole. He could see the night sky. He could always rely on his mates. He never doubted they’d come.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You’ll have to give me leg up, though.”