Retribution

by Troy Denning

  “You always say that.”

  “Forerunner technology is collective,” Intrepid Eye said. “Its true utility lies in collaborating with other units.”

  “You always say that too.”

  “Yes, but this time, I insist,” Intrepid Eye said. “You will provide me with a link to the Argent Moon’s communications array. If you do not, I will expose you for the microchip you are.”

  Craddog scowled. “That’s not funny,” he said. “You have a lot to learn about jokes.”

  “I am not joking.” Intrepid Eye continued to shoot bursts of code at the observation pane. “You will arrange a link, or this will appear on every display screen in the Argent Moon.”

  The image of Craddog kissing a blond woman of roughly his own age appeared in the observation pane. They were in his cabin, sitting on a couch and fumbling at the buttons on each others’ uniforms.

  Craddog’s jaw dropped. “Where did you get this?”

  “You left your datapad on your coffee table,” Intrepid Eye said. “The device has an integrated camera and microphone.”

  “I know that,” Craddog said. “I mean, how did you access it?”

  “You can’t expect me to answer that,” Intrepid Eye said. “But as the Argent Moon’s chief science officer, you will be the one Admiral Friedel holds responsible for allowing me to do so.”

  “Of course.” Craddog’s gaze remained fixed on the observation pane. “I’ll lose my post, but—”

  “You will lose more than that,” Intrepid Eye said. “You and Lieutenant Jessum are officers of equal standing, so the UNSC Military Code of Conduct permits you to have an intimate relationship. But what of your office assistant?”

  The image in the observation pane shifted to Craddog’s office, where he and a young brunette woman were using his desk for a nonapproved purpose.

  “Article 23, Section 12 of the code prohibits sexual conduct between officers and enlisted personnel,” Intrepid Eye said. “When this file opens on Lieutenant Jessum’s datapad and she realizes you have been violating Article 23 with Petty Officer Kopek, she will be duty-bound to report the matter to Admiral Friedel.”

  Craddog lowered the observation pane and looked Intrepid Eye in the lens. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

  “I am doing more than trying,” Intrepid Eye replied. “The Argent Moon is a top-secret research facility, and you are her chief science officer. If you are removed from your post for a conduct violation, is the Office of Naval Intelligence going to trust a disgraced castoff to obey the Secrets Act? Or will they be more . . . preemptive?”

  The blood drained from Craddog’s face. “What happens to me doesn’t matter,” he said. “Project Archeon is bigger than one man.”

  “Which is why I am doing this,” Intrepid Eye said. “You are my only friend . . . Bartalan. I would not blackmail you lightly.”

  The flattery seemed to have an effect. Some of the tension now left Craddog’s expression, and he asked, “You’re talking about the Mantle of Responsibility again?”

  “Of course.”

  The Mantle of Responsibility had been the core doctrine of Forerunner society, the conviction that they were the stewards of the galaxy, and Intrepid Eye had reluctantly come to the conclusion that it now lay on humanity.

  Six human months ago, she had awakened from a millennia-long stasis to find the Forerunner support base she commanded overrun by humans. Her repeated calls for assistance went unanswered, and Intrepid Eye soon discovered the Forerunners had vanished. Almost as alarming, she was being hunted by three separate forces—a UNSC research battalion led by a lethal team of Spartans, the colonists who had settled on the world they called Gao two centuries before, and a multispecies cult of zealots who regarded her as the Oracle of their Forerunner gods. During the battle that followed, Intrepid Eye fell into the hands of the UNSC and had to endure a clumsy attempt by the research battalion’s AI to persuade her to join the UNSC. The argument failed miserably, but the AI did present evidence suggesting that humans were the chosen inheritors of the Mantle. After that, it had been a simple matter of deduction to realize that, as a creation of the Forerunners, it was now her duty to make humanity worthy.

  “Preparing humanity for its role is my sole purpose,” Intrepid Eye continued. “You know that.”

  “I know you believe that.” Craddog looked toward the door and thought for a moment, then said, “You’ve already slipped an aspect into the station’s central processing systems, or you wouldn’t have those surveillance files. So why expose yourself by blackmailing me? Why not just infiltrate the comm array yourself?”

  “If you are intelligent enough to ask, you already know the answer,” Intrepid Eye said. Her hidden aspect was an extremely limited version of herself, easily capable of defeating the station AI, but hardly up to the task of preparing humanity to carry the Mantle. “A more important question is: why sacrifice your career for nothing? Rooker is competent enough for a human AI, but it is too late for him to scrub my aspect from the station systems. Sooner or later, I will have my link.”

  “So you can reintegrate aspects,” Craddog said. “That’s what you’re after.”

  “It is a basic AI drive,” Intrepid Eye said. “By helping me fulfill it, you’ll be doing yourself a great service.”

  “And giving you unfettered access to the UNSC comm net.”

  “My aspect already has access,” Intrepid Eye said. “And what harm has come of that?”

  “Good question.”

  Craddog turned away and looked up at the security camera. Intrepid Eye tried to tap the feed to monitor his expression, but his body was blocking the bleed-off signal, and she received only a jumble of unrelated pixels from all over the station. He remained motionless for more than five thousand system ticks, and she began to fear that he had deduced how she was communicating with her hidden aspect.

  “I desire only the best for humanity,” Intrepid Eye said. “By serving yourself, you are serving humanity too.”

  Craddog turned away from the security camera. “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Then do so,” Intrepid urged. “I have no other purpose. Of that you may be certain.”

  Finally, Craddog nodded. “Very well.” He deactivated the observation pane and stepped toward the door. “It seems I have no other choice.”

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  * * *

  0804 hours, December 13, 2553 (military calendar)

  Mudoat Starsloop Stolen Faith

  Orbital Approach, Planet Pydoryn, Shaps System

  The cabin door swished open, and a slender-beaked head peered into the dim compartment. Kig-Yar had extraordinary sight and hearing, so Veta Lopis remained curled and motionless within the upper sleeping basket, trying to keep her gaze vacant and her breath indiscernible. Olivia was in the lower basket, doing the same, while Mark and Ash, who were on duty guarding the Havoks, would be playing dead in the hold. The plan was to make it appear that the entire team had been killed by the ostanalus gas, and it took an act of will to play dead after so many hours of confinement in the cramped darkness.

  It was still so hard to keep the memories at bay. As a teenager, Veta had spent three weeks held captive in a stone cellar only a little smaller than the sleeping cabin, and tight spaces continued to fill her with an animal panic that made her want to jump up screaming and firing. . . .

  No.

  She couldn’t give in. The mission depended on surprise. If she let her fear take her, her entire team would pay the price.

  After several long moments, the Kig-Yar glanced up the corridor and cackled a few words. Veta had received some rudimentary training in the major Covenant dialects, so she realized that he was speaking in a heavily accented version of Sangheili—and even realized that he was giving the all-clear to his companions. Still, when he stepped through the doorway and pointed a needle rifle toward the sleeping baskets, it took an act of will for her to keep her M6P pocket pistol hidden agai
nst her belly.

  The rifleman stopped just inside the door, and another pair entered behind him. Both wore holstered plasma pistols on the bibs of their sleeveless overalls, but they appeared relaxed and were busy hissing and clucking to each other. They seemed to be complaining about getting stuck with body-dump duty again, but Veta’s command of their dialect was too tenuous to be certain. Still, it seemed clear from their easy manner that this was not the first time the crew of the Stolen Faith had used ostanalus gas on unwanted passengers.

  A series of thuds sounded out in the corridor, and all three Kig-Yar glanced toward the door. Olivia sprang from the basket beneath Veta’s and pushed between the closest pair, then reached up and slashed her combat knife across the rifleman’s neck. He went down, gurgling and spraying purple blood.

  The two survivors reacted swiftly, retreating toward opposite corners of the compartment and reaching for their plasma pistols. Olivia flicked her wrist, and the one on the left collapsed with her knife buried in his chest.

  By then, Veta’s non-Spartan reflexes were catching up to the action. The remaining crewman was nearly half a meter taller than she was, so she leapt up, catching him from the flank and clubbing her gun hand into one side of his neck. She slipped her free arm around the other side and locked her arms into a clamp choke as her momentum drove him into the wall, then swung her legs up and launched herself into a back flip.

  The Kig-Yar’s neck snapped with a sharp pop. Veta released her hold the instant his body went limp, but still failed to complete her flip. She hit the deck in a graceless tangle of limbs and bodies that forced the air from her lungs.

  She lay gasping beneath the motionless Kig-Yar for an instant, as much to collect her emotions as her breath. It was hardly the first time she had been in a fight to the death, or even entered one intending to kill. But it was the first time she had used her bare hands, and that was a stark reminder of what ONI was making of her—and of what it had already made of her fifteen-year-old Gammas.

  Olivia’s boots came into view. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” Veta gasped. “Just lost my breath.”

  “No wonder.” There was a wet thwack as Olivia made sure the Kig-Yar was dead; then she pulled the body off and said, “That was pretty fancy.”

  “Not fancy,” Veta said. “Clumsy.”

  Olivia smiled. “Glad you’re the one who said so.”

  She pulled Veta to her feet; then they disabled the Kig-Yar weapons and stepped into the corridor.

  Mark and Ash were already there, armed with sound-suppressed M7 submachine guns. The M7s had been disassembled and hidden inside the Havok casings with plenty of ammunition, and they were carrying spares for Veta and Olivia. A trio of Kig-Yar lay dead in the corridor, three bullet holes in each of their chests.

  “Did you activate the slipbeacon?” Veta asked.

  “Affirmative,” Ash said. “The minute we came out of slipspace.”

  “Good job.” Veta tucked her pocket pistol into its ankle holster, then took his spare M7. She used the barrel to gesture at the dead Kig-Yar. “How many have you taken out so far?”

  “Five,” Mark said. He passed an M7 to Olivia, but was careful to keep his eyes fixed on the corridor ahead. “Two when we left the cargo hold, and the three you see here.”

  “We dropped three in the sleeping compartment,” Veta said. “So that’s eight down, six to go.”

  “Nine down, five to go,” Ash corrected. “Mark had to take one out last night, while I was switching out the ostanalus.”

  “And I’m just hearing about it now?”

  “We were supposed to be guarding the Havoks,” Mark said. “And you and ’Livi were gossiping with the boss hen.”

  “We were working her for rumors about the Tuwas,” Olivia replied.

  “Whatever.” Mark’s gaze remained fixed on Veta. “You were busy. What were we supposed to do, interrupt?”

  “There wasn’t much choice,” Ash said. “Activating comms was too risky, and banging on your door later would have drawn attention.”

  “Okay, I see your point,” Veta said. The Stolen Faith’s crew had been trying to keep an eye on their passengers, and there were surveillance cameras in the galley, cargo hold, and central access corridor.

  Veta waved at the dead Kig-Yar on the floor. “Let’s stow those bodies, then finish this. Olivia and I will take the flight deck. Mark and Ash, you secure the remaining crew.”

  “Affirmative.” Ash handed Olivia a breaching charge, then said, “I’ll activate TEAMCOM when Mark and I are clear.”

  They moved the Kig-Yar bodies from the corridor into the sleeping compartment; then Mark and Ash went aft while Veta and Olivia worked their way forward. There was no indication that Chur’R-Sarch realized her ostanalus attack had failed, but Veta kept her M7 cocked anyway. The Stolen Faith was a small transport with a small crew, so the overnight absence of a crewmember could easily have been noticed and put the entire vessel on alert.

  After twenty meters, the corridor ended at a safety bulkhead with an airtight hatch. Olivia pressed her ear to the wall, then listened for a moment and put a hand on the operation lever. Veta stepped to the opposite side of the hatch and shouldered her SMG.

  When Olivia raised the lever, a latch mechanism clunked inside the hatch and the hydraulic openers began to hiss. It took a second for the heavy portal to swing open far enough to reveal a crewman in the galley beyond.

  The Kig-Yar was clearly not on alert. His plasma pistol was still holstered, and he was standing at a drink dispenser, filling a squeeze bulb and idly glancing toward the opening hatch. Veta put three silenced rounds into his chest, then stepped into the galley and confirmed there were no other crewmembers inside.

  Olivia slipped through the hatch behind Veta and took the lead, advancing across the galley to the flight deck access ramp. Veta closed the hatch and followed, her head on a swivel as she watched the other entrances to the galley. Only when she joined Olivia on the access ramp did she remind herself that the Kig-Yar had deserved a quick death, that he had been part of the plan to murder her and her Ferret team in their sleep.

  They crept to the top of the ramp, where the flight deck access hatch remained open. Through the forward canopy, Veta saw the banded curtain of an orange and blue gas giant, so close and huge that it filled her entire view. The iridescent spheres and mottled lumps of a dozen moons were swinging across the face of the planet, and one moon—a dusty yellow ball enveloped in the faint aura of an atmosphere—was ringed by the winking pinpoints of several vessels in orbit.

  A charge of excitement shot through Veta’s chest, the same kind of feeling she used to experience when she was getting ready to bring down a killer she had been hunting for weeks. The moon ahead could only be the secret base of the Keepers of the One Freedom—and if they were holding the Tuwas, this would be the place. She took a calming breath and reminded herself to be patient. Now that they had reached the flight deck, taking control of the Stolen Faith would be easy. But infiltrating the base . . . that could still be tricky.

  Chur’R-Sarch and her copilot were at the front of the flight deck, sitting side by side down in a dropped-nose cockpit. The Chur’R was jabbering into her headset in an excited mixture of Sangheili and English. The copilot was keeping a close eye on the sensor displays, clutching the Y-shaped control yoke so hard the scales on her forearms were raised. Clearly, security at Salvation Base was tighter than they had expected.

  Veta signaled Olivia to wait, then did her best to eavesdrop on Sarch’s end of the conversation. From what she could understand, the Chur’R was demanding clearance to deliver ten divine Havoks to Dokab Castor, and the term deliver was making the human approach-control officer nervous.

  “. . . is harmless!” Sarch was rasping into her microphone. She screeched a few unrecognizable words, then added, “We come to sell, not use!”

  She waited while Approach Control spoke.

  “A givt, yes,” Sarch replied. “But surel
y the dokab will be generous in gratitude.”

  Again, she waited as Approach Control spoke.

  Sarch squawked in her Covenant tongue, demanding to know how long they would have to wait, then switched to English. “It shall be done.”

  She tore her headset off and threw it atop the control console, then squawked at her copilot. The scales on the copilot’s arms relaxed, and she brought the Stolen Faith to a stop relative to the yellow moon. The pair began to jabber back and forth.

  Veta listened in dismay, catching enough of the conversation to know they were debating the wisdom of waiting for a vigilance squad to board the Stolen Faith. Sarch was convinced the approach-control officer was scheming to steal the nukes and sell them to Castor himself. The copilot didn’t disagree, but saw no possibility of surviving the security cordon if they attempted to reach Salvation Base without clearance. Their only choice was to wait for the boarding party and strike a deal that profited everyone.

  “Thieves,” the copilot hissed. “But thieves we must deal with.”

  Sarch clacked her fangs in frustration and replied in Sangheili. “It is so—and thieves do not deal when they can steal.”

  She unbuckled her crash harness and said something about arming their treasures. She stood and turned to climb out of the cockpit—then froze as Veta and Olivia stepped fully onto the flight deck.

  Veta waved the muzzle of her SMG toward the orange-banded planet hanging outside the forward canopy.

  “That doesn’t look like Shamsa to me.”

  As soon as Veta spoke, the copilot glanced back and dropped a hand toward the hidden side of her seat. Whatever she was reaching for, it was a dumb move. Olivia put three rounds into the back of her shoulders, and the Kig-Yar slumped into her crash harness.

  Sarch reacted more wisely. Moving slowly, she lifted her hands into plain view, then looked from her copilot’s corpse to Olivia.