Silent Storm: A Master Chief Story

by Troy Denning

  Now, as he watched pieces of the Ring of Mighty Abundance slide out of orbit and plunge burning into Zhoist’s atmosphere, he could not imagine why.

  Perhaps he had believed the humans too craven to bite at the hand of the butcher. Or perhaps he had been so blinded by faith that he had expected them to submit to the will of the Prophets as humbly as did the Sangheili.

  In his shock and shame, he truly could not recall the reason.

  A growing hum announced the arrival of the being Nizat wanted least to see. He kept his gaze fixed on the disaster below and did not acknowledge the San’Shyuum’s approach. Of course, the Minor Minister of Artifact Survey refused to take the hint.

  “How did you let this happen?!”

  Nizat turned to see the San’Shyuum coming in his chair, his serpentine neck arcing forward in accusation, and he realized he had never wanted to kill a being so much in his life. And why should he not? He was certain to lose command of the Fleet of Inexorable Obedience anyway. So what difference would it make?

  Before Nizat could act on his murderous impulse, his steward, Tam ‘Lakosee, caught up to the chair and stepped to Survey’s side.

  “We did not let this happen, Your Grace,” ‘Lakosee said. “Any more than the humans let us cleanse E’gini and Borodan. It is unreasonable to start a war and think the enemy would not fight back.”

  Survey’s eyes widened with indignity. “I can see you won’t be rising any further,” he said. “Allowing infidel boots to defile a holy world is not a reasonable loss.”

  “Neither is losing two of the Ten Cities,” Nizat said. The Ten Cities had been a gift left behind by the ancient Forerunners, and the humans had obliterated a pair of them with their hellbombs. “Or the destruction of the Ring of Mighty Abundance. But Tam is correct, Your Grace—what did the Hierarchs expect when they started this war?”

  “Not that!” Survey flung a three-fingered hand toward the catastrophic scene above Zhoist. “And the Hierarchs won’t be pleased to learn you have been blaming them for your failure!”

  “And what can the Hierarchs do as a form of punishment? Take my fleet from me?”

  He started to turn back to the observation blister, but stopped when ‘Lakosee gave a polite clack of his mandibles. Nizat replied with a clack of his own, giving the steward permission to speak.

  “I have news of the blademaster.”

  “Ah.” Nizat had grown so angry watching the Ring of Mighty Abundance break apart that he had finally told ‘Lakosee to summon Tel ‘Szatulai to explain. Now that he had calmed down, however, he was beginning to realize that if anything was going to be redeemed from this catastrophe, it would be what ‘Szatulai had learned about the Spartans and their methods. “I hope your news is good.”

  “I fear not,” ‘Lakosee said. “He was killed by the Spartans. His Jiralhanae battle chiefs saw him die.”

  “And since Castor and Orsun survived to make the report, we can assume the Spartans are dead?” Survey surprised Nizat by recalling the pair’s names.

  “No, Your Grace,” ‘Lakosee said. “The Spartans escaped in captured Banshees.”

  “Of course they did,” Survey said. “It would be too much to expect Jiralhanae battle chiefs to think for themselves.”

  “They were fortunate to survive, Your Grace.” There was a note of irritation in ‘Lakosee’s voice. “They barely escaped before the hellbombs destroyed the Hammer of Faith in her construction docks.”

  “And those Spartans are still out there?” Nizat began to have a sinking feeling. “In our Banshees?”

  ‘Lakosee’s mandibles splayed soundlessly; he finally answered, “As far as we know, Fleetmaster. The search and rescue crews have recovered the corpses of twenty of the humans’ Blacksuits and captured eight more, but none were Spartans.”

  Survey used his gravity chair to push between the two Sangheili. “Idiot,” he said to Nizat. “You allow your shipmasters to take bodies and prisoners? After the way—”

  A blue energy blade crackled to life, and the Minor Minister’s insult came to an abrupt end as his small head dropped into his lap. Nizat and ‘Lakosee had to step farther apart to avoid having their feet crushed when the gravity chair lost power and dropped to the deck. ‘Lakosee deactivated his energy sword and offered the hilt to Nizat.

  “I am sorry, Fleetmaster. I could not allow him to disparage you at a time like this.”

  Nizat waved the hilt away. “Think nothing of it.” He stared down at the San’Shyuum’s lifeless body for a moment, watching the red blood dribble from the partially cauterized neck in his lap. “We will incinerate the body, and I will explain to the Hierarchs that he died battling for the Faith.”

  Which was close enough to the truth that Nizat would not regret the exaggeration. How dark his path had grown, that he would deceive the Prophets so casually—even if it was to save a worthy Major.

  ‘Lakosee’s mandibles splayed in shock. “Fleetmaster, I cannot ask you—”

  “You are not asking,” Nizat said. “And we are done discussing it. There are more important matters at hand.”

  Which was also true. Nizat’s hearts had begun to pound in counterpoint as soon as Survey began to berate him, and not because of the typical San’Shyuum condescension. He could not quite identify it, but there was something alarming about ‘Lakosee’s report. Why should there only be dead soldiers of one kind? Could the Spartans be so much superior to humanity’s other warriors? Or was it just their special armor that made them so ferocious?

  It was an answer that Nizat would have soon enough, once he discovered what had become of the schematics ‘Szatulai had received from the human traitors. He was uncertain which to hope for—that there was a lineage of human soldiers far superior to the Covenant’s own elite warriors, or that the humans knew how to build armor that would make super-soldiers of any of them.

  But that was a dilemma to be considered at another time . . . and probably by another fleetmaster. For now, Nizat’s duty was to protect what he had not lost already.

  “Have the fleet break orbit and withdraw outside the gravity well,” Nizat said. “And tell me more about these prisoners. Have the interrogations begun?”

  “Only the preliminaries,” ‘Lakosee said. “The prisoners will not be turned over to Castor and Orsun until the capturing shipmasters can send them to the Pious Rampage.”

  Nizat knew what that really meant—the shipmasters were holding the prisoners so their own mind melters had a chance to work on them. But that was to be expected. He had done the same thing more than once as a young shipmaster.

  “What of the preliminary interrogations?” Nizat said. “Are the mind melters learning anything?”

  ‘Lakosee spread his mandibles briefly, then said, “That is what is strange, Fleetmaster. No matter how hard the prisoners are beaten or shocked, all they do is what the humans call laughter.”

  1718 hours, April 15, 2526 (military calendar)

  UNSC Razor-class prowler Night Watch

  Libration Point Three, Planet Naraka, Agni System

  John would never forget his first Sweet William cigar—he was pretty sure of that. It tasted like an old boot-sock smoked over dung-fire after a two-week march, and his first and only draw had made him cough so hard he popped all eight of the butterfly bandages holding his neck wound closed.

  He could not imagine how Avery Johnson took such pleasure in them, especially under the circumstances. They were sitting together in the crew lounge of the UNSC prowler Night Watch, which had recovered not only all of the personnel vacced by Ghost Flight when Hector Nyeto fled, but also Blue Team, Green Team, and two Black Dagger survivors of the assault on the orbital ring.

  Avery had been the last person rescued at libration point three, and he was wrapped in a heated blanket, having been left floating in space for so long that his suit heaters had failed and he’d nearly frozen to death. He had an oxygen cannula in his nose because he had run out of rebreather time, and there were two different I
Vs in his arm, as the resulting CO2 buildup had almost killed him.

  They were looking out the viewport toward Naraka, watching flame trails light the planet’s yellow clouds whenever a segment of the alien fleet-support ring dropped out of orbit and began to burn up in the atmosphere. Sometimes the flame trails would last all the way to ground and end in the beautiful orange blossom of an impact detonation.

  Avery would shout and slap the arm of his chair, then Kelly and the rest of the Spartans would cheer. Fred would find some new way to crack wise, and Daisy would laugh a little too hard, and Linda would shake her head at the two of them. John thought it was probably the best party he had ever attended—though he didn’t have much to compare it to—and the celebration was made all the better by the fact that all twelve of his Spartans had made it back.

  He just wished the same could be said for the 21st Space Assault Battalion. So far, the three surviving prowlers of Hush and Slipper Flights—the only on-site search craft available—had recovered just eleven more of the Black Daggers who had accompanied Blue and Green Teams up the space elevators, and John had heard that those troopers were having a very different kind of gathering aboard the Hush Now. When the opportunity presented itself, he intended to go over and offer his condolences, but he had been told it might be wise to let some time pass. What that implied, he wasn’t sure he completely understood.

  The chronometer on the wall changed to 1719 hours, and Kurt-051 said, “That’s gonna be the Green Team auto-detonation.”

  Almost instantly, eight blinding points of light appeared near Naraka and swelled into the white fireballs of an octanitrocubane explosion. Unlike Blue Team’s previous announcement, six of Green Team’s devices detonated about an arm’s length above Naraka, in a cluster of blue slivers that were all the naked eye could see of the alien fleet.

  An awed silence fell over the compartment as the Spartans honored the sacrifices that went with all those white blossoms—each detonation represented a Black Dagger who had carried a live octa into battle and fallen before he or she could use it . . . yet somehow still managed to sneak their devices aboard an enemy vessel.

  Once the bright spheres had shriveled back in on themselves and vanished into the nothingness of explosive annihilation, Avery Johnson took the oxygen cannula out of his nose; holding it at a safe distance, he took another puff of his Sweet William.

  “Now, that’s a beautiful thing,” he said. “All those Covenant ships getting blown straight back to hell.”

  “When you’re right, you’re right,” Daisy-023 said. “But there ought to be three prowlers with them.”

  “Ghost Flight?” Fred asked.

  “You must be a mind reader,” Daisy said. “Those bastards killed Colonel Crowther and cost the 21st a lot of good soldiers. I can’t believe they’re going to get away with this.”

  “They’re not,” Fred said.

  “What are you gonna do about it?” Kelly asked. “Go AWOL and hunt them down?”

  “I’m in,” Daisy said.

  “Colonel Crowther certainly deserves to have that score settled,” John said. And he meant it. Without Crowther’s example, he might never have learned the subtle but important difference between being a leader and being a commander. He owed the man a debt of gratitude that he might never be able to repay. “But is that the way to honor him, by doing something he’d really look down on?”

  “Whatever it takes,” Daisy said. “That’s the Spartan way.”

  “On the battlefield,” John said. He could see where this was going, and Daisy wasn’t the kind who blew off steam just talking. Neither was Fred, for that matter. “And it’s not just Spartans who believe in that. Crowther sacrificed everything—his whole battalion—to make this operation a success.”

  Daisy rolled her blue eyes.

  “Don’t do that,” Johnson said. He leaned toward Daisy. “Don’t act like getting lucky with Operation: SILENT STORM and destroying a single support base means we’ve won the whole damn war.”

  Johnson started to continue his rant, then seemed to catch himself. He settled back in his chair and glanced up at John, as though to say it’s your unit, you deal with it.

  Which was only right, John realized. It looked like he was going to be leading the Spartans for a long time—at least if he was as good as it seemed like everyone was beginning to think he was—and he needed to set the tone for his command.

  “The sergeant is absolutely right,” John said. “You can bet Naraka isn’t the only fleet support world the Covenant has, so you know they’re going to come back at us even harder than before. We Spartans are going to have our work cut out for us from now on, and we’ll need to have each other’s backs all the way. That’s how we honor Colonel Crowther’s legacy.”

  Daisy drew herself up straight. “Understood. You can count on me.”

  “I know I can.” John paused, then smiled and added, “And rest assured, we’re going to get Hector Nyeto. I promise. The one thing we know about him is this: he will come for us again. And when he does, we’re going to be ready for him—and we’re going to take him out.”

  Avery Johnson let out a cackle. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” He leaned forward and pointed the butt of his Sweet William at John. “Looks like you’ve got this, Master Chief.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  * * *

  * * *

  I would like to thank everyone who contributed to this book, especially: my first reader, Andria Hayday, whose suggestions and insights always improve the manuscript at least threefold; Ed Schlesinger for being a great editor and for his endless patience throughout my mother’s long illness and death; Jeremy Patenaude for all of his great suggestions and being really, really good at his job; Tiffany O’Brien for making the Halo universe such a welcoming and fun place to work; Chris McGrath for the excellent cover art; Joal Hetherington for copyediting—always the trickiest of jobs; and everyone at 343 Industries and Gallery Books who make writing in the Halo universe such a delight.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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  AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH © ANDRIA HAYDAY

  TROY DENNING is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty-five novels, including Halo: Retribution, Halo: Last Light, a dozen Star Wars novels, the Dark Sun Prism Pentad, and many bestselling Forgotten Realms novels. A former game designer and editor, he lives in western Wisconsin.

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