Shadow of Intent (HALO)

by Joseph Staten

  For a young Sangheili hunter with ambitions that had outgrown the minuscule prey close to shore, this was a golden opportunity. Rtas had eagerly threaded his way through the limestone, spearing glistening creatures until his woven shore-grass shoulder bag hung wet and heavy across his back. But even then, he did not return to shore. There were pools farther out filled with even rarer prizes: snap-tails and electric kesh that now lay gasping on the rocks. Rtas picked his way out to these magnificent specimens, shouldered his spear, and stroked their scaly flesh, imagining he was taming them with nothing but his touch. . . .

  Then Rtas had seen the wave—a dark wall of water on the horizon that grew taller by the second. He looked back at the high walls of his keep and was terrified to see how far he’d come. Entranced by the bounty of the pools, he’d clambered almost a kilometer offshore, which would have been a quick sprint on even ground. But now his retreat was a razor-sharp maze, and by the time Rtas made it back across the rocky beach and limped through the water gate of his keep, his bare feet were swollen and burning with toxins from the urchins he’d been moving too fast to miss. His hands and knees bled from countless limestone cuts, and the sting of salt water in these wounds left him dizzy with pain.

  Rtas hadn’t thought of that day in decades. But the memory came back now, crystal clear, as he watched Shadow of Intent draw within a thousand kilometers of the orbital. Then, without warning, the urchin-like structure blazed brighter than the nebula behind it. And in that moment, something hit the Half-Jaw with a force far greater than the tsunami that had long ago crashed against the walls of his keep.

  The energy wave, or whatever it was, slammed into the Half-Jaw’s mind. One instant he had the complete memory of that day in the tide pools. The next moment he did not—and never would again. When the energy wave hit, the foremost thoughts in the Half-Jaw’s mind were scoured clean. And when the light from the orbital finally faded from his eyes, Rtas was surprised to find he was screaming.

  He was not the only one.

  The pilot sitting beside him in the Phantom’s cockpit was shouting a string of unintelligible words. At first Rtas thought he was talking in some alien tongue. But then he realized the pilot was speaking Sangheili and that, for a moment, the Half-Jaw had forgotten the language he had spoken all his life.

  “C-calm down!” Rtas stuttered, reaching for the pilot’s shoulder. But the Half-Jaw’s arm was heavy, and it took tremendous concentration to move his hand, as if it some vital nerves had been severed and his brain was now threading a new path around the cut. “Can you . . . still control this ship?”

  “Y-yes, Shipmaster,” the pilot said. He was a ranger, the very picture of menace in his silver armor and vacuum-rated, full-face helmet. But he sounded like a frightened child, and when the sharp chirp of an emergency transmission rang from the cockpit control panel, the pilot grabbed his helmet and began to wail, rocking back and forth in his seat.

  “Report!” Rtas shouted, stabbing a holographic switch to accept the transmission. The message was coming from the other Phantom, a few kilometers to starboard, and he expected to hear the Blademaster, who was serving as that dropship’s co-pilot.

  But after a brief pause, it was the Scion who announced: “Shipmaster, we have c-casualties! I don’t know what . . . or h-how. . . .” She, too, was having trouble forming the right words. “Three r-rangers are unresponsive . . . and Vul ‘Soran as well.”

  Rtas clenched his jaws. He had known a slipspace jump into the hidden sector was a dangerous move. But he and his navigation officer had carefully studied Spear of Light’s database and chosen an entry point far outside the volume of that cruiser’s previous arrivals and departures. As soon as Shadow of Intent had emerged from slipspace, Rtas had launched the two Phantoms. For several minutes, while the dropships had maintained what they hoped was a safe distance, the Half-Jaw had watched the carrier drift toward the orbital on the visor of his own full-face helmet. There was no crew aboard Shadow of Intent. It was now a decoy, piloted by its computational matrix, which was slaved to Rtas’s Phantom in the event that he needed to give the carrier different commands.

  At some point, Shadow of Intent had crossed an invisible line, and the orbital had fired. And in that respect, the Half-Jaw’s plan had worked perfectly. If he or his crew had been on Shadow of Intent when the wave hit, they would all be incapacitated—or worse. In war, Rtas knew, there was always a price to pay for bold maneuvers. He thought of the Blademaster and his injured rangers and grimaced at the cost.

  But it was about to go even higher.

  The Half-Jaw heard the muffled discharge of a plasma pistol in his Phantom’s troop bay. Warning glyphs blazed on the cockpit control panel, and he punched another switch, opening a comm channel to the bay.

  “Status!” he shouted, but there was no response. Rtas shrugged out of his shoulder harness and stepped groggily to the rear of the cockpit. He heard another plasma burst and felt the Phantom’s engines groan. The cockpit’s control panel suddenly shut down, and all interior lights went dark except for the violet emergency backups. By the time Rtas had manually cycled through the troop bay door, he already knew what he would find.

  Bringing the Prelate with them had been a calculated risk. While the Prelate had said no more about the Minister of Preparation following his initial interrogation—indeed, had said nothing else at all—it was clear to Rtas that the two San’Shyuum were partners in their scheme. If the Minister was truly here, the Half-Jaw had reasoned, he might be willing to negotiate for the Prelate’s release, which might save Shadow of Intent from another fight. Rtas had mitigated the risk by keeping the Prelate restrained and putting him under the watchful eye of the Unggoy and the best of his rangers. But that hadn’t been enough.

  All of the Sangheili in the troop bay had been stunned by the energy wave and were either unconscious or struggling feebly in their harnesses. Stolt had wrestled free of his own shoulder harness, but was now facedown on the floor, his armor sparking from an overcharged plasma pistol shot. The Unggoy was trying to crawl toward the Prelate, who stood, wrists and ankles manacled together, at the center of the bay, near a smoking hole in the troop bay floor. The Prelate had stolen a plasma pistol from one of the unconscious Sangheili, and after blasting Stolt, he had pumped more plasma into a critical relay between the cockpit and the Phantom’s engines. As soon as he saw Rtas, the Prelate steadied his stance and held down the pistol’s trigger to build another overcharged bolt.

  Rtas froze. He had his energy blade, but no ranged weapon. Yet instead of shooting the Half-Jaw, the black-armored San’Shyuum aimed the pistol at his own feet. A green bolt of superheated plasma splashed the Prelate’s boots, instantly depleting his armor’s energy shields—but also melting away his ankle manacles. A holographic meter near the pistol’s rear sight flashed red, indicating the weapon’s battery was depleted.

  Seeing his opening, Rtas tore his energy blade from his belt and rushed across the troop bay. The Prelate tossed the pistol to the deck and for a moment seemed ready to meet the Half-Jaw’s charge. But as Rtas brought his blade down in a vicious vertical slash, the Prelate quickly raised his hands, splayed wide apart—and Rtas’s blade cut clean through the Prelate’s wrist manacles with an electric snap. The Prelate whirled aside to let his enemy pass, and as the Half-Jaw’s momentum carried him to the back wall of the bay, the Prelate stepped calmly into the circular energy field that formed an airlock in the troop bay floor, and then dropped out of sight.

  Rtas shoved away from the wall with an angry roar.

  “Tried . . . to stop him,” Stolt said, his voice weak in the Half-Jaw’s helmet.

  “It’s all right,” Rtas said, swallowing his temper. He holstered his blade and pulled a carbine rifle from a nearby weapon rack. “I’m going after him.”

  The Unggoy rose slowly to a knee. “I’m . . . c-coming with you.”

  “No. See to your rangers. Rees
tablish a connection with Shadow of Intent.” Rtas stepped to the edge of the airlock. “If my transponder goes dark, tell the carrier to fire all remaining weapons . . . and destroy that orbital.”

  With that, he plunged through the field.

  As Rtas entered the cold emptiness of space, there was no sound inside his helmet except his own uneven breaths. He fired his thrusters and stabilized his orientation so that he was facing the orbital, which was just off Shadow of Intent’s prow; a stark blossom of dark spines against the brilliant nebula. A bright chemical burst betrayed the Prelate’s position as the San’Shyuum course-corrected and accelerated toward the orbital. Just as the Half-Jaw was about to do the same, his motion-tracker flashed, and Tul ‘Juran appeared beside him, holding her energy lance.

  Unlike the rangers, the Half-Jaw and the Scion didn’t have thrusters integrated into their armor. But they had mounted ancillary units before the mission, and while Tul ‘Juran had had only a short time to train, she managed a smooth stop beside Rtas, quickly corrected an incipient spin, and then said over a local comm channel: “He killed my k-kaidon and my kin . . . his life is mine to take.”

  “He killed many more than that . . . and he’s not our only concern.” The Half-Jaw pointed at the orbital. “We have to shut that down, before it fires again . . . or all the lives we’ve lost will be for nothing.”

  He and the Scion stared at each other through their thick polymer visors, their faces covered with the luminous war paint of their reflected heads-up displays. The Scion nodded, and Rtas saw in her eyes that she understood.

  This is bigger than me. This is bigger than the both of us.

  Then, together, they fired their thrusters and rocketed after the Prelate.

  “It’s a trick!” the Prelate shouted. “Prepare the ring to fire again!” He was hurtling past Shadow of Intent, and at present speed would reach the installation in less than a minute. Tem’Bhetek didn’t need to look behind to know the Half-Jaw would soon be upon him.

  “What happened?!” The Minister of Preparation’s thin, precise voice crackled in the Prelate’s helmet. “I attempted to hail the carrier, but you did not respond!”

  The Prelate knew the Minister had been expecting him to arrive in full control of Shadow of Intent. Tem didn’t have the energy now to explain how the Half-Jaw and his warriors had departed the carrier just outside the prototype Halo’s effective range—how he himself had been captured and then made his escape.

  Tem’s mind had also been rattled by the activation of the ring. But he had the advantage of knowing what was coming—had used his mental enhancements to blank his thoughts and let the crippling wave wash over him—and in this way recovered a few seconds faster than his ranger guards. He had clubbed the nearest Sangheili with his manacles, taken his plasma pistol, and then shot the Unggoy, who had been the quickest to regain his wits. But the Prelate saved all of this explanation for later and instead simply said:

  “Just have the ring ready by the time I reach the bunker!”

  There was a long pause. Nothing but static. The Prelate had never been this direct with the Minister. He thought he might have pricked the older San’Shyuum’s pride, giving him an order like he was one of the Jiralhanae.

  “I will fire when I see fit, Prelate,” the Minister said, his voice suddenly cold. “Whether you have returned to the bunker or not.” Then he cut the connection.

  The Prelate felt a gnawing doubt take a giant bite out of his resolve. After the Half-Jaw had told him his own version of events at High Charity, Tem had gone over and over Boru’a’Neem’s description of events. The Sacred Promissory is lost! the Minister had said. Nothing lives inside the city now except the Flood! And in subsequent conversations, while Preparation had provided a few more details about the holy city’s fall, they were mostly about his failed defense of the Promissory . . . nothing about events inside the dome.

  At the time, because the Prelate had already been convinced of the Half-Jaw’s guilt, he hadn’t pressed the Minister. But having stared the Half-Jaw in the eye and heard the genuine remorse he showed for the Prelate’s loss . . . things weren’t as black-and-white as they used to be. And the Prelate’s anger was only growing stronger in the gray.

  Tem shot through a gap formed by four crossed spines, out of the nebula’s light and into the installation’s darkened interior. Unlike the energy fields on Covenant ships, the Forerunner structure had no visible separation between hard vacuum and atmosphere. More magic we never understood. . . .

  But the Prelate didn’t dwell on this. He throttled the output of his anti-grav belt and glided through a long diamond-shaped bay large enough to accommodate three Phantoms side by side. Following the course of a narrower, upward-sloping hall at the end of the bay, he soon emerged into the bright white expanse of the test chamber. The Minister was waiting for him, near the lift that led to the bunker. He was surrounded by Yanme’e—some stood awkwardly on the floor on their curved, clawed legs, and more used these limbs to cling to the chamber walls. There were at least two dozen of the Drones, all armed with plasma pistols and needle rifles.

  The Prelate kept his voice relaxed as he eyed the Yanme’e’s weapons. “What are those for?” He cut power to his anti-grav belt, alighted on the floor, and removed his helmet.

  “In case you did not come alone,” the Minister of Preparation said. He waved a hand, and the insectoid creatures lowered their guns. “Where is the Half-Jaw?”

  “Alive and not far behind me. We should get to the bunker, charge the ring . . .” The Prelate took a step toward the Minister, and as he did, Preparation drew back his throne. The move betrayed the subtle shimmer of the throne’s energy shield.

  “Careful, Tem’Bhetek,” the Minister said. The Yanme’e’s feelers twitched, and their glowing eyes darted to the Minister’s fingers, watching for a signal. But Preparation’s hands remained still in the sleeves of his threadbare robe. “The device is . . . unstable,” the Minister continued. “It will not survive another firing.” The Prelate saw that the crack along the ring’s upper arc was much longer now; the circuits embedded in the rent had burned away, leaving a blackened cavity in the marble. “I cannot risk its destruction—not until we transport it to its final destination.”

  “What do you mean?” the Prelate asked. To a certain extent, he was just keeping the conversation going, trying to work out a way to get the answers he wanted without rousing the Minister’s suspicion. But now he was truly curious. “Transport the ring to where?”

  The Minister cocked his head to one side. He looked genuinely puzzled and disappointed that Tem hadn’t already guessed. “To Sanghelios, of course.”

  Tem’Bhetek drew a long, slow breath. For him, revenge against the Half-Jaw had always been the end. He had really never considered what else the Minister might have planned. But now, after a few moments’ thought, Tem discerned Boru’a’Neem’s next step. “Shadow of Intent . . . You’re going to use its reactors to charge the ring.”

  “Spear of Light was a noble ship and served its purpose well. But it was never strong enough to make it past Sanghelios’s defenses or to provide power to the ring.” The Minister stroked the fleshy wattle hanging from his chin. “I have been testing the device at only a fraction of its power. Even if we were to increase the pulse by twenty percent, that would be more than enough to wipe all sentient life from Sanghelios and its moons. We shall annihilate the Sangheili home system and set back their species for ages to come!”

  “Surely whoever was on board Shadow of Intent would also perish in the pulse,” Tem said. “Who did you have in mind?”

  “My finest Prelate, of course. But I have the distinct feeling he is not as . . . committed as he once was.”

  “As I was when you told me my family was dead?”

  The Minister pursed his lips. “So. We have come back around to that.”

  Just then, two red lights fl
ashed on the Prelate’s visor, his motion-tracker alerting him to a pair of hostile contacts nearing the installation. A similar warning flashed on the arm of the Minister’s throne.

  “I’m afraid we do not have time for questions,” the Minister said.

  “I have only one.”

  “Do you want to know the truth, or what I knew you needed to hear?”

  With that, the Prelate had his answer. His heart ached. Oh, Yalar, forgive me . . .

  But he still needed to hear it. “Why lie to me, Boru’a’Neem?”

  “Because I needed your anger—I needed your blind rage to see this through.”

  “You took my family from me.”

  Preparation slammed his fist on his throne. “You never would have had a family if not for me!” The wrinkled folds of skin on the Minister’s neck pulsed with his contempt. “I have listened to you endlessly mourn those two small deaths, but you have no idea how much value was lost! My Sacred Promissory held more priceless relics—more Forerunner wealth—than any other vault in the Covenant!” The Minister’s limbs trembled, and his voice was shrill. “You lost a wife and child? I lost everything!”

  The Minister’s words hit the Prelate harder than any wounds he’d ever received in battle. Under this verbal assault, his enhancements had triggered automatically, and his body was tensed to defend itself. But now the galvanizing rage that always accompanied these preparations was gone.

  The Prelate felt empty, and his voice was hollow. “I did everything you asked of me. I saved your life,” he said.

  “There were not many San’Shyuum who could match your skills or your devotion—and now perhaps there are none.” The Minister flared the sleeves of his robe and settled his arms softly on his throne. “But we are not the only ones who escaped the Holy City, and there will be many, full of rage or hungry for glory, who will gladly take your place.” All the artifice dropped from the Minister’s voice; his words were flat and final. “I don’t need you anymore.”