by Various
But that also meant whatever Maher was reading off a screen back on the transport was public knowledge here. “What does the message say?”
“It’s an automated hailing signal. An older UNSC recognition code announcing an intention to land.” Leone heard reticence in the other man’s voice.
Beside him, Sergeant Robertson’s face split in a grin. “Holy crap! Finally, we’re gonna get rescued!” He barely got the words out before a ripple of dismay passed through the locals, alarm spreading at the notion of more UNSC troopers on their planet.
Leone made a throat-cutting gesture to silence the soldier. “Maher, what aren’t you telling me?”
“Sir, are you in a secure location . . . ?”
He shook his head irritably. “Just spit it out, Lieutenant!”
“Captain, the drone’s sensors have a read on the vessel transmitting the code. It’s not . . . a human ship, sir. Long-range profile correlates to a Covenant light corvette. It’s on an intercept course with Losing Hand.”
Leone looked up and found Ryan Larsson glaring at him with open hatred. “What the hell have you brought here, Captain?” he demanded.
That night, most of the settlement turned out for the town meeting, so many that inside the hall it was standing room only. Outside there were groups crowding around the doors, listening to the speeches on repeaters.
Leone saw a lot of green uniforms among the gray slickers of the locals. Almost everyone who wasn’t standing a shift on the transport had come down to hear what was said. For once, the citizens of Losing Hand and the crew of Dark Was the Night seemed to be together on something. It was troubling to think that fear had made it so.
“Eighty-one hours, Earth-standard,” said Maher, standing up so he could be seen by everyone crammed into the hall. “Providing the ship doesn’t shift velocity, it will make orbit in just over two days, local time.”
“Covenant warships can come right down to the surface,” said a grizzled old woman in the front row. “I’ve seen it. They like to watch when they glass a place.”
“We don’t know that’s why they’re here,” Leone insisted.
“You reckon so?” Larsson shot the question at him from along the table where they all sat. “You know what those Covenant out there are thinking?” He spat on the floor. “This could be the start of an invasion!”
“We don’t know that,” Maher blurted out the words before the muttering of the crowd could grow louder. “They’re not responding to any signals we send, so their communications system may be damaged. But this isn’t typical Covenant battle tactics. They don’t warn you when they’re coming.”
“Things change,” said the old woman. “Aliens are aliens. They’re not on their way here because they wanna buy some fish from us!”
“How are we supposed to defend ourselves against Sangheili Elites?” shouted someone from the back. “Or the Brutes, or them Hunter things? They’ll butcher us all, and Leone’s people won’t be able to stop them!”
The captain got to his feet, holding up his hands. “Everybody, this is not an attack,” he insisted.
“Not yet,” added Larsson.
Leone ignored him and went on. “We’re still trying to figure out the situation.”
“Why don’t you send up one of them Penguin dropships you got, go see what they really want?” said the man at the back.
“Pelican,” Maher said. “We lost most of them in the crash. The only intact one we have isn’t airworthy.”
“Huh!” snarled another voice. “I bet you’ll get it fixed in time to leave us all behind when the hinge-heads get here!”
“If it comes to conflict—” Leone snapped, his temper fraying. “If it comes to that, then we’ll meet any enemy with force! But I am not going to borrow trouble before we have it! We have a lot of questions and too few answers, so we have to think before we act!” He ignored the sneer on Larsson’s lips and scanned the faces in the hall.
He’d been mistaken all along. There was no unity out there, he realized. Looking closer, Leone saw anger, panic, and doubt on some, resolution and defiance in the eyes of others—but the division wasn’t along the lines he expected. Some of his own crew were looking at him like he was a stranger, and others counted among the fisher locals—Larsson’s sister was one of them—were nodding along with him.
“It’s easy to see the worst,” he went on, “but we have to hope for the best. That vessel is broadcasting a friendly hail.”
“A lie,” said the old woman. “That’s what it is.”
Leone turned on her. “You know that for sure?”
She glared back up at him. “I know this, Earther. I ain’t much older than you, but I know not to trust what ain’t born from no human mother.”
He tried to say more, but the tide of the crowd was ebbing, and he could feel it in the room. Nobody wanted to hear that they weren’t ready to resist an armed invasion. Nobody wanted to accept that the ship, if it was the Covenant up there, might be in as dire straits as everyone else.
What they wanted was an easy answer, even if it came covered in blood. The meeting disintegrated into chest-beating and talk of how many guns could be dragged out on the day they arrived, and finally Leone had to get out of there and into the icy, damp night.
He had to think.
He wandered away from the hall and sat heavily on the fender of a battered Mongoose ATV. He clasped his hands together, fighting back shivers from the chill. These days, the cold seemed to reach right into his bones more than it ever had when he was a young man. Overhead, the sky was streaked with cloud, but the stars peeked through here and there. They looked unwelcoming.
Boots crunched on the muddy ground, and Leone saw Sergeant Robertson approaching with Denton and Wild, a couple of the noncoms. “Sir . . .”
“At ease,” he told them, although none of the men looked like they were going to salute.
“Captain, about what you said in there. . . . That was just for the Losers, wasn’t it?”
“Don’t call the locals that,” he said automatically. “It’s abusive.”
“I mean, we’re gonna be ready for the Covies, right?” Robertson went on. “We’re not just gonna let them roll in here. . . . There’s a plan, sir?”
“I’m working on it,” Leone said carefully, pacing out each word. It’s not that simple, he wanted to say, but they were already walking away. They had their answers before they had even spoken to him.
He blew out a breath and hugged himself for warmth, turning over what he knew again and again in some vain hope that a solution would present itself.
“Hey.” Leone turned at the sound of her voice and found Larsson’s sister coming his way. She offered him a battered hip flask in the shape of a jerrycan. “You look like you could use a stiff drink.”
He accepted the offer silently and took a careful sip from the flask, trying not to think about how much she reminded him of the niece he barely knew back on Ixion. His chest caught fire as whatever kind of rotgut was in there burned through him with a shudder. Leone coughed and his eyes watered, much to the fisher’s amusement; but then the sting faded, leaving him with a warm afterglow. “Ah. Smooth,” he managed.
She laughed and took a pull on the flask herself. “Don’t ask what it’s made from.”
“Let me guess.” He jerked a thumb toward the quayside. “Fish?”
“For starters.” She sat down across from him on an oil drum, her expression turning sorrowful. “What’s your name? Your first name, I mean.”
“Darren.”
She nodded. “I’m Aoife.” She spelled it out for him. “Don’t try to pronounce it—your people always mash it up.” She leaned closer, offering the flask again. “Look, you seem like a decent guy. And I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
He had another drink. “Didn’t Robertson arrest you for punching a guy?”
“Bruises fade,” she said briskly. “I’m talking about real bloodshed.”
Her tone rang a wa
rning note with him. “What do you want to say to me?”
She shot a look back at the town hall, scanning around to make sure nobody was listening to them. “My brother has a big mouth, but he’s just the one you see. There’s others who keep quiet, who are getting ready. Now this thing with the alien ship . . .” Aoife trailed off, shaking her head. “It’s giving them what they want. An excuse.”
“You’re talking about . . . insurrection.” The word was loaded with meaning.
The woman eyed him. “We’re independents, Darren. That’s in our veins. It breeds a certain kind of person, and they’re not the kind to listen to the likes of you.” She took back the flask and had another pull on it. “These people?” She gestured at the air. “I love them, but they’re not interested in the words of decent men. They don’t see far—they’re stubborn as hell, and a lot of them are not that smart. But what they do understand is hardship and sacrifice. They understand fighting for something.” She stood up, capping the flask. “You need to be ready for that.”
Leone came to his feet in a rush. “Do you know what will happen if they try to take the transport? People will be killed, on both sides—all because no one will listen!”
“They’re afraid.” She looked up at the clouds. “We all are.”
“You think the men and women in this uniform feel any different?” Leone tapped his chest and took a step toward her, his voice low. “You know what scares me the most? That your brother may be right and the Covenant is coming here to butcher us. If we’re not ready when they arrive, they’ll cut us down like chaff.” Unbidden, memories of old battles rose up to the surface, carrying with them the snarl of spike rifles and the crash of plasma weapons.
“You’ve seen one of them?” Aoife said quietly. “Up close?”
“A Sangheili.” Leone unbuttoned his collar so she could see the livid, healed wound from the glancing cut of an energy sword there on his shoulder. “This close.”
“So you know how to kill them and live to talk about it?”
The wind pulled at him, and a sudden moment of clarity crystalized in his thoughts. “Someone here does.”
At dawn, Leone left Lieutenant Maher in command and took a Warthog north along the craggy coastline. Sergeant Robertson rode alongside him, the soldier’s usually talkative manner muted by the sight of the wilderness ranged around them. To one side, great cliffs of volcanic rock rose up in squared-off planes. On the other, black sand fell away into a foaming gray ocean of harsh waves and brackish, metallic spray. The Warthog’s wheels spun and bit at the ground, making it an effort just to keep the vehicle on a steady course. After a while, Leone’s shoulders were aching.
“You really think we’ll find him, sir?” Robertson looked up from checking his rifle. “After all this time? I mean, you know what they say in the barracks. That he’s a des—”
“You secure that crap,” Leone told him. “He’s a Spartan. What you’re suggesting isn’t part of their makeup.”
Robertson scowled. “Just calling it like I see it, Captain.”
He didn’t want to admit it, but there had been loose talk about the transport’s passenger at the start of their voyage; that something had gone disastrously wrong on a mission thanks to faulty intelligence, and after the fact a bunch of ONI officers wound up in a field hospital with multiple broken bones, while the Spartan was pulled from active duty. The officers who knew the full story had perished during the attack, leaving Leone with only guesses.
They crested a low rise and came across a section of beach leading up to a hollow in the cliffs. The last sighting of the Spartan had been in this area, and soon Leone spotted a shelter built from driftwood and old tarps. He brought the Warthog to a halt and dropped down to the sand, searching for more signs of life.
The sergeant joined him, peering up at the sheer cliff face. He pointed at a depression in the rock, up high. “Is that . . . a hide in there?”
Leone nodded. “Could be. The cliffs here are tall enough. When the mist is low, you’d be able to see the settlement from here.” But not with ordinary human eyes, he added silently.
Robertson gingerly approached the shelter, sizing it up. “This looks abandoned, sir.”
“I don’t think so.” Leone walked to the mouth of the cave and used a flashlight to look inside. The white beam faded away into the fathomless dark. He took a lungful of briny air and called out. “Spartan? Fall in!”
They stood there watching the cave in silence for several minutes, with only the rhythmic crashing of the waves to mark the passing of time. Eventually, Robertson’s shoulders sagged and he shook his head. “Your boy ain’t here, captain.” The sergeant turned away and made it two steps toward the Warthog before he skidded to a stop and swore out loud.
Leone pivoted and saw a towering figure standing by the side of the vehicle. Clad in battered, dark-blue Mjolnir armor, accented here and there by stripes of crimson and black, it resembled a sculpture carved from old steel more than a living being. The helmet’s narrow-eyed aspect made Leone think of a hawk, predatory and unblinking. A gold visor regarded the two men impassively, and finally the head moved, glancing away to the horizon and then back again.
“Only two of you.” The voice was rough and smoky.
“Hello, Kevin,” said Leone. “We need to talk.”
Beneath the helmet was a face that seemed young enough to make Leone age just looking at him. There was an odd quality about the Spartans, in the manner they had been remade. Not just in how they had been turned into superlative warriors, but in the way they were sculpted into figures that were larger than life. He’d seen the subtle effect their mere presence could have on ordinary men and women. They were like statues of ancient mythic heroes come to life—Hercules, Athena, Beowulf, or whichever one your culture hove to—and Leone had no doubt that Kevin-A282 had been deliberately engineered that way. An academy classmate had once told Leone about being in the same room with the most famous of them all, the Master Chief, and of how everyone there had stood a little taller in the company of John-117.
But what he felt now—meeting the gaze of the taciturn, unblinking Spartan—was doubt. Even with his scars, Kevin’s face was that of a young man, but his eyes were old and distant. Leone couldn’t help but wonder what he had seen, and was glad that he didn’t know.
“What are you doing out here?” Robertson asked the question that had been pressing on them both.
“Keeping watch,” said the Spartan. He had an SRS99 sniper rifle mag-locked across his back-plate, and Leone didn’t doubt that he would be able to use it effectively, even at the most extreme of ranges.
“That’s not an answer,” said the captain. “You left your post.”
He shook his head. “Negative, sir. Just relocated it.”
Robertson scowled at the reply and shot Leone a look but said nothing. After a moment, the captain went on. “You took it upon yourself to do that. Ignored the recall we put out.”
“I don’t answer to you.” The Spartan looked away. “And I like the quiet here.” He paused, seeming to listen to the steady sound of the waves on the shore. His armor creaked gently as he moved. Leone had never seen him out of it and wondered what that meant, that the Spartan had been buttoned up in there for months.
Leone frowned. “I’m here with new orders for you, son. I want you to come back with us to the township. Your presence is required.”
Kevin glanced at him. “My presence is required in the fight. Not here.”
The old wound in Leone’s shoulder stiffened at the Spartan’s words, and unbidden he remembered a blaze of blue plasma and terrible, world-ending pain. He forced the memory away.
Robertson summoned up what reserves of defiance he still had. “He’s not interested in helping us, sir. He’s a burnout—”
He barely had the last word out of his mouth before Kevin took a warning step toward the sergeant, and suddenly Robertson wasn’t saying anything. “What was that?” asked Kevin, his tone even.
After a long moment, Kevin turned away, and Robertson released the breath he had been holding in with a gasp.
Kevin turned to look down at Leone’s hand resting on the frame of the M6 magnum, and what the captain saw in the warrior’s eyes made his blood run cold. Contained, coiled violence.
He swallowed and pressed on. “I gave you a direct order. Don’t make me arrest you.”
“That’s not going to happen,” said the Spartan, after a moment. It wasn’t a threat, simply a matter of fact. “You don’t want me to help you handle things in trawler-town. That isn’t what I’m built for.”
“Not that.” Leone took a breath and told him about the signal and the Covenant ship. While he spoke, Kevin stood silently, absorbing it all. When Leone was done, the Spartan shook his head again.
“Elites come in quiet, kill you before you know it. Could be Jackals up there, maybe. Those Kig-Yar bastards are tricky.”
“My crew isn’t battle-tested,” said Leone. “A few of us have seen action, but not like you. We need you with us. Not just to fight, but to unite. The locals won’t listen to me, and if it turns out we do have an attack on our hands . . .” He trailed off. Belatedly, Leone realized he still had his hand on the gun and he let it drop. “I know it isn’t fear talking,” said the captain. “What’s holding you back, Spartan?”
Kevin unlimbered the long sniper rifle and aimed it out to sea. “Spartans don’t fear enemy contact,” he said, as if the idea itself was foolish. “We want it. I wait and watch. Imagine the sky turning black with Phantoms, like it did on Reach.” He paused. “It’s what I was made for. What all Spartans are made for.”
Kevin’s A-numeral designation meant he was Alpha Company, one of the longest-serving SPARTAN-III units, and Leone knew that meant he had seen some of the worst of the war with the Covenant, on colonies like Kholo and Meridian, even on Sigma Octanus IV not long ago. He thought about the cold terror his own memories of conflict dredged up, and once more he was glad he didn’t have to share the Spartan’s.