“I swear I never mentioned it, but Jul made his concerns fairly obvious.”
“Very well.” There was only one lead she could follow: ‘Telcam himself. “You fools still have ships laid up on my land. At some point, ‘Telcam will need them. And he’ll answer to me, or I’ll have them destroyed. Where can I find him?”
“Don’t go looking for him.”
“I’ll do as I please. Where is his keep?”
Forze might have been a courageous shipmaster, but he caved in fairly quickly when faced with her anger. There was probably some guilt at work, she thought, some feeling that he should have stopped Jul chasing after ‘Telcam.
“Ontom,” he said at last. “Which is why it’s a bad idea to go there. You must have heard about the Brutes detonating devices in the city today.”
“You’re better informed than I am.”
“That’s because … we’ve been told to be ready to attack Vadam.”
“Do not keep things from me, Forze.”
“What do you expect of me? I’m doing all I can to find Jul. He’s my friend. And he wouldn’t want you to be involved in this and put at risk.”
Raia couldn’t help herself. She hissed at him. It was vulgar and unladylike to hiss at someone outside her clan, a shameful loss of control, but she was at breaking point.
“Risk?” she said, feeling the saliva draining down her throat and feeling a little embarrassed by her outburst. “I’m without my husband, and I don’t know why. Our keep has no elder. What greater hazard can I face than being left alone?” Her mind was made up. She’d already started listing whose help she might call upon to go with her. “I’m going to Ontom to confront ‘Telcam. I expect you to come with me, but if you don’t, that won’t stop me.”
“What if he’s not there?”
“It’s the only information I have, and the alternative to pursuing it is to stay at home and wait to be told I’m a widow.”
Forze had a wife, too. He might have had several for all Raia knew, but a keep elder always had a family to look after, a large one, children he was collectively responsible for whether he sired them or not. He looked defeated for a moment. Then he dipped his head, giving in.
“It’s dangerous, and we might well be turned back if the Ontom keeps have locked down the area, but we’ll go together. I’ve been told to stand by—the uprising has begun. They’ll be coming to collect the vessels laid up on your land.”
“Then I’ll be ready to go with one of those vessels.”
“You can’t.”
“I can. Females have served in ships and even been weapons masters.”
“Very, very rarely.”
“There’s no law preventing me, and I shall come with you.” The ships were on her land. If ‘Telcam wanted them, he’d get her as well, or he’d get nothing. “Or else I’ll order my brothers and sisters to destroy those ships right now.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I can. I’m returning home now to leave instructions for my sisters in my absence, and I’ll be waiting with the ships.”
Raia turned and left as fast as she could, mainly to stop herself from changing her mind. If anything happened to her, the keep might fall into chaos. She had to leave someone with clear orders. Uncle Naxan could have the elder’s authority. Umira was the most sensible of her sisters, and she could manage the farm and the accounts until Raia got back. Under the Covenant, they’d never had to worry about food supplies. Now, without San’Shyuum support and alien labor, they had to fend for themselves and learn to run their own lives again.
And we will.
Back at Bekan keep, she packed a bag. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d done that. She’d never needed to travel, to be away from home, and it felt strange and unsettling. Dural watched her from the door, clutching his practice weapon—a wooden staff—as if he were on sentry duty.
“What are you doing, Mother?”
“I’m going to look for Uncle Jul,” she said. Lying to children made them weak and confused. They had to know that the world was a dangerous place, and preparing them for it meant withholding nothing that might distress them. By watching her deal with difficult things, Dural would learn to be decisive and unafraid. “He should have come home by now.”
“Is he dead?”
It was a perfectly normal question in a society where almost every male who was physically capable expected to be a warrior and where so many had died in battle. But this was Jul’s son, not that the youngster realized that, and Raia was far more fragile about the prospect of losing her husband than she’d realized. The word dead wounded her. She tried to look calm.
“Jul’s a survivor,” she said. “Wherever he is, he’ll return to us. But I want to know why he’s been delayed, and by whom. Now, be obedient while I’m away. Do as Naxan and Umira tell you. I’ll know if you don’t.”
Dural watched her in silence for a little longer. It was only when she put on her belt with its unfamiliar holster that he parted his jaws, pleased. She was armed. He knew that was a good thing, a sensible thing, and that his mother would be all right. It seemed to satisfy him and he walked off.
Carrying a pistol felt odd, but Raia was fully trained to use it well. All children were taught to fight and defend themselves; adult females rarely served on the front line, but they were expected to fight to defend their keep if it came under attack. And that was how she felt right then. Her husband was in danger, she was sure of it, and her duty was to go to his aid. Some would tut and disapprove of her leaving the keep and the family in the hands of others, but she didn’t care.
‘Telcam was the one who needed to worry. If he’d harmed Jul, she would kill him. That, too, was her duty.
As she headed for the field where the vessels were laid up, wading through long grass that plucked at her legs, a little nervous voice at the back of her mind asked her if she was mad, and if she even understood what she was doing. She slapped it down—yes, she understood, of course she understood. When she reached the warship called Unflinching Resolve and gazed up at the massive curve of its hull, she admitted to herself that she was terrified, but that was irrelevant. It was far more frightening to sit and wait in the keep, weak and dependent.
I bore warriors. Therefore I can become one, too.
She could hear a Revenant approaching. She waited with one hand on her holster until it came into view, flattening the grass with its thrust, and as it slowed to a halt she fixed the pilot with her best do-not-toy-with-me stare.
Forze got out of the Revenant and looked at her with his head on one side, eyes on the weapon.
“Now you really frighten me,” he said. “I hope you don’t expect to pilot a ship, too.”
“No,” she said. “Not yet.”
TEMPLE OF THE ABIDING TRUTH, ONTOM: TWO HOURS AFTER THE INITIAL EXPLOSION
Phillips held his breath, listening for the noise of energy bolts and trying to work out how long it would take him to sprint to the temple gates when the shooting stopped.
He glanced at ‘Telcam. From the length of his stride, Phillips calculated that the Sangheili would outrun him as fast as a dad chasing after a willful toddler. He’d never make it to the end of the passage. Damn, all he had to do was get outside and grab the first Sangheili he saw—anyone at all—to ask them to make contact with Cadan or the Arbiter’s office. Then he could get a message to Osman and be out of here.
“Hey, ‘Telcam,” he said. He found himself switching between English and Sangheili in the same sentence now, just as ‘Telcam did. “Let’s be clear about this. While I appreciate your concern for my safety, are you holding me prisoner? Can I leave if I’m willing to take the risk?”
‘Telcam was poring over a chart with the others. There were about thirty Sangheili in full armor crammed into the chamber fifty meters inside the doors, trying to find space between the crates of munitions and muttering about a ship called Unflinching Resolve. Then he heard the name ‘Mdama.
They were discu
ssing Jul, speculating about his disappearance. He had vessels laid up at his keep, and they were going to have to move them in a matter of hours. It alarmed them.
“Do you think he was always ‘Vadam’s agent?” one of them asked. “Has he maneuvered us into a trap?”
“His friend keeps calling to ask if he’s with us. There’s something very wrong.”
Perhaps ‘Telcam had just been asking Phillips what he knew of Jul simply because he was asking everyone, and ONI were as likely as anyone else to have heard if he’d run into trouble.
From the conversations Phillips could overhear, some of the rebels were religious types like ‘Telcam, and some were just regular hinge-heads who’d never known anything else but serving as San’Shyuum cannon fodder and hadn’t yet found a civilian role to keep them busy. It was all in the language. The monkish ones used archaic tenses and weird Dickensian phrases—if Dickens had been Sangheili—like ere we presume to know the mind of our betters. The ones who’d been soldiers had a much less frilly and more immediate turn of phrase. In translation, a couple of them reminded him of Mal.
But none of them seemed to share the Arbiter’s vision of a galaxy where human and Sangheili could one day cooperate, once both sides had forgotten they’d been trying to out-genocide each other for thirty years. None of this bunch liked or trusted humans. He could hear what they called him.
“I know what nishum means, by the way,” he said, in his most colloquial Sangheili. ‘Telcam still hadn’t answered him, but he must have heard the question. “You stop calling me nishum, and I won’t call you hinge-heads.”
He could tell which of them spoke some English from the number who turned to glare at him. Intestinal parasite. Tapeworm. It wasn’t friendly military abuse of the kind Mal called slagging, either.
‘Telcam was the last to straighten up and look around.
“The first that many Sangheili saw of humans were men in armor,” he said. “On first glance they thought you were arthropods with exoskeletons. Instead they found there were small, soft, vulnerable, pink creatures inside. Or brown ones. I hope you can understand the analogy, even if it’s not flattering.”
“That’s okay,” Phillips said. He was happy to play the harmlessly clever child for most Sangheili, dazzling them with his skills at unlocking an arum, but he felt he’d survive better with these ones by showing a bit of fight. “I expect you’ve worked out hinge-heads. I’ve heard chuck-heads, too. You know what a chuck is? It’s a little gripping piece on a drill that holds the bit. It opens up just like your damned mouths.”
Maybe it offended them and maybe it didn’t. Phillips realized he was starting to feel like a Sangheili when he spoke the language now, not just consciously switching into trying to think like them. There was always an undercurrent of defensive aggression about them. Their anatomy didn’t help, because the way their heads were permanently thrust forward automatically triggered a subconscious reaction in humans that they were spoiling for a fight, but it was more than just bad luck in the skeletal lottery. They really did throw down challenges and tell you where their boundaries were. Phillips had mulled over all kinds of stuff about the origin of their species and their territorial approach to life, but now he found he’d stopped rationalizing and was just snarling back like any other Sangheili marking his personal space among the boys.
‘Telcam gave him a long, cold look. So did the others, even the ones who Phillips knew didn’t understand more than two words of English.
“Fascinating,” ‘Telcam said. “And to answer your original question, no, you may not leave. You’ll be questioned by the Arbiter about where you’ve been. I have little confidence in your ability to withstand that if he were to ask awkward questions now that the coup has begun. Apart from which—I want to be sure that your shipmaster honors her agreements. Having you here reassures me of that.”
You bastard. So I’m a hostage. I should have seen that coming.
Phillips felt his pulse speeding up but he wasn’t actually scared any longer. It was a strange feeling. “She doesn’t even know I’m still alive. I can’t call her. You think that’s going to guarantee your arms supplies?”
That seemed to focus ‘Telcam. “You came here with no communications?”
“No. I’ve got a radio, but it’s been damaged.” He pulled the device off his jacket and held it up, suddenly remembering that there was a needle mounted inside that was prepped to give him a fatal dose of fast-acting nerve agent if BB judged he was in too tight a spot for everyone’s safety. Jesus, what’ll set this thing off now? He wasn’t sure if he should wear it in case it malfunctioned. “You could always contact Osman. Why not give it a try now?”
‘Telcam wandered over to him and peered at the radio. Phillips held on to it, trying to look casual and pissed off. He didn’t dare let go of it. He didn’t know if BB’s fragment was still recoverable and could fall into the wrong hands, and if the nerve agent was ejected, a dead ‘Telcam wouldn’t help matters. He wasn’t sure if Sangheili were susceptible to the same toxins as humans, but he wasn’t taking the risk.
“Look,” he said. “Damn shrapnel or something. I suppose it saved me from worse, though.”
‘Telcam stared at it. Another Sangheili, the shipmaster they called Buran, ambled across and took a close look at it, too. It seemed to fascinate them.
“You’re very lucky, worm-boy,” Buran said. “What were the chances of that saving you?”
‘Telcam looked riveted. “Philliss, I believe the gods particularly want you to live. All the more reason for keeping you at my side.”
Phillips took it as another smartass remark, but then he looked ‘Telcam in the eye and saw that light, that weird otherness. Damn, he really meant it. It was all too easy to see him as the pragmatic field master and forget that he had only one motive for overthrowing the Arbiter: religion. He wasn’t too fussy about who ran things as long as they did it for the gods. This was a holy war. Phillips bit back his automatic retort that the gods probably wanted him to call home, too, and looked for a way to work this to his advantage.
“I have to let Osman know where I am,” he said.
“Very well.” ‘Telcam reached into his belt and took out a device designed for huge four-fingered hands. That was one of the things that still came as a daily surprise for Phillips, that Sangheili could manipulate anything sophisticated with hands like that. “I shall call the ship and let you talk with her.”
‘Telcam tapped a complicated sequence of symbols on the comms unit and waited. Phillips had often been on the receiving end of those signals, but he’d never heard what it sounded like when the call didn’t connect. Now he knew. It was a quiet continuous stream of random clicks like hot metal cooling down.
“The ship must be in slipspace,” ‘Telcam said. “We will attempt to call Osman later.”
Please let her be on her way. She has to know I’m here. I was transmitting.
“Okay.” Phillips made a conscious effort to relax and look irritated rather than concerned. “So what happens now? How long are you going to keep me here? I haven’t even got a change of clothes.”
“Is that your most pressing concern?”
“Unless you’ve got something else to keep me busy.”
“By nightfall, our brothers in cities across Sanghelios will be taking arms against kaidons who support the Arbiter, and I shall lead the direct assault on Vadam. We have ships and we have sufficient arms. We may not prevail immediately, but we shall take control within the month. How do you see yourself fitting into that battle plan?”
“Okay,” Phillips said. “I’ll make the coffee. Maybe play with an arum.”
‘Telcam snorted like a horse and stalked back to the table. Everyone seemed to be using one of those communicators now, having the same conversation with their opposite numbers in other keeps. They seemed to have a number of ships, but it just didn’t seem enough to take over a whole world, not even with the hardware that ONI had supplied.
But
they’re still floundering. It’s been less than a year—a few months, that’s all—since the Covenant fell apart. They’re still relearning how to organize themselves without the San’Shyuum calling the shots.
And that was all the edge that ‘Telcam needed. He was organized. The Arbiter wasn’t, not yet.
Phillips realized that he was hoping for a draw, just like ONI. So he didn’t trust ‘Telcam to keep his side of the deal after all, to leave Earth colonies alone if humans kept out of his way. Well, if he survived this, he’d have one hell of a lecture tour ahead of him, let alone the chat shows and books.
Funnily enough, the last place he wanted to be right now was back in Sydney at the university, safe and planned out to retirement. He started wandering around the chamber, remembering what he’d come here for. He was going to check out ancient Forerunner inscriptions to see if there were clues to the locations of the remaining Halos.
“‘Telcam,” he said, “do you mind if I look around the temple?”
The Sangheili didn’t look up from his charts. “You won’t find a way out.”
“I meant that I’d like to take a look at the carvings and relics. Is that all right? I promise I’ll treat it with respect.”
“Very well. You’ll know when you’ve reached an unsafe area.”
“Oh.” Booby traps? “What’s unsafe?”
“Some passages have been walled off,” ‘Telcam said. “That was carried out at the time the Forerunners built this temple, and there must have been good reason. The Servants of the Abiding Truth have never breached those walls, nor shall we.”
Phillips had no taboos in his life and found it bizarre that a commander used to making hard decisions on a battlefield would accept that kind of mystical keep-out sign without question. But then Phillips didn’t fear the hand of some god reaching out and smacking him around the ear. BB had mentioned the slipspace bubbles in the Onyx Dyson sphere. The Forerunners had contained them in some kind of field and had been able to control the passage of time inside them, so Phillips wondered if they’d built that into other facilities. He didn’t want to push his luck and end up in one. He’d heard about the Spartan-III who got lost in one and was lucky there were Huragok around to get her out.
The Thursday War Page 7
