by Troy Denning
“That’s good to know, sir,” Fred said. “But they could still be tasked with identifying our mission.”
“And they would be amateurs,” Nelson said. “I don’t see them sneaking into the Ops Center or breaking Wendell’s security to copy mission files, do you? They simply don’t have the technical expertise.”
“Probably not,” Fred agreed. “But they are investigators. It would be a mistake to underestimate them.”
“And I won’t do that,” Nelson said. “They’ll probably pick up on the trouble we’re having with Aggressor Sentinels—in fact, it seems like Inspector Lopis was halfway there when she left the cavern.”
Fred dipped his helmet in agreement. “Yes, sir. She’s smart enough to know there wouldn’t be Spartans here unless we were engaged in combat operations. And you certainly confirmed her suspicions by revealing the nature of the enemy attack. That was a violation of security directive Foxtrot Tango Angel 7012.”
“I know that, Lieutenant,” Nelson said. “But why would we antagonize her by withholding information she’s bound to uncover anyway?”
It was a rhetorical question—and one that Fred was wise enough to leave unanswered. According to the battalion scuttlebutt, Nelson had overreached his authority to launch this operation quickly, before Gao or any ex-Covenant factions had a chance to discover the ancilla’s existence. Now the commander’s career—and perhaps even his life—depended on the success of the mission. To say that the pressure was getting to him would have been a gross understatement.
After a moment, Nelson nodded—more to himself than Fred—then said, “Okay then. We’ll go ahead and tell the inspector about the Sentinels.”
Fred was aghast. “Commander, that’s key intelligence,” he said. “Anyone who knows anything about Sentinels will know we’re investigating Forerunner ruins.”
“And you don’t think this is something they’re considering?” Nelson demanded. “When was the last time you heard of the UNSC sending the 717th to investigate something not connected to the Forerunners?”
“Sir, I’m not intimately familiar with the 717th’s history.”
“Well, I am,” Nelson said. “And anyone who has the resources to do a little research already knows that when it comes to the 717th, all paths lead to the Forerunners.”
“So we’re going to ignore a security directive and confirm it for them?” Fred paused, then said, “I can’t do that, sir.”
“I didn’t say we were going to confirm it,” Nelson said. “But we’re going to inform Inspector Lopis of our problems with the Sentinels, and go no further. And beyond that, we will cooperate with her investigation. Is that clear?”
“Sir—”
“That’s an order, Lieutenant.” Nelson paused, no doubt waiting for an acknowledgment that Fred had no intention of delivering, then finally sighed in exasperation. “Fred, I need to ask you something. Is there more to your reluctance than you’re admitting to me?”
Nelson’s tone was soft and reasonable, but there was enough of a threat to the question that Fred found himself bristling. He took a step back, then spoke in a deliberately calm voice. “You’d better clarify that, sir.”
“I want to know if you’re trying to protect one of your Spartans,” Nelson said. “Could one of them be responsible for these killings?”
Fred had to answer through gritted teeth. “No way . . . sir.”
“You’re absolutely certain?” Nelson asked. “Even the Spartan-IIIs?”
“The Spartan-IIIs don’t wear Mjolnir armor,” Fred said. “They don’t have the strength.”
“What about the Spartan-IIIs from Gamma Company?”
Fred hesitated, because that possibility had crossed his mind. A trio of the Spartan-IIIs were Gammas. As part of their enhancement program, they had been given an illegal brain mutagen, one that greatly augmented their strength and survivability when they suffered the kind of trauma that would cause a normal person to die of systemic shock—things like taking a plasma bolt to the chest or having an arm blown off.
“I know my people,” Fred said after a moment. “Why do you ask, sir?”
“Because I read their files, and I’m smart enough to read between the lines. I know about their rather . . . special augmentations. I know what they can do when they’re under extreme stress, and I know the unbalancing effect it can cause at other times.”
“Then you also know the Gammas take a stabilizing agent to keep that under control,” Fred said. He was starting to dislike Nelson more with each passing moment. “And they haven’t been under any kind of extreme stress here on Gao. As I said, Commander, I know my people.”
Nelson held Fred’s gaze for a moment, then finally nodded. “I’m glad to hear it, Lieutenant,” he said. “If you should discover otherwise, I trust you’ll rectify the situation yourself?”
“Absolutely,” Fred said. He couldn’t imagine trusting something like that to anyone else. “But that won’t be necessary, I promise.”
“As long as we understand each other.” Nelson clasped his hands behind his back and took a thoughtful step away from Fred, then abruptly turned back toward him. “Now, to repeat what is going to happen: I will inform Inspector Lopis of the problems we’re having with the Sentinels, and you are going to give her your full cooperation in identifying and eliminating the serial killer. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”
Fred snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.”
“We will not be in violation of security directive Foxtrot Tango Angel whatever-it-is because we won’t mention the Forerunners, the ancilla, or anything concerning our mission beyond the Sentinels. Is that also clear, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Within those limitations, you will use your own judgment in deciding whether to confirm or ignore any conclusions Inspector Lopis may draw in regard to our operation here,” Nelson said. “But you will not antagonize her by denying something that she obviously knows to be true. Am I clear on that as well, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Nelson smiled. “As I said, Lieutenant, the Gaos have probably already guessed that our presence here involves the Forerunners, and if their intelligence people know anything at all about Forerunners, then they probably already know about the Sentinels. Our only real secret is the ancilla. As long as we don’t let them find out about that, we’re doing fine.”
Still watching through the safety window in the kitchen’s swinging door, Veta was finally able to get a good look at Nelson’s face when the major emerged from behind Fred’s shoulder, then abruptly spun back toward him.
“You catching anything yet?” Andera asked from the preparation island.
“Yeah,” Veta answered. “Forerunners.”
“No surprise there. Arlo says that’s all the 717th does.” An old friend of the Minister of Protection, Andera was the only one on Veta’s team who referred to their boss by his first name. “They recover Forerunner technology.”
Nelson’s lips stretched wide with the tongue tip showing, then they grew more rounded and slightly pursed.
“Zen-ten-nulls,” Veta reported.
“Sentinels?”
“Could be.” Veta sighed. “Damn. I wish I’d brought Berti.”
“Into the caves?” Andera asked. “You don’t think a forensic lip-reader might’ve been hard to sell as necessary personnel?”
“Probably.”
In urban investigations, Veta and her team often tried to re-create the victims’ last hours by tracking them on security vids. Berti’s job was to study the vids, then re-create the conversations between the victims and the people they encountered. Veta had picked up a few lip-reading basics by working with Berti, but she was far from fluent in the art, and a lot of what she was seeing did not make sense to her. “An-sell-a?”
“No idea,” Andera said. “Could it be ancillary?”
“Wrong shape at the end. The lips were stretched, not rounded,” Veta said. “I’m pretty sure it was more
like ancilla. Is that a real word?”
“Who knows?” Andera said. “You should have brought Berti.”
“Thanks,” Veta said dryly. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time the minister orders us to spy on a UNSC battalion.”
“You could have turned him down,” Andera said. “Angel’s crew would have jumped on this one.”
“Right—then spent half their time drinking or taking mineral steams,” Veta said. “Angel” was Special Inspector Angel Miramontis, a jaded twenty-year GMoP veteran who led the Ministry’s general homicide unit. “Sorry. This UNSUB needs to be taken down.”
“Don’t they all?” Andera rolled the corpse onto its opposite shoulder and pushed the body bag down past the feet. She paused a moment, then said, “You’re going to want to see this, by the way. It’s a strange one.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
As they spoke, Veta continued to watch Nelson through the door’s safety window. She was not half the lip-reader Berti was, and even he could only discern about forty percent of what a subject said. But it was clear from Nelson’s expression and body language that he was issuing orders.
When Veta caught the words clear and lieutenant, she realized the conversation would soon be drawing to a close and quickly retreated to the exam table.
“Catch anything useful?” Andera asked.
“I thought Forerunner, sentinel, and ancilla were pretty important,” Veta said. “Sentinel could be a lot of things, but ancilla sounds unique. If the minister’s sources know what that is—”
“To us, I mean,” Andera said. “To our investigation.”
“Not really,” Veta said. “But Nelson is serious about catching our suspect. I believe he’s ordering the Spartan to cooperate with us.”
Andera raised her brow. “So our lieutenant is about to confess?”
Veta grinned. “Ha. Only if he’s ordered to,” she said. “And I’m not sure that would stop the killings, anyway.”
Andera’s expression grew serious. “So you don’t think he’s our guy?”
“Too early to say,” Veta said.
“That’s too bad.” Andera sighed and let the corpse roll onto its back. “I could have used some time in those mineral steams myself.”
Veta smiled, then leaned over the makeshift exam table. The corpse was still wearing the same blouse and slacks in which she had been found, and she was covered in a layer of mold that looked vaguely like white fur. The smell was more musty than rotten, which suggested the victim had been dead for quite some time before recovery. But none of that was particularly unusual.
“I’m not seeing it,” Veta said. “What do you have?”
Andera pointed at the forearms, where the skin had been torn in half a dozen different places.
“Comminuted fractures of both arms, with lacerations suggestive of compound fractures.” She ran her gloved hands over both arms, then held up the left ulna. “But the only bone displacement is here.”
Veta spotted a slight bulge just below the elbow. She scowled, trying to understand. “You’re saying both arms were crushed so badly she had multiple compound fractures?” she asked. “But there’s only one misalignment? I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I.” Andera removed her hand from the arm. “But it’s pretty clear that most of the fractures were set before she died.”
“And that couldn’t have happened prior to the death attack?”
Andera shook her head and pointed to a dark crust at edge of several wounds. “The blood clotted, but the fibrin net is incomplete,” she said. “The victim didn’t last long. But what I’m saying is that someone was trying to put her back together again, just before she died.”
“So someone dragged her into that passage to save her?”
“I can’t speak to motive,” Andera said. “But the body definitely shows signs of medical attention. I’ll know more after the autopsy. Meanwhile, the cause of death appears consistent with Major Halal’s report on several of the other victims.”
Andera pointed toward the woman’s head. On both sides, a faint band of darkness was visible beneath the mold, running back from the temples to just beyond the ear. Near the front of each stripe was tiny puncture wound.
“I have no idea what this is,” Veta said. “Some sort of needle or energy spike through the brain, followed by postmortem subcutaneous bleeding?”
Andera shook her head. “The dark bands are bruising, maybe from a large pincer squeezing the skull.”
“But there’s no indentation,” Veta said. “If something squeezed her skull that hard, shouldn’t there be a depression—a furrow, even?”
“Not if someone reduced the fractures afterward.” Andera pointed at the minuscule punctures in front of each bruise. “That might be what those holes are.”
Veta studied the puncture wounds more carefully and saw that they were slightly elongated, as though a small tube had been pushed through the skin at a shallow angle.
“Somebody did a cranial arthroscopy in a cave?” Veta considered this, then glanced back toward the door. “Would soldiers carry that kind of equipment in their medkits? Or even know how to use it?”
“Not Gao soldiers. But Spartans?” Andera shrugged. “Who knows?”
The dining room door slid aside, and Commander Nelson moved into the kitchen. Fred remained in the dining room, now turned so his faceplate was visible.
Nelson stopped three steps into the room and addressed Veta. “I apologize for the confusion, Inspector. Major Halal should never have taken it upon himself to conceal the new crime scene.”
“Thank you, Commander,” Veta said. “I’m glad we agree on that.”
“Then perhaps we can correct the situation.” Nelson extended an arm toward Fred. “The lieutenant would be happy to take you to the scene now.”
“What about Major Halal?” Veta asked. “Will he cooperate?”
“Major Halal won’t be a problem,” Nelson said. “He’ll either cooperate, or I’ll send him back to FLEETCOM.”
“What about the scene?” Veta asked. “If Halal tampers with it—”
“Major Halal wants to stop this killer, too,” Nelson said. “I don’t see him doing anything to compromise a crime scene.”
“That would be easier to accept if he hadn’t concealed it from me in the first place.”
“I’ll send a runner ahead with orders for him to stand down,” Nelson said. “But I can’t make any promises. The major has a sizable head start on you.”
“Fair enough.” Veta turned to Andera. “Can you have the autopsy done by tomorrow morning?”
To Veta’s surprise, Andera looked to Nelson before agreeing. “I’ll need someone to assist,” she said. “Can I borrow a corpsman? Someone familiar with traumatic injuries?”
“Of course,” Nelson said. “I can assign a combat specialist.”
Andera flashed a grateful smile. “Thank you, that will do.” She held Veta’s eyes just long enough to make clear she had a good reason for requesting an assistant she did not actually need, then made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go on. I’ll be fine here.”
“Good.” Having the assistant, Veta realized, would give Andera a chance to assess whether UNSC corpsmen were capable of the kind of field treatment Charlie Victim Two had received. “Let me know as soon as you have some findings.”
“I’ll make another runner available,” Nelson said. “I can also send someone to collect the rest of your team, Inspector, if you want them on scene.”
“Collect?” Veta asked. “Why would we do that? They’re already underground.”
“That’s right,” Fred said. “But the entrance we need is thirty kilometers away, and then it’s an all-day descent to the new crime scene.”
Veta furrowed her brow. “Halal left from Crime Scene Charlie.”
“That’s right, ma’am,” Fred said from the dining room. “But that route is a ten-kilometer crawl through some pretty tight places. You’ll never make it with
your equipment.”
Veta checked the time and realized that her team had probably finished its work at Crime Scene Charlie an hour ago. “Okay, we’ll go the long way,” she said. “We’ll leave as soon as the rest of my team returns to the surface.”
“If you’re worried about Major Halal compromising the scene, forget the runner—you and the lieutenant could go on ahead,” Nelson suggested. “I’m sure Linda and Kelly can bring the rest of your team down on their own.”
“Thanks, but they should be here soon,” Veta said. “And I need to check in with my superior before we leave anyway.”
“I hope you’ll tell President Aponte that we’re all working well together,” Nelson said. “This problem with Major Halal won’t happen again.”
“I’ll ask Minister Casille to relay my report to the president,” Veta said carefully. “Andera, if I’m not back in time for the next check-in, you handle it.”
“You’re on a schedule?” Nelson asked.
“You bet,” Andera said. She winked at the commander, then added, “One of us has to check in every twelve hours. If we don’t, they send in the Wyverns.”
CHAPTER 5
* * *
* * *
2012 hours, July 2, 2553 (military calendar)
Gao Ministry of Protection Patrol Corvette Esmeralda
High Equatorial Orbit, Planet Gao, Cordoba System
Clearly, Gao was outmatched. Minister of Protection Arlo Casille could see that in the wall-size video display in the Esmeralda’s flag cabin. Any idiot could. The UNSC task force hung scattered across the entire screen, a half-dozen irregular shapes silhouetted against the star-flecked backdrop of interstellar space. In the center of the formation drifted a matte-black vessel three times the length of its escorts. Orbiting the perimeter were a dozen dark specks that could only be a fighter squadron on patrol.
When it came to oppressing the Outer Colonies, the UNSC did not believe in half measures. The big vessel in the middle had the stepped hull of one of the UNSC’s mighty Marathon-class cruisers, which meant it carried more firepower by itself than the Ministry of Protection’s entire fleet of customs corvettes. Its escorts would be frigates and destroyers, each close to five hundred meters and more than capable of stopping anything Gao and its allies could throw at it. The patrol craft were most likely Longswords, and Arlo did not even want to think about the damage they would cause if the current mess became a shooting war.