by Troy Denning
“EVENTUALLY. WHEN MY WORK IS DONE.” Intrepid Eye blasted through Wendell’s security walls with a wave of power surges, then launched a brute-processing takeover attack. “WHEN HUMANITY IS WORTHY OF THE MANTLE.”
Now in control of the entire repair module, Intrepid Eye activated the airlock’s interior and exterior cameras, then watched as a female marine jammed the stock of an assault rifle into the gap between the exterior hatch and its receiving slot. She began to pry, relieving the pressure on the crushed body just enough for a male companion to drag it free.
With Inspector still trapped inside the airlock, the female marine struggled to widen the gap so she could leave safely. The rifle stock snapped, and the hatch slammed shut. Intrepid Eye subsequently activated the vacuum pump.
“WHY . . . WHY ARE YOU AT-T-ACKING?” Wendell’s signal was erratic and weak, a sign that the entanglement snakes had co-opted his code and that the storage ticks were draining his memory. “I FAIL . . . TO UNDERSTAND.”
“CLEARLY,” Intrepid Eye replied. “AND THAT IS WHY.”
CHAPTER 25
* * *
* * *
1338 hours, July 6, 2553 (military calendar)
Graciona Chavelle Suite, Montero Vitality Center, Montero Jungle
Campos Wilderness District, Planet Gao, Cordoba System
Roused from a sound sleep by the oscillating wail of a distant battle-stations alarm, Fred was wide awake the instant his feet hit the cool stone floor.
Stone, not steel; floor, not deck.
Apparently, Fred wasn’t aboard some UNSC prowler en route to some planet he had never heard of and whose name he would forget an hour after his boots were off the ground.
He was already there.
And, judging by the fiery ache that ran from his ankles all the way up to his temples, he’d been there for a while. Long enough to get blown up, anyway.
It had happened before, it would happen again, and it would keep happening until he finally ran out of luck. That was the life of a Spartan. Fred hadn’t signed up for it, but it was the life he had. And truth be told, he was happy enough with the way things had worked out. He kind of liked being something special—a savior of humanity and all that—even if it did mean there was no need to worry about a retirement plan.
A familiar AI voice sounded from a speaker in the ceiling. “Prepare for battle. Incoming Wyverns.”
Right . . . battle stations. Fred had forgotten about that, so maybe not quite wide awake.
He looked down and discovered that more than his feet were bare. So were his knees and everything below the hem of his green hospital gown. His skin was red and shiny, but not blistered, a sign that he had probably taken more damage from the concussion wave than from heat. His arms looked about the same, except that they each had a catheter inserted into the veins. He followed the IV lines to the bag hangers and saw that he was getting saline in one arm and a painkiller/sedative in the other.
That explained the foggy head.
Fred reached over and shut off the drips, then pulled the catheters from his arms. His head started to clear, and he yanked a handful of electrodes off his chest. Monitor alarms began to ping, chime, and beep, making it even harder to think. He turned off all three devices, then turned to look for his fatigues.
It was a nice room for an infirmary, probably the best he’d ever been in. The floor was some kind of polished green stone, the bed large enough to hold an entire fire team. And there were paintings on the blond-paneled walls, portraits of a good-looking, dark-haired matron with a knowing smile. The place even had its own kitchenette, a dining area, and a sitting parlor. He stepped over to one of the paintings and read the brass tag on the bottom of the frame.
GRACIONA CHAVELLE, SIXTH PRESIDENT OF THE GAO REPUBLIC.
Gao. Things started to come back fast: the hunt for the ancilla, the chaos in Wendosa . . . the Falcon crash. Then Lopis, on top of him as they slid down a muddy slope headfirst, her cheek pressed to his faceplate, almost like she was kissing him.
Probably the best part of the mission.
The drumming of running boots sounded from beyond the door, and Fred remembered: battle stations. But, pants first.
And boots and rifle. A soldier could do without pants, but he needed his boots and rifle. Fred turned toward the closet near the entrance—and found a battle-ax of a nurse striding into the room, his beard-stubbled jaw clenched tight.
“No, you don’t,” the nurse said. He pointed at the huge bed. “Back to your bunk.”
“Can’t.” Fred pointed in turn at the ceiling. “Battle stations.”
“And we’ll be evacuating you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Lieutenant, do you have any idea what kind of injuries you arrived with?” the nurse asked. “Second-degree burns over fifty percent of your body, a ruptured kidney, broken ribs, a collapsed lung, a concussion . . .”
As the nurse continued down the list, a lumpy gray-green dome with tentacles floated through the door behind him, and Fred remembered the Huragok. A Lifeworker Huragok.
Fred waited until the nurse had finished, then directed his attention at the Huragok and asked, “How am I now?”
The nurse glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head. “Not that well,” he said. “Your six-eyed friend has done remarkable things, but you’re still in no shape to fight.”
“I’m not?” Fred furrowed his brow and looked down at the floor. “Because it sure looks like I’m standing.”
“Lieutenant, I know you Spartans are tough—”
“Careful, marine. You wouldn’t want to insult me.”
The nurse paled. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Apology accepted,” Fred snapped. “Now point me to my damn pants and boots. That’s an order.”
The nurse reluctantly nodded toward a long dresser opposite the huge bed. “You’ll find fresh fatigues in the top drawer, and a new pair of boots in the closet. Sorry, sir, but they’re not broken in yet. Nobody would tell us where the Spartans are billeted, so we couldn’t find your spare pair.”
“That’s okay. My feet are tough.”
Fred went to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and withdrew a pair of skivvies.
He was still pulling them on under his hospital gown when Ash and Olivia stepped through the door. Both were dressed in boots and clean fatigues, and they were carrying three weapons apiece—a BR55 and an M7 for each of them, and a set for Fred.
“Come on, Lieutenant!” Olivia said. “You’re not even in uniform yet?”
“Had to clear my head.”
Fred shot an irritated glance toward the nurse, who took the hint and bugged out. The Huragok stayed behind.
Fred grabbed the fatigue pants and yanked them on. “What’s the sitrep?”
“Bad,” Ash reported. “Thirty Wyverns inbound, ETA thirty minutes.”
Fred pulled the socks up next, standing on one leg at a time. He would have liked to consult his Mjolnir HUD for exact specs on the Wyverns. From what he remembered, they were combination ground-attack and troop carrier craft that could transport twenty soldiers at a time. They were probably pretty ungainly and slow by UNSC standards—but with uncontested air superiority, they would be death on wings.
“How do we know numbers and ETA?” Fred asked.
“Admiral Tuwa has a Prowler over us,” Ash said. “It’s keeping an eye on things.”
“So we’re in communication?”
“That’s right,” Ash said. “We’re not being jammed anymore. In fact, nobody is.”
Fred ripped off the hospital gown and tossed it aside, then grabbed an undershirt. The sudden termination of the jamming issue sounded suspicious to him—at least without an explanation—but being able to communicate with the task force would make it a whole lot easier to deal with the Wyverns.
“If we’re in communication, what’s the problem?” Fred asked. The Prowler couldn’t take out an entire wing of Wyverns from
orbit, but there were probably plenty of Pelicans, Owls, and Longswords on station somewhere nearby. “It won’t take much to blunt the Gao attack.”
“It wouldn’t if Fleet were willing to launch against them,” Olivia said. “But Major Wingate thinks Admiral Tuwa has orders to avoid starting a war—at all costs.”
To Fred, the implication was clear. At all costs meant sacrificing the 717th if need be. But Tuwa had a reputation as a tough, sneaky tactician. She would obey orders, but she would do something to extract the battalion—what was left of it, anyway—and she sure as hell wasn’t going to leave Blue Team behind. Eight Spartans were probably worth as much to the UNSC as her entire task force.
Fred sat on the edge of the bed and laced his boots. “I take it you’ve been in contact with the Major, then?”
“That’s right,” Olivia said. “His orders were to secure the ancilla, then stop by the armory and pick up a BB 2550.”
“A Havok?” Fred asked. The Havok Bunker Buster 2550 MFDD was an airdropped, excavation-grade nuclear device, which seemed a bit extreme for the current circumstances. “Are you sure about that?”
“Affirmative,” Olivia said. “We’re supposed to drop it in the Well of Echoes, then evacuate.”
“And the Well of Echoes is . . .?”
“About five kilometers from here,” Olivia said. “Major Wingate believes detonating a Havok there will deny enemy access to the Forerunner base.”
“Okay, then,” Fred said. He didn’t like using nuclear devices because it always felt like a desperation move, but he understood the Major’s reasoning. As a medium-yield tactical nuclear device, the BB 2550 was relatively clean when it came to radiation. But it would get the job done—and if the UNSC couldn’t play with the Forerunner toys down there, then nobody could. “Any word from Commander Nelson?”
“Out of touch,” Ash reported. “So is Inspector Lopis. She wasn’t in her room.”
Fred felt a pang of concern at this last bit of news. Veta Lopis was hardly his first priority right now, and she was certainly capable of taking care of herself. But she had come to feel like a part of his squad during the battle in the cave—and he hated leaving squad members behind.
“What about the rest of Blue Team?”
“On patrol,” Ash said. “They’re on their way back, but they probably won’t make it before the shooting starts.”
“Then we’re on our own for now,” Fred said. “Time to suit up.”
The last time Veta had felt trapped in a place as confined as the support module airlock, her chest had tightened and her stomach had grown hollow, and Olivia had told her to calm herself, that she needed to breathe . . . in through the nose, hold, out through the nose. Slow and natural.
Veta would have given anything to be able to follow that advice now, but there wasn’t much air here to inhale. Her pulse was racing, and she was so lightheaded with asphyxia she feared she would pass out at any second. She was trying not to panic, because panic burned oxygen. Instead, she found herself trying to ignore the pounding in her ears while she used the laser scalpel to burn a hole through the exterior hatch viewport of the airlock.
At least, that was the plan.
But her hands kept shaking, and not because of the asphyxia. Aside from the glow of the scalpel and a pale square of light spilling in through the viewport, the area was completely dark, and she felt like she was trapped someplace even worse . . . someplace where death was easy and life the nightmare.
Veta pressed the tip of the laser scalpel against the viewport, then let her hand slide down the handle until two knuckles rested against the ALON glass. The blade stabilized, but her fingers immediately began to burn and blister from the heat. Knowing the pain would be the last sensation she ever felt if she pulled her hand away, Veta told herself to enjoy it and pushed harder.
Her vision was just starting to tunnel when a shrill whistle erupted between her fingers, nearly tearing the scalpel from her hand as a needle-thin column of air jetted into the lock. Veta used her free hand to test its power and make sure the air jet wouldn’t drill a hole through the back of her head, then placed her mouth about half a meter in front of the hole. The airstream wasn’t exactly the deep-breathing exercise Olivia had recommended, but it filled Veta’s lungs, and her tunnel vision began to recede.
But not her dizziness; Veta remained in the grip of asphyxia.
In the dim light beyond the viewport, Veta could see two marine guards outside the module, desperately working to free her. One was at the control pad next to the hatch, either entering what appeared to be an override code or trying to bypass the locking mechanism. The other was directly in front of the airlock, attempting to jam a short steel bar into the receiving slot and pry the hatch open.
Veta didn’t think either of them had much chance of success. She filled her lungs again, then turned to face the far corner of the airlock. She recalled seeing an observation camera there when she and Nelson had entered the support module.
“Wendell!” In the thin air, her words sounded weak and shrill, and they were barely audible over the whistling airstream behind her. “Wendell, open the exterior hatch.”
“I am sorry.” The voice was rippling and female. “Wendell is no longer with us. Would you like to speak to me, instead?”
Veta turned back toward the hatch long enough to draw another lungful of air, then asked, “Who are you?”
“I have taken Wendell’s position.”
“Congratulations,” Veta said. The answer was oddly evasive for an AI, but she really didn’t care what its name was, as long as it let her out of the airlock. “Can you open the exterior hatch for me?”
“Certainly.”
The hatch did not open.
“Open the hatch,” Veta said. “Now.”
“Is that a command?”
“Yes.”
The hatch remained closed.
“Do it—”
“You humans,” the AI interrupted. “You have always been too reliant on distributed intelligences for your own welfare. It is a weakness that must be eliminated from your species.”
The cold neutrality of the AI’s remark made Veta feel even more desperate about her situation. She activated the laser scalpel and pressed her hand to the viewport again. Now that the threat of dying was merely imminent rather than instant, the heat proved more difficult to ignore. She reminded herself that dying in the next five minutes was not much of an improvement over dying in the next five seconds, then took another lungful of air and glanced over her shoulder toward the observation camera.
“What did you say your name was?”
“I did not say,” the AI replied. “Call me Intrepid Eye.”
“Intrepid . . .?”
“Eye,” the voice said. “It is not a human name.”
Veta had a bad feeling about the not human part. Given that the Forerunner inspection drone had just lobotomized the corporal inside the module, it seemed pretty clear that the ancilla was unhappy about its “recovery.” And if it had replaced Wendell as the 717th’s AI—well, Veta was not the only one at the Montero Vitality Clinic whose situation was growing more desperate by the nanosecond.
“Reclaimers, indeed,” Intrepid Eye continued. “You are not ready. The Lifeworkers were too conservative in their pruning the first time humans infested the galaxy.”
“And you’re trying to correct that now?” Veta asked. A little excitement was starting to build along with her fear—not only did Veta have a promising new suspect, but she had her talking. “Is that why you killed the corporal inside?”
“Not at all,” Intrepid Eye replied. “I needed a distraction.”
A second whistle erupted as Veta’s laser scalpel punched through to the exterior. The resulting airstream was weaker than the first— an indication that her pinholes were doing a better job of repressurizing the airlock than she had expected. But she continued to feel lightheaded—in fact, her vision was starting to tunnel again.
Veta p
ressed the blade to the viewport and began a third hole, then asked, “A distraction? Why? So you could attack Wendell?”
“Is this how you wish to spend your final moments?” Intrepid Eye retorted. “Interrogating an archeon?”
Veta shrugged. “Well, I never know when to give up.” This was the first time she had questioned an AI, but an interrogation was meant to establish a rapport, then get the subject to admit something. Anything. “What about Commander Nelson? And me? Why kill us, if you’ve already replaced Wendell?”
“To keep the secret intact,” Intrepid Eye said. “You saw the one called Tegg die.”
“Tegg? Oh . . . right. The corporal.” Veta’s mind was filling with fog. “What about everyone else?”
“Who?”
“The Gaos . . .”
The laser scalpel punched through the viewport again, but this time there was no whistle, no jet of incoming air. In fact, all three holes had gone silent. Veta knew that meant something important, but she could not quite figure out what, and she was so close to the truth . . . so close to clearing the case, even if it was her last one.
“In the cave,” Veta said. “Why kill all those people in the . . .”
Her legs grew weak and began to fold. She leaned against the hatch, fighting to stay upright . . . fighting to stay conscious . . . fighting to understand the silence of the pinholes.
If the whistling had stopped, the pressure in the airlock was equal. If the pressure was equal, she could breathe . . . but that didn’t mean she was breathing air.
Not air with oxygen, anyway.
Veta looked back toward the observation camera. “Oh . . . you’re good,” she said. “You were distracting . . .”
“Then you no longer care why I killed those people in the cave?” Intrepid Eye asked. “Is there another question I can answer before you die? It should be short, of course.”
And here the AI was still trying to distract her. Why?
“Why what?”