by Troy Denning
“It means those worlds are ruled by a military authority,” ‘Szatulai explained. As a commander of the Silent Shadow, he had spent many cycles on human worlds and no doubt understood their customs far better than did Nizat. “Sometimes it is called the Colonial Military Authority, and sometimes it is called the United Nations Space Command. I am uncertain of the difference, but it matters not. The vessels of both forces are as the flesh of a captive keifra before our knives.”
“And humans do not wish to be ruled by their own military?”
‘Szatulai’s helmet tipped forward and to the left, signaling negation. “It is very strange, Fleetmaster,” he said. “But many humans view this colonial rule as enslavement.”
“I agree,” said Survey. ‘Lakosee still had not returned with the translation disk, so the Minor Minister was responding only to the short exchange between Nizat and ‘Szatulai. “It should be their prophets who rule their worlds.”
‘Szatulai’s visor swung toward the Minor Minister and remained fixed there for a time; then he finally deigned to speak. “The infidels follow too many faiths to be ruled by any of them,” he said. “And a vast number of humans follow no faith at all.”
“Which is undoubtedly why the Hierarchs consider their species unworthy of the Great Journey,” Survey said. “You would do well to keep that in your thoughts, First Blade.”
“As I do, Your Grace,” ‘Szatulai said. “My faith stands as the pillar of my obedience.”
Which could mean, Nizat reflected, that it was only ‘Szatulai’s faith in the Great Journey that kept him from snapping the Minor Minister’s snaky little neck. On occasion, Nizat had pondered the same murderous blasphemy himself—but it was better to avoid dwelling on that now. He signaled ‘Szatulai to resume, and the first blade touched the device again.
“—yearning to breathe free,” the head—Garvin—continued. “And on many of those worlds, desperate groups of resistance fighters have organized themselves into insurrectionist armies who are determined to throw off the yoke of imperialism.”
Nizat decided not to inquire about the meaning of imperialism. No doubt it had something to do with being oppressed, and what did he care about the oppression of humans? They would all be free soon enough, right after he killed them.
The thought had barely passed from his mind before it became a pang of guilt that he felt like a dagger through one of his hearts. He put the pain aside and returned his focus to the hologram.
“. . . suggest an alliance with the Covenant,” Garvin was saying. “And to prove our value in such a bargain, we offer you this intelligence as a gift: recently, you lost a vessel at Netherop under mysterious circumstances. That vessel was destroyed by the same unit that did the same to your ship at Chi Ceti IV a few months ago.”
Nizat’s interest was already spiking as the hologram changed from an image of General Garvin to a human-shaped figure in bulky armor. The engagement at the world the humans called Chi Ceti IV had been the subject of much speculation among his staff officers. A dispatch sent during a lull in the battle had expressed the confidence of the Unrelenting’s shipmaster that, after a fierce initial engagement, the Unrelenting would emerge victorious and seek repairs at Zhoist, a supply world and staging area just beyond human space that had once been home to ten ancient Forerunner cities.
But the Unrelenting had never arrived, and at Netherop, the Radiant Arrow had simply vanished. If the human traitors were willing to tell Nizat what had befallen the two Covenant vessels, he was certainly willing to listen. He might even allow them to believe that it would save their own worlds . . . at least for a time.
The armored figure in the hologram spun slowly around, allowing Nizat and his companions an opportunity to inspect it from all angles, and then Garvin’s voice continued.
“This is an elite special operations soldier known as a Spartan. Everything concerning Spartans—their origin, capabilities, number—is classified ultra-secret, so there’s a lot we don’t know about them. What we do know, however, is that they are what happened to your vessels at Netherop and Chi Ceti IV.
“And they’re going to do the same thing to you at Biko—to the entire Covenant fleet.”
The image changed back to Garvin’s face.
“If you care to learn more, we’ll be waiting in the abandoned ice quarry on Biko’s third moon, Seoba. Send someone who can strike a deal. We have a little project we’d like your help with.”
The image contracted into nothingness. Nizat absentmindedly began to spread and close his mandibles.
After a moment, he said, “I am uncertain that I understand.”
“Understand what?” Survey said. “I should have made you wait for the translation disk.”
Nizat glowered at him, then said, “That was not your decision to make.”
Survey smacked his lips in outrage, but Nizat ignored him and turned back to ‘Szatulai.
“Does this traitor—this General Garvin—does he truly expect us to perform a service for him?”
“I believe he hopes to strike a bargain,” ‘Szatulai said. “He warned us about these Spartans, and now he hopes we will feel obligated to provide something in return.”
“Other than our favor?” Nizat asked.
‘Szatulai turned his palms down, a gesture of bewilderment. “It is the way humans are,” he said. “They have no understanding of the natural order of dominion.”
“No, it is something else,” Survey said. “You are underestimating him . . . the one you call General Garvin.”
‘Szatulai’s helmet tipped sideways in a gesture of irritation, and Nizat feared the Minor Minister had finally grown too bold in his arrogance. How could he presume to know what the humans were thinking, when he did not even understand their words?
“Your Grace,” Nizat said, “First Blade ‘Szatulai has spent many cycles hiding on human worlds, learning their ways and studying their weaknesses. He understands how their minds work.”
“And I understand the art of intrigue,” Survey countered. “This General Garvin is using a classic ploy, saying he wants one thing when he is seeking another.”
Nizat was doubtful. “What he wants is survival for his faction, and he is willing to betray the rest of his species to win it. That is what cowards do.”
“And yet he made a point of showing you that armored soldier,” Survey said. “Was that one of the Spartans the first blade mentioned?”
“It was.” Nizat did not see where Survey’s questions were leading, but the Minor Minister was right about this much: no one understood the art of intrigue better than the San’Shyuum. “You find that significant, Your Grace?”
“In a negotiation, everything is significant,” Survey said. “First Blade ‘Szatulai said this General Garvin ‘warned’ you about the Spartans. Am I to take it they are a danger to us?”
“So he claims.” Nizat would have to revisit his evaluation of the Minor Minister; clearly, the San’Shyuum was shrewder than he seemed. “General Garvin says that the Spartans destroyed our ships at Chelav and Neska—the worlds they call Chi Ceti IV and Netherop.”
Survey’s eyes bulged. “Did they?”
Nizat thought for a moment, considering whether two of his vessels could have been destroyed by some more conventional method, perhaps by being surprised and vanquished so quickly there had been no time to dispatch an action report. He decided not. If the humans had ships that capable, they would not be holding them back from battle.
Finally Nizat said, “It seems the most likely explanation.”
“Humans against ships?” Survey remained aghast. “How is that possible?”
“By sneaking aboard and planting a bomb,” ‘Szatulai said. “That is how the Silent Shadow would do it.”
“Perilous, but possible,” Nizat said. “But would it work against a fleet?”
‘Szatulai thought for a moment, then said, “The Silent Shadow would never attempt such a thing. It would be impossible to infiltrate an entire flee
t undetected. Too much can go wrong.”
“Fleet?” Survey asked. “What is this talk of fleets?”
“General Garvin says the Spartans will be waiting for us at the human world Biko,”
“I do not know this Biko,” Survey asked.
“We call it Borodan,” Nizat said. “But the name is less important than what General Garvin claims the Spartans will do: attack the Fleet of Inexorable Obedience.”
“Ah.” Survey calmed and settled back in his chair, steepling his hands before his chin wattles. “Now I see.”
Nizat glanced at ‘Szatulai, but the first blade showed no sign that he understood either, and together they waited for the Minor Minister to enlighten them.
At last, Survey lowered his hands. “General Garvin is trying to motivate you. He wants you to kill the Spartans, so he claims they are a danger to the fleet.”
“That is a sound motivation,” Nizat said.
“If he is telling the truth, yes,” said ‘Szatulai. “But boarding an entire fleet? They would have to be mad.”
“They have succeeded twice before,” Nizat said. “Perhaps they were testing a new device—a personal cloak or a shield-lance—and now they are ready to deploy it on a larger scale.”
‘Szatulai offered a small bow. “I had not thought of that.”
“It is only a possibility,” Nizat said. “But one we must consider. You will assemble a kai’d of the fleet’s best warriors to hunt down these Spartans, then go to the third moon—this Seoba—and learn how General Garvin and his traitors can help.”
“And after I speak with them?”
Knowing that his answer would depend more on doctrine than strategy, Nizat turned to the Minor Minister.
“Do you remember what I showed you on the kelguid?” Nizat was referring to a holographic star chart, developed from technology reverse-engineered from the Forerunner equivalent. “The importance of establishing a forward operating base, so we can press our attack with speed?”
Survey nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You are thinking that Borodan is the place?”
“Yes, provided we can capture it without a prolonged fight,” Nizat said. “And if General Garvin wants to meet our representative there for the reason I believe, then perhaps he can make that possible.”
“Indeed,” Survey said. He turned to ‘Szatulai. “For now, the fate of General Garvin and his traitors is yours to decide. Spare them for as long as it serves our cause.”
“As you command,” ‘Szatulai said. “And when it does not?”
“They are human,” Survey said. “You know what to do with them.”
CHAPTER 10
* * *
* * *
1456 hours, March 18, 2526 (military calendar)
Launching Docks, Seoba Ice Quarry
Moon Seoba, Biko Planetary System, Kolaqoa System
The battle in the ice quarry had settled into an eerie ballet of light and ghosts, with muzzle flashes winking in every direction and wispy figures dodging through the fog. Heavy-weapon strikes blossomed near and far, and the comm channels delivered a shrill score of casualties screaming into John’s helmet. Vacuum-suitable tracer rounds blazed past, sparking off the century-old mass driver and leaving thumb-size dimples in the giant acceleration tube through which Blue Team would climb five kilometers to the mountaintop. If all went well, they would reach the summit ten minutes ahead of the insurrectionist convoy and demolish the comm center before it could be repaired.
And then they would rain hell down on the enemy from above.
John led his three companions across the last dozen meters to the bottom of the decrepit mass driver, then dropped to a knee next to an ice-encrusted support pier. The massive bulk of an old gantry crane stood just fifteen meters away, blocking most of the fire from the enemy positions on the slopes ringing the dockyards. But there was a narrow angle of exposure straight up the mountain, running adjacent to the acceleration tube. There didn’t seem to be any fire coming down the slot, but he signaled Linda-058 to watch it anyway. She was Blue Team’s best marksman, and even with an MA5B assault rifle instead of her usual Series 99 sniper rifle, she was a deadly shot.
Kelly-087 knelt next to John beneath the acceleration tube and eyed the far side of the basin, while Fred-104 kept watch to their rear. Once everyone was in position, John rose to inspect the loading breech the team would use to enter the mass driver.
About twelve meters long by two meters wide, the opening was covered by a sliding hatch forced ten centimeters upward due to the ice flow spilling out of the acceleration tube. The lip was buried too deep in the ice to budge, so John used a length of thermite-carbon cord to burn a Spartan-size rectangle free. After pulling it away, he peered inside and found the acceleration tube about two-thirds full of ice. Above the ice there was a dark, semicircular cavity large enough to crawl through . . . maybe.
“We need a bigger flamethrower,” Fred said over TEAMCOM. He was standing next to John, sweeping his lamp beam over the glassy surface inside the accelerator tube. In his left hand, he held the nozzle of a compact, vacuum-suitable version of the M7057 flamethrower, an M705 Incendiary Jet Tool fed by a tank-pack full of self-oxidizing fuel. “And more time.”
“Did I ask for your input, Fred?”
“It must have slipped your mind,” Fred said, completely undaunted by John’s irritation. They had been training together since they were six, and they both knew that Fred had a duty to speak up when he saw a problem. “Too much can go wrong with this plan. Hamm is up to something.”
John looked into the ice-filled accelerator tube again. The cavity was tighter than he had expected. They would have to crawl on their bellies, dragging the flamethrower’s tank-packs behind them. It was going to take a while—but he didn’t see how Hamm could have known that.
“You think?”
“She’s an officer,” Fred said. “And ODST on top of it. She didn’t come up with this idea because she’s trying to make Spartans look good.”
Avery Johnson joined them on TEAMCOM. “Maybe she just wants to get the job done the best way she can think of.”
John turned and saw a figure in black space assault armor—presumably Johnson—leap-soaring through the huge arch beneath the gantry crane. Beyond him, barely visible through the fog, the rest of Alpha Company was scattered along the edge of the dockyard, a ragged line of phantoms preparing to launch a feint that would keep the insurrectionists too busy fighting to wonder what might be happening inside the mass driver. The longer it took Blue Team to reach the top of the tube, the longer those troops would have to maintain the charade—and the more of them would likely end up dead.
Johnson came to rest next to the loading breech, then said, “What’s the holdup? Alpha Company is ready to jump off.”
“We were considering the optimal deployment of the I-JeT,” John said, using the M705’s nickname. “It’s a little tighter in there than we expected.”
Not quite tall enough to peer into the loading breech from a standing position, Johnson tapped his thrusters and rose a half meter off the surface.
“Doesn’t look that tight to me.”
“It would if you were wearing our armor,” Fred said. He had turned away from the breech and was again watching the area to their rear. “No offense, Sarge, but you need to think on our scale.”
Johnson glanced over at Fred and John. With fission reactors and detachable thruster packs mounted on the back plates of their armor, their torsos were more than eighty centimeters thick.
“Fair enough.” He shut off his thrusters and dropped back to the surface. “I can probably talk the captain into sending First Platoon up the pipe and having you take their place on the feint. You’d make a better diversion anyway.”
“Negative,” John said. If Fred was right about Hamm being up to something sneaky, switching places would be the perfect way to spoil her plan—but being a diversion was the last thing John wanted. It would only reinforce Crowther’s conviction
that the Spartans didn’t belong in the lead. “We’ll make it work, Sergeant.”
Fred and Johnson both turned to stare at him through their faceplates, and Kelly rose from where she had been kneeling. She glanced into the loading breech for about a second, then faced John.
“You know we’re with you,” she said. “But how are you going to do that? It’s a five-kilometer belly-crawl, and we can only squirm so fast.”
“We won’t have to crawl for long,” John said. “We’re at the bottom of the accelerator. The ice won’t get any thicker than it is here—and it will start thinning out in a hundred meters, when the tube starts up the slope.”
“But we’ll still have to squirm through an ice-packed tunnel for a hundred meters, using the I-JeT to melt through thick spots.” Kelly turned to Johnson. “That’s going to take time—maybe a lot of it. Can Alpha Company take the heat that much longer, Sergeant?”
“Not my call.” Johnson kept his faceplate fixed on John. “And not the issue. If you can’t beat that Civet convoy to the top of the mountain—”
“We’ll beat it.” John secured his assault rifle to the magnetic mount on the back of his Mjolnir. “Trust me.”
Johnson was not convinced. “You’d better be sure. If you let that comm center go active, the only thing you’re proving is that Crowther is right.”
“About what?” Linda asked.
“That we’re not ready,” Fred said. “Haven’t you noticed? He’s spread us through the battalion like we’re a bunch of newbies in need of blooding.”
“I thought he was just trying to beef up his Black Dagger platoons,” Linda replied.
“By using us as support?” Kelly snorted. “No way. He doesn’t trust us.”
“Something like that,” John said. It would have been insubordinate to undermine the authority of a superior officer, so he didn’t repeat Nyeto’s theory about Crowther trying to protect the reputation of his Black Daggers. “But Sergeant Johnson has a point. We have to make this work—and that means no crawling.”
John pushed himself up until his waist was at the edge of the opening he had cut into the breech-hatch and leaned forward. As soon as he turned his head to look up the acceleration tube, the Mjolnir’s onboard computer anticipated what he wanted and activated his helmet lamp. The ice looked fairly smooth, the height of the cavity between its surface and the interior of the tube fairly even. He scrambled the rest of the way in and lay on his back, with his feet pointed uphill so that they would be the first to hit if he collided with something, then pulled himself forward until he was actually inside the tube.