Retribution

by Troy Denning

  There were only a few other beings in the cargo hold. After discovering the spy midges and losing so many Faithbringers to ostalanus gas during the initial boarding, Castor had grown wary of traps and commanded anyone not actively searching the Stolen Faith to wait outside.

  As Orsun drew near, the second-in-command clamped a hand around the approach-control officer’s neck and set him down in front of Castor.

  “The dokab did not summon you to gawk.” Orsun released his neck and pointed to Castor. “Attend to your duty, Jarves.”

  Jarves touched his fist to his chest and craned his neck to look up at Castor. The man had a squarish face with a tuft of blond beard and eyes round with fear.

  “I’m honored by your summons, Dokab,” he said, attempting not to struggle. “How may I serve?”

  Castor thrust the microburst transmitter beneath Jarves’s nose. “Explain this.”

  Jarves eyed the disc for a moment, then finally asked, “What is it?”

  “A spy transmitter,” Orsun said. “It was hidden behind the exchanger filters.”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” Jarves replied. “This is the first time I’ve ever set foot on this vessel.”

  “Yet you allowed her to land,” Castor said.

  “Because of the Havoks,” Jarves said. “They’re worth the risk.”

  “Perhaps if they were functional,” Castor said. “As they are, they are worth nothing.”

  Jarves swallowed, then snuck a glance at the line of nukes. “I was told we had the arming codes.”

  “Who told you that?” Castor demanded. It was beginning to sound like Jarves had been more involved in bringing the Havoks to Salvation Base than Castor had realized. “Creon?”

  Jarves shook his head. “Seruphi,” he said. “I wanted to be certain the weapons were under our control, so I insisted on a technical inspection before allowing the Stolen Faith to continue its approach.”

  It was a reasonable answer—yet one that raised questions of its own. Seruphi was the female human weapons technician who had accompanied Creon’s boarding party onto the Stolen Faith. Her body had been found in the boarding vestibule alongside the chieftain’s, with one side of her face smashed in.

  “And Seruphi found nothing wrong with the . . .” Castor looked to the pair of technicians still examining the Havoks, then commanded: “Tell me again the problem with the infidel devices.”

  “The booster cylinders are filled with deuterium,” the senior technician said. Without rising from her haunches, she turned to face Castor. “It should be tritium. That would be impossible to detect without proper instruments. But without tritium, there’s no D-T reaction—”

  “Yes, I remember now.” Castor raised a hand to silence her, then turned back to find Jarves staring at the deck between them, where the tenth Havok—the one that was actually a slipspace locator beacon disguised as a Havok—lay with its access panel flipped open. “Do you know what you are looking at?”

  The color draining from Jarves’s face suggested that he did. “I was cautious, Dokab. That’s why I sent Creon and his vigilance squad to board—”

  “You sent them to their deaths,” Orsun remarked. He grabbed Jarves’s neck again and squeezed until the man grimaced in pain. “And now their killer is loose inside Salvation Base.”

  “Who is this killer?” Castor asked.

  “All I know is what Seruphi told me,” Jarves said, his face turning red from Orsun’s grip. “There were four of them, arms smugglers trying to deliver a load of nukes to the Banished. Seruphi believed them.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “It didn’t matter what I believed,” Jarves said. “They were already on orbital approach, and we confirmed a slipspace transmission from the Stolen Faith. It seemed wisest to take control of the Havoks and alert you to the situation. Bringing the vessel here wasn’t my decision.”

  “No?” Castor asked. “Then they never promised to keep Salvation Base secret if you let them leave?”

  “They couldn’t be trusted, Dokab. They’re pirates.”

  “So are we,” Castor said. “Does that mean we lack honor?”

  “We’re d-different,” Jarves said. “We’re servants of the One Freedom.”

  Castor pretended to consider the point for a moment, then finally nodded. “Of course, you are correct, Jarves.” He laid a hand over the man’s shoulder. Castor’s fingers were so long that his thumb hung down to Jarves’s belly. “And as a servant of the One Freedom, I am sure you gave no thought to the reward that would come to anyone who delivered so many thermonuclear weapons to our cause?”

  Jarves looked away. “Seruphi and I may have discussed the possibility,” he said. “But if I had known—”

  “I see.” Castor began to squeeze. “What else have you failed to tell me?”

  Jarves’s eyes flashed in terror, and Castor knew the human was hiding something even more damning than his bargain with Seruphi.

  Before Castor could press for an answer, Orsun touched a finger to his ear comm and growled in alarm. “Dokab . . . three minutes ago, the Redoubt of the Faithful detected a signal from a stealth vessel in a trailing orbit.”

  Castor’s stomach clenched. “A prowler?”

  “Likely, but not yet known,” Orsun said. “The Fleet of Glory has triangulated the origination point and is moving to attack.”

  Orsun started to add something, but Castor signaled him to wait by breaking eye contact. There were many classes of stealth vessel in the galaxy, of course, but the ones that concerned him most were the UNSC prowlers. The United Nations Space Command had both the means and the desire to destroy the Keepers. If the stealth vessel was indeed theirs, Salvation Base was in grave danger.

  What Castor did not understand was why the prowler would announce its presence before attacking. The UNSC seldom fought with such honor.

  Castor met Orsun’s gaze again. “I am troubled by this,” he said. “It could be an attempt to draw our defenses out of position. Have the Fleet of Glory return to a defensive posture.”

  “A wise precaution, as ever.” Orsun relayed the order, then said cautiously, “But I have failed to explain the rest. The signal was answered by an encrypted transmission.”

  “From where?”

  Orsun released Jarves’s neck and pointed to starboard, more or less in the direction of Salvation Base’s detention center.

  “From a holding cell?” Castor asked.

  Orsun shook his head. “From the Turaco in front of it,” he said. “On a channel rapidly changing frequencies, which the infidel Office of Naval—”

  Orsun was still explaining when Jarves let his legs go limp and dropped to the deck. The maneuver took Castor by surprise—and Orsun as well. Before either Jiralhanae could react, the human was rolling to his feet and sprinting for the cargo ramp.

  Castor growled deep in his throat, wondering why the treachery of inferior species ever surprised him, then bellowed, “I want him alive!”

  A pair of Jiralhanae Faithbringers stepped into view at the bottom of the ramp. Both were armed with Type-25 spike rifles and wearing full Keeper power armor, and the sight was enough to make Jarves pause at the top of the ramp.

  “Alive does not have to mean in one piece,” Castor warned. “The choice is yours.”

  Jarves’s shoulders slumped. He raised his hands and slowly backed away from the ramp, then finally turned around.

  “The Turaco isn’t ONI,” he said. “I wouldn’t take a credit from anyone who wants to wipe us out.”

  “Oh no?” Castor crossed the deck toward Jarves. “Then who would you take credits from, human?”

  Jarves’s expression went from frightened to uncertain. “A private security outfit,” he said. “They just wanted to get a hostage back for one of their clients.”

  Castor stopped a pace from Jarves but did not grab him. In his anger, he feared he would crush the man before learning what he needed to know.

  “I know you heard abo
ut the assassination of the infidel admiral,” Castor said. His spies had confirmed the reports almost as soon as they reached Venezia, and he had personally passed the news along to his followers. “And about her family being taken.”

  “Of course,” Jarves said. “I listened to the bulletin, same as everyone else on base.”

  “Then you also heard my warning about the UNSC?” Castor asked. “That they were likely to blame the Keepers and try to retaliate?”

  “Like I said, I listened to the bulletin.”

  “And, yet, you took money from a ‘private security outfit?’ ” Castor asked. “And helped them sneak a vessel onto Salvation Base?”

  “It was a lot of money,” Jarves said weakly. “Five million credits.”

  “Who made this offer?”

  Jarves craned his neck and forced himself to meet Castor’s gaze. “If I tell you, can we work something out?” he asked. “I didn’t do any harm, I swear it.”

  Castor held his reply for a moment, trying to calm himself, then finally said, “If you fail to tell me, you know what I will do.” He paused, watching as Jarves began to tremble and sweat, then added, “But if your answers are truthful and prompt, perhaps I will consider mercy.”

  “All right . . . thank you.” There was more relief in Jarves’s voice than was warranted. “I was always going to give the Keepers half. That’s more than the ransom would have been anyway.”

  Orsun palmed Jarves in the side of the head and sent him sprawling. “There is no excuse for what you have done,” he said. “There is only answer or agony.”

  “It’s not an excuse—it’s perspective,” Jarves said, still on the floor and rubbing his temple. He shifted his attention to Castor. “The security outfit never identified themselves. The offer came in over my commpad—that’s how I knew they couldn’t be ONI. If they knew how to reach my commpad, they already knew where Salvation Base was. Hell, they were probably looking at us from orbit.”

  “And you chose to negotiate instead of warn us?” Orsun demanded. “I should twist off your feet.”

  “There wasn’t any negotiation to do,” Jarves said. “The offer included a Venezian account in my name and a passcode. There were already a quarter million credits there.”

  “What did they want in return?” Castor asked.

  “Landing clearance for the Turaco,” Jarves said. “They just wanted to get their guy and go.”

  “Who was this hostage?” Castor asked.

  “They wouldn’t say,” Jarves said. “And since I couldn’t help them with the detention center anyway, I didn’t ask.”

  “And the Stolen Faith?” Castor asked. “Did they also request clearance for it?”

  Jarves shook his head. “No, that was completely separate,” he said. “That happened just the way I told you.”

  Castor was not sure the two incidents were completely separate. Many Keepers had already perished aboard the Stolen Faith, so it was only natural that a snesel like Jarves would try to minimize his involvement in allowing the vessel to land.

  But even if Jarves was telling the truth, there was no reason to believe the mysterious “security outfit” had been honest. The Turaco crew was more likely to be an ONI rescue team than a private security squad, and the only thing Castor knew for certain right now was that they weren’t going to find the missing Tuwa clan in his detention center—since he had not kidnapped anyone.

  Still, the Keepers’ innocence was not going to matter. The UNSC was at war with the Keepers of the One Freedom, and the instant the rescue team was clear of the Redoubt of the Faithful, Salvation Base would be destroyed.

  Castor turned to Orsun. “Recall the Fleet of Glory,” he ordered. “Leave only an anti-missile screen on-station above us.”

  Orsun’s head cocked to one side. “Recall the fleet, Dokab?” he asked. “Have I heard you correctly?”

  “You have,” Castor said. Anyone else would have been chastised or worse for questioning orders. But when Castor was gravely wounded during the defeat on Gao, Orsun had stayed at his side and made certain he survived to rebuild the Keepers. That made his second-in-command indispensable and exempt from castigation. “The fleet will do us more good down here.”

  Orsun’s eyes remained confused and uncertain.

  Castor pointed toward the Havoks lined up along the wall. “The infidel weapons,” he said. “They could not have been stolen, or the booster cylinders would have been authentic.”

  Orsun’s nostrils widened in alarm, then he turned to relay the order. Castor stepped closer to Jarves and fixed his gaze on the man.

  “Have you spoken honestly?” he asked. “Have you told me all?”

  “Yes.” Jarves’s eyes shone with hope—or perhaps it was merely desperation. “I didn’t know they were ONI. How could I?”

  Castor studied him for a moment, then asked, “How could you not?”

  He snatched Jarves up by the head and whipped the human from side to side until a hollow pop sounded from the neck, then flung the corpse across the hold. It hit a wall and dropped to the deck, and Castor wondered how much of a difference the betrayal had truly made. Salvation Base had clearly been compromised even before Jarves was approached to give landing clearance to the Turaco, so perhaps the human’s sin was one more of intent than of result.

  Still, it was intent that mattered on the Great Journey. No mortal could know every consequence that followed every act, and so all that separated the Faithful from the infidels was the purity of their intent.

  Castor turned back to Orsun and saw that while his second-in-command had finished relaying the orders, his gaze was puzzled.

  “Something troubles you,” Castor said. “Speak.”

  Orsun dipped his head. “Only my own ignorance,” he said. “The Fleet of Glory has been recalled, but the captains are disturbed . . . as am I.”

  “Is it because we are not preparing for battle?”

  “That is so,” Orsun said. “No doubt we have cowards in our number. But there are more Faithful by far, and they will fight to the last breath.”

  “Which is what ONI wants us to do,” Castor said. “They hope to catch our fleet in orbit and destroy it here.”

  Orsun’s gaze remained clouded.

  “That is why they sent the second vessel,” Castor said. “They hoped the threat of a Banished attack would lure us into their trap.”

  “A brilliant assumption,” Orsun said. “I would never have seen that.”

  It was a careful way of expressing doubt.

  “That is the only explanation,” Castor insisted. “If ONI did not know our location beforehand, how would they know to recruit Jarves? How would they know where to send the Turaco?”

  “Your questions are wise,” Orsun replied. “I have no answer.”

  Another expression of doubt—even more careful. “But you are not convinced,” Castor said. “Tell me why.”

  “As you command,” Orsun said. “I have never known infidel plans to be so . . . complicated. There is too much to go wrong.”

  Castor considered this. He had commanded too many warriors in too many battles to believe he was incapable of a mistake—but he could see no other explanation that fit the facts.

  Finally, he said, “Yet only one thing has gone wrong with their plan. We are not the ones who abducted the Tuwas.”

  “I know, Dokab,” Orsun said. “That is what concerns me.”

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  * * *

  2032 hours, December 13, 2553 (military calendar)

  UNSC Owl Insertion Craft Silent Claw

  Final Approach, Moon Taram, Pydoryn Planetary System, Shaps System

  Fred-104 thunked against the crash harness that secured his six hundred kilograms of flesh and powered assault armor to the cushioned wall behind him, and he knew the Owl insertion craft was changing vector. He flicked his eyes toward the owl symbol in the corner of his faceplate, syncing the heads-up display in his helmet with the Silent Claw’s co
ckpit readouts.

  The tactical display showed a cone of hostile craft returning to base on Taram. The Silent Claw was near the tip of the cone, surrounded by the Keeper fleet, yet hidden from enemy sensors by stealth technology. But as the cone narrowed, it was growing more difficult to remain beyond the visual range of every vessel, and the Owl’s pilot was trying to reduce their exposure by moving toward the cone perimeter.

  Fred had no idea why the enemy was suddenly returning to base, and that worried him. The Owl had been halfway through its insertion run when Damon intercepted the Keeper recall order, but there had been no explanation given. And breaking comm silence to request an intelligence update from the Silent Joe was out of the question. To do so would be like activating a beacon that said INCOMING ATTACK. GET READY.

  Fred blinked off the cockpit feed and found Kelly-087’s bubble-shaped faceplate fixed on him. She was sitting on the opposite side of the passenger compartment, watching him across one of the two Mongoose ATVs secured to the deck between them.

  “We could still go EVA.” Kelly’s voice came over Blue Team’s TEAMCOM, but since they were communicating in line-of-sight mode, the transmission power would be too low to escape the Owl’s EM-shielded hull. “That way, Ashveld could do a standoff insertion.”

  “Negative,” Ashveld replied, also over TEAMCOM. As the Silent Claw’s pilot, she monitored all comm channels used aboard her craft—even the encrypted Spartan channel. “We’re going in with the fleet.”

  Fred and Kelly stared into each other’s faceplates for a moment; then Fred asked, “Like we’re one of them?”

  “No other way,” Ashveld said. “Hostile traffic is too thick for a sling maneuver, and trying to break away for a remote insertion would look suspicious.”

  “Then the Claw has already been spotted.” It was Linda-058 who said this, and it was not a question. She was seated on Kelly’s side of the passenger compartment, next to the second Mongoose. Her faceplate goggles were fixed on a small equipment pod secured to the ATV’s rear cargo shelf. “How close can we insert to the Stolen Faith?”