Legacy of Onyx

by Matt Forbeck

  Spartans?

  Molly let that sink in for a moment.

  That news was a potential game changer for her. If Spartans were there, that meant a level of safety she could rely on. Even among aliens.

  Everyone knew about the UNSC’s Spartans, the unstoppable super-soldiers who had fought against the Covenant for nearly thirty years. Spartans were one of the only things that could stop the aliens during the war. They were the stuff of legend, and Molly’s Newparents knew—despite their reservations about soldiers—that if the Spartans had anything to do with Onyx, it would directly affect how she felt about the move.

  Molly took a deep breath and worked hard to get ahold of herself in the wake of her cathartic venting and this new information. After a long moment, she exhaled, forcing out as much of her fear as she could.

  Spartans did make this different, as much as she didn’t want to admit it.

  “All of this is beside the point,” Asha said with welling eyes. “We love you, Molly, and we’re going to take care of you and protect you until you’re old enough to live on your own. So this discussion effectively is over. You’re going to come with us because we couldn’t live without you. Everything is going to be fine. I promise you that.”

  Molly stared out the window at the encroaching dusk and frowned, taking in that promise as the sun sank to the horizon. As much as they said they wanted to hear her out, she knew that ultimately she had no say regarding what happened to her life, and that made her angry and frustrated. This had been her story since she was seven, and it wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

  “Do we really have to live side by side with aliens?” Molly asked wearily.

  Asha slid off her chair and sat down on the couch beside Molly. A moment later, Yong followed suit and slipped in on the other side. Together, they leaned in and gave Molly a gentle hug. She fought the urge to embrace them in return, even though she wanted to . . . but she couldn’t, not yet. It still hurt too much.

  “Yes, in a way. Perhaps not as neighbors, but there will be Sangheili there,” Asha said soothingly. “They’re allies now, Molly. And they’re all experts and scientists too, not soldiers. They won’t be a threat. I promise you.”

  “I can’t just forget Paris IV.”

  Yong gave Molly a grim nod. “Of course not. But even if the Sangheili were on the wrong side then, Molly, they’re on our side now. These Elites don’t want war, just like us. That’s why this research facility exists.”

  Yong had used the term the UNSC had dubbed the Sangheili after their first encounter, the same one most often heard in newsfeeds: Elites. Outside a few exceptions, the Elites were the most effective warriors the Covenant had to offer, so it had been a fitting nickname at the time—especially since the two species had been introduced by way of weapons rather than words.

  Molly leaned into Yong. “I don’t know if that makes me feel a whole lot better.”

  Asha squeezed her shoulders. “You’ve read the reports. Without the Arbiter and the Elites who pledged to help him, we’d have lost the war.”

  “But what about the rumors of there being another Covenant—like the group that attacked New Phoenix last year? Or any of the other hostile alien groups out there?” Molly asked. “The newsfeeds keep saying how dangerous they are. What if they found a way in?”

  Yong waggled his head slightly from side to side, half conceding the point. “You’re right. There are elements that still exist, like the Servants of the Abiding Truth, who continue to see the Forerunners as gods—and they’re certainly a problem. That’s probably why they’ve stationed Spartans on Onyx. ONI’s not going to take any chances at all.”

  “What Yong said earlier isn’t an exaggeration, Molly,” Asha said. “Onyx is the safest place in the galaxy. There’s no question. You’re more at risk here in Aranuka than you would be on Onyx, and that’s a fact.”

  Molly sighed. If she was serious about not going with them, the only real option she had was to run away, but she couldn’t see how that would work. Maybe she could disappear in a normal metropolis, but here on the empty and secluded Aranuka platform—surrounded by nothing but thousands of kilometers of open ocean on every side—there wasn’t any place for her to go.

  On top of that, she knew how much leaving her Newparents would hurt them. Despite the pain she felt today, there was no way she could bring herself to inflict that on them. No matter where they wanted to take her, she couldn’t just abandon them like that. Especially not after all they’d done for her—all the love they’d shown her.

  That was it. She’d have to move with them to Onyx, and she’d have to be a good soldier about it.

  Molly would follow orders and go along with their plan—for now, at least.

  But they couldn’t make her like it.

  And they couldn’t make her stay past her eighteenth birthday. So she would count the days and do the time. But the moment she got her proper, legal chance to get free and clear of Onyx? On that day, Molly would leave without a second thought. And nothing they could say or do would keep her there a moment longer.

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  * * *

  Dural ‘Mdama had long ago promised himself that he would avoid backwater planets like Hesduros if he could. The Sangheili warrior had spent enough time in such places during his short years, trying to avoid being captured by the Arbiter and his traitorous kind. And all along, Dural had wanted nothing more than to take the fight straight to them on his homeworld, Sanghelios. He also had no desire to become like many of his uncles: either to flee his keep in their ancestral homeland in Mdama or to be slaughtered like a herd of helpless colo in their pens.

  The young Sangheili had come of age in the dying days of the war with the humans, and he had survived those days only to watch his proud people become fractured, broken, and ultimately beaten. Dural vowed that he would not end up like them. Instead, he would do everything in his power to lead them back from the brink of irrelevance and to reclaim their glory.

  Yet Dural found himself on Song of Wrath—a heavily armed barque bearing down through the dense atmosphere of Hesduros—about to meet with a lowly kaidon who was only valuable to him because of a simple accident of fate.

  But perhaps fate knew nothing of accidents.

  From his seat at Dural’s left hand, Shipmaster Buran ‘Utaral—a battle-tested commander—signaled for his attention. Buran might have gone soft around the middle from spending too much time on a ship rather than on the field of battle, but he had lost none of the edge in his steely eyes.

  “We are on our final approach to the province Panom,” the warrior announced. He added discreetly, “Are you sure this is our best course of action?”

  Before Dural could answer, Ruk ‘Nuusra snarled at Buran from the seat on the right. “How dare you question the Pale Blade’s judgment in front of the crew? We have been over this a dozen times. This may be a bold and daring choice, but if Dural ‘Mdama declares this to be our path, then may the gods bless it.”

  Dural quieted Ruk with a sharp gesture. As the one they called the Pale Blade, he appreciated Ruk’s support, but he was more than capable of dealing with Buran himself. “Do you doubt the judgment of Field Master Avu Med ‘Telcam?” Dural asked the shipmaster.

  “Never.” Buran put a fist to his chest in a sign of respect for their former leader’s memory. “But he is not the one who put us on this path.”

  “No, that was my decision,” Dural said. “But he named me his successor as the leader of the Servants of the Abiding Truth. If you doubt my judgment, then you doubt his.”

  That ‘Telcam had chosen one as young as Dural ‘Mdama over such stalwarts as Buran rankled the shipmaster, but not enough for him to ever challenge the Pale Blade over the leadership of the Abiding Truth. At least not yet.

  The field master’s decision had surprised Dural as well. The Sangheili youth had loyally served him and the Abiding Truth since the day ‘Telcam had taken him in more than five years
ago. The field master had been one of the last to see Dural’s mother alive, as a passenger on his own starship during their failed siege against the Arbiter Thel ‘Vadam—the battle that had launched what the Sangheili had come to call the Blooding Years. She had died while in ‘Telcam’s charge, and out of a sense of responsibility, the field master had taken Dural on as his apprentice.

  ‘Mdama knew who was really to blame for his mother’s death however: the Arbiter himself, who had betrayed all of Sanghelios when he led so many of its people to join forces with the humans against the false Prophets. If he had not sundered the Sangheili so, they might still have been victorious over the humans in the end. Instead, Dural’s once-proud people now found themselves so terribly reduced to weakness. For such sins—along with the death of his mother—Dural had long ago vowed that Thel ‘Vadam would pay.

  This was the next step upon that quest.

  Buran looked away, unable to meet Dural’s eyes. “As the Pale Blade commands,” he said sullenly, using the name the young leader had earned on the field of battle.

  Some might have thought the designation an insult, a derogatory reference to Dural’s pale skin, something that set him apart from many of his fellow brethren of Ontom, Sorovut, or Kaloabyn—the lineages that formed the bulk of the Servants. Dural, however, knew that it marked him as one not from the compromised lowlands and coastal city-states, but from the province of Mdama, proud and indomitable since its birth. Dural ‘Mdama was not simply different from the others among the Servants though. He was better.

  Because of that, he had embraced the name, transforming it from insult into honorific, weaving a legend of terror into the hearts of all those who heard of his deeds. Many of the warriors of the Abiding Truth wore armor cobbled together from their time serving with the Covenant, improved with whatever pieces they could pick up along the way. They looked like militia soldiers, similar to those from the early days of Sanghelios. Most of them were too preoccupied with the function of their armor to see the practical advantage of instilling fear in the hearts of one’s enemies as well.

  For himself—and at the urging of the field master—Dural had painted the pieces of his own armor all in a pale blue, the color of an energy blade. His helmet and harness were of an anchorite-warrior sect, a fierce and ancient variety he had recovered from the vaults of the Ontom temple, where the Servants of the Abiding Truth were stationed. In many ways, Dural had fully become the Pale Blade. With his former history largely forgotten, others now spoke only of his skill on the battlefield. They easily set Dural apart from the rest—exactly as he had desired.

  The Sangheili rode in silence the remainder of the way down to the keep at the center of Panom, a small and remote township slung out across the edge of a densely forested region of Vakkoro, a supercontinent in northern Hesduros. The detachment of warriors landed the barque just outside it and disembarked in formation. After their vanguard fanned out in advance of those in command, the Pale Blade took the lead, with Buran and Ruk at his sides.

  A grizzled Sangheili, who somehow made Buran look like the peak of fitness, hobbled through the front gate of the keep to greet their command. He led a congregation of browbeaten, poorly armed warriors from within the town. This was the kaidon Panom—the Sangheili leader of the city-state of the same name—and as he limped toward the Servants, Dural wondered why none of his own people had stepped forward to wrest control of the keep from him, upholding the ancient traditions. It was the noble thing to do to this old creature. He must have done much for them in the past to command such respect even now.

  Or, perhaps, they were merely all weaklings.

  “Greetings, Dural ‘Mdama.” The kaidon tilted his head to the side to get a closer look at the young commander. “I would like to say I am pleased to see you here, but I think I have had enough of warriors from the line of ‘Mdama for a lifetime.”

  Dural favored him with an understanding nod as he surveyed the walls of the keep. Several sections had been obliterated with what appeared to have been plasma fire, recently enough that the people of Panom had not even had time to properly clear the rubble. “The Arbiter’s arm has fallen heavily upon you.”

  “True, but we would never have attracted the traitor’s attention if I had not permitted Jul ‘Mdama and his allies within my walls. He may call himself the Hand of the Didact, but he has only drawn the hand of destruction to our people. His campaign against the Swords of Sanghelios brought the Arbiter’s wrath down on us.”

  “I understand this is why my uncle decided to abandon his many redoubts on this world—or what’s left of them since the assault—and take the battle to the Arbiter’s doorstep. He prepares for his assault on the contested states of Sanghelios even as we speak.”

  Dural had called Jul his uncle, for that is how he had long known him—just as all the fledglings on Sanghelios called their older male relatives uncle. They might each know their mothers, but to prevent nepotism, they were all denied the knowledge of their fathers. Mostly.

  Panom scoffed. “Much good that will do my people, we few who survive.” The warriors around him all nodded in grave agreement.

  “We have all lost much to the Swords,” Dural said. “And even more to their allies.”

  Panom grunted. “I heard about the death of Avu Med ‘Telcam. To be cut down like that by one of the demons . . .”

  “He is sorely missed.” Dural appreciated the sentiment, but he had not come here to commiserate with Panom over losses.

  Panom sensed Dural’s eagerness. “You have other concerns, I know.” Panom craned his neck to see Dural’s warriors continuing to pour out of the starship. “I’m afraid, though, that you’ve come here ready to start a war with a missing foe.”

  “We are actually not here to fight on this world. And we do not need your help. We simply need access to the ancient portal that lies within your land.”

  Panom scowled. “The same portal that brought Jul ‘Mdama to our home? What good would that do you? Are you fleeing from the Arbiter’s forces yourself?”

  Ruk huffed at that, clacking his mandibles together.

  “Such efforts will do you no good,” Panom said, irritated. “Do you think we would not have used the portal ourselves if we could have escaped the Swords’ assault on our keep in that way? It has not been active since the day Jul ‘Mdama arrived years ago. On our side, at least, it remains sealed.”

  Dural shook his head. “To you, certainly. But not to me.”

  Panom peered at the young warrior, now suspicious. “What fool’s errand are you on, fledgling?”

  Dural didn’t care for the condescending tone. He stretched up to his full height and did not seek to hide the anger building in his voice. “I aim to bring the fight to the Arbiter’s clan and his human allies so that we can avenge the death of our former leader, the esteemed Field Master Avu Med ‘Telcam.”

  Panom shook his head at Dural in amazement. “I admire your ambition, but you have already run headlong into the first wall of your plan. The portal you seek will not open for you, for me, or for anyone else on this world. Your uncle had to coerce a Huragok—one of the very servant-tools of the gods—into opening it for him when he was on the other side. And, as you can see, fledgling, I don’t have any of those rare creatures in my employ.”

  Panom’s warriors growled in assent.

  Dural motioned toward Song of Wrath’s open bay door, and a squad escorted a blue-and-purple creature down the boarding ramp. It was roughly the size and shape of an okadoth—a Sanghelios-native soft-bodied aquatic animal, similar to the humans’ jellyfish—hovering a meter off the ground. Four prehensile tentacles dangled from its sides, languorously squirming about. Its head snaked out from the front of it on a sinuous, long neck, and its eyes stared out from its glowing blue face, devouring every bit of its new environment.

  “How fortunate then, Kaidon Panom, that I do.”

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  * * *

  I’d like t
o personally welcome you all to Onyx,” said the holographic projection at the end of the passenger cabin on board the UNSC Milwaukee. “I’m Director Hugo Barton.” He was communicating through some kind of real-time comm system, the attendant had advised earlier. Apparently, he was speaking from his office on Onyx through a faster-than-light dimension called wavespace.

  Admittedly, Molly was a little disappointed to see him appear there. Her family was on a UNSC starship heading for their new home inside this mysterious and ancient Forerunner world, and she’d been hoping to be welcomed by someone or something a bit more . . . exciting.

  It was not as if she were expecting to have someone such as the Master Chief greeting them, but her heart sank a little when a man who looked like an antiquated scientist or a midlevel bureaucrat popped up, rather than a war hero clad in a set of battle-scarred Mjolnir armor. For Molly, one of the only silver linings in moving to Onyx was the possibility of seeing a Spartan in person. She’d been nursing the hope that she’d run into at least one of them, maybe even on the way there.

  Nevertheless, Molly knew the director was probably more important than any particular Spartan in the grand scheme of ONI’s operations, especially as it related to Onyx and its research facilities. Molly had never heard of the man, but that might have been a reflection of just how good he was at his job. The word about ONI was that one never heard an employee’s name mentioned publicly unless the person was in public relations or was dismissed, something that rarely happened.

  According to other more sensational rumors, termination—in the most lethal sense of the word—was how ONI usually let their employees go. Once you were ONI, you were ONI for life, whether you liked it or not.