Halo®: Mortal Dictata

by Karen Traviss

  “Optimism gets you through the day, huh, Vaz?”

  “Pessimism keeps me alive.”

  Mal, sitting behind him in the back of the Warthog, snorted with amusement. “Don’t deprive him of his hobbies. Watching ice hockey and being a misery-guts.”

  “Makes my day,” Vaz said.

  “Oh, and falling for hopelessly unsuitable women. Let’s not forget that.”

  Vaz knew it was meant kindly, but it still stung a little. “That’s only when the hockey season’s over.”

  It made Spenser laugh, anyway. Like all humor, there was an uncomfortable element of truth in it. Vaz went back to studying his forged ID pass, the antique plastic colonial kind that said he was now Vasily Desny, and wondered why he hadn’t found that odd before. If he’d just deserted, why wouldn’t he have a UNSC pass instead? Ah, now he finally understood the convoluted thinking. Nobody would desert without fixing some moderately obvious forged credentials. You couldn’t get to Venezia without a guy who knew someone who knew someone else who could eventually find you some guy who would help you get to Venezia for the contents of your wallet. It all made sense.

  I just can’t think like a spook. Mal’s right. It’s another universe.

  Spenser was pretending to be the real thing, a guy on the run for embezzling funds from the CAA. Vaz decided that you either had to have an astonishing memory or the ability to forget who you really were in this business. Maybe he really had lifted a few roubles in his time, though. It was impossible to tell.

  Mal whistled tunelessly. “We’re just shaking hands and answering questions today, right?”

  “I still think we over-rehearsed this,” Vaz said. “We won’t sound spontaneous.”

  “Just think like a deserter.” Spenser slowed to a crawl behind a small delivery truck. “They’ll expect you to be reluctant to reveal things. You’re guilty men.”

  Mal twanged his pass with his finger. “I’m in the role already. I’ve got my motivation.”

  “Got your transponder? If you end up taken away for questioning—”

  Vaz patted his pocket. Spenser kept on about the tracking units. “Yeah. We got it. We’ve got our implants, too.”

  “No use if they transport you out of range,” Spenser said. “Or if your head gets separated from the rest of you.”

  The guard on the gate looked them over. He obviously knew Spenser and exchanged nods, but spent some time scrutinizing Mal’s pass. Then he looked at Vaz’s. Vaz scrutinized him in return and decided the guy had never been properly trained, even if he looked completely at ease with a rifle. Would anyone know how to tell if they were genuine UNSC or not? Well, if he could tell the difference between a civvie and a soldier in civilian clothes, then it probably worked the other way around as well. The guy didn’t ask them to surrender their sidearms. Either they’d passed muster or else asking a New Tyne citizen to hand over his weapon was like asking him to take off his pants. You just didn’t do it.

  “Nairn’s waiting for you,” the guard said, waving them through. “Drill hall, Mike.”

  Mal waited for the Warthog to pull away and didn’t look back. “Jesus, do they really drill? That’s a bit serious. I haven’t had a proper parade inspection for years.”

  “Yes, you did,” Vaz said. “Voi. A few weeks ago. We turned out for the Voi memorial service.”

  “Okay, apart from that. Remind me which side is my left.”

  The complex was a collection of brick, concrete block, and assorted composite buildings on what looked like a factory site, tidy but not military tidy. It was much bigger than Vaz had expected, though, and everyone he saw on site was human.

  “No aliens, then?” he asked.

  Spenser shook his head. “You can only trust your own, can’t you? Getting along together doesn’t mean they’d stand and fight with us if push came to shove.”

  “Us?” Mal said. “You’re really into your role, then, mate.”

  “I meant humans.”

  “Busy place for a part-time army.”

  “Full-time core. Everyone does their time. And this is one of the main armories, too. Don’t you listen to anything I tell you?”

  “Of course I do,” Mal said. “Just commenting. We could wheedle our way in here full time, Vaz. It’ll be just like home.”

  Spenser dropped them off on the far side of a big open tarmac square. “You’re on your own now, guys. If I hear sustained fire, I’ll assume they’ve rumbled you. Which means I’ll be next.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re ONI,” Mal said. “We’ve got the adqual in lying like a hairy egg.”

  “Son,” Spenser said kindly, “it’s one thing lying to your CO about who started the brawl in Murphy’s Drink-o-Rama. It’s quite another fooling a population of career fugitives.”

  Nairn was waiting at the open hangar door, rifle slung over one shoulder. He beckoned to them. Vaz broke into a jog automatically with Mal behind him. All they had to do was behave like ODSTs and pretend that the only thing they knew about Venezia was that it was a place where bad boys could hide.

  “So you made it.” Nairn ushered them inside. “That’s what I like about guys who’ve served. Discipline and punctuality.”

  When Vaz’s eyes adjusted to the light, he could see that the hangar housed an indoor range with pop-up targets, nothing high tech or fancy. A couple of men and a woman in the usual militia rig of mismatched camo pants, tactical vests, and plain T-shirts were wandering around as if they were waiting for them. Vaz was pretty sure he recognized one of the guys. It really was a small world here.

  “See the dark-haired guy?” he said to Mal. “I sold him a rifle.”

  “Let’s hope he was a satisfied customer.”

  Nairn must have heard them. “That’s Gareth. He’s our resident small arms expert. But you’ve obviously met.” He called out. “Gareth? Guy says he knows you. This is Vaz and Mal. Let’s see if the UNSC trains their people right.”

  Gareth gave him a big grin. “Ah, our Russian buddy,” he said, slapping him on the back. “Where’s your friend? The blonde who looked like Staffan Sentzke.”

  Mal didn’t say a word. It confirmed Vaz’s worst fears. But there was only one right answer to the question, and it wasn’t his excuse about Naomi moving on and getting a ride with a freighter. The name shouldn’t have meant anything to Vaz. He tried to look credible. Suspicious worked better than innocent. He could manage that.

  “Who’s Staffan Sentzke?” he asked.

  “Arms dealer,” Gareth said. “But if you had those kinds of connections, you wouldn’t have had to desert and sell your stuff, would you?”

  “True.”

  “Don’t ask me for my CO’s assessment,” Mal said. The two other militia were just watching from the sidelines. “I think he’s still getting over my good-bye note.”

  “No, you just show us how good you are. We know what we’re looking for.” A row of ammo crates stood along the right-hand wall, each with a Covenant or human weapon on it like a buffet table of destruction. “Show us what you can do with each of those.”

  It really wasn’t that hard. There was an M45 shotgun, MA5B and BR55 rifles, a plasma pistol, a plasma rifle, a sniper rifle, and an M41 Jackhammer. Vaz and Mal browsed along the line.

  “I assume you’d like us to take the Jackhammer outside,” Mal said, hefting the rocket launcher with a wistful smile as if he’d really missed the thing. “Or you won’t have a range left.”

  Gareth nodded. “In your own time.”

  Vaz really wasn’t sure if they were checking for competence or just confirming that they were UNSC-trained to substantiate their story. He did it by the book anyway. He started with the MA5B, checking the weapon and demonstrating safe loading before firing both prone and standing, then handed it off to Mal. The targets had to be checked and replaced each time. It was a slow and deafeningly noisy progression until he got to the plasma pistol. His expertise in that consisted of grabbing one from a dead enemy when he was out of ammo an
d using it against whatever got in his way. If there was a safety drill for energy weapons, he’d never seen one. He simply aimed it at the ground, checked the charge indicator, and made sure he wasn’t discharging it near anything flammable.

  The green energy bolt cracked and sizzled against the target, filling the range with the smell of burned wood and plastic. Mal seemed to be doing okay with the plasma rifle. He made a big mess of a target and grinned like a delighted kid.

  Gareth called a halt. “Okay, stop. Safeties on. We’ve seen all we need to.”

  “I don’t get to play with the M-Forty-one?” Mal said. “Oh. Bugger.”

  “We just wanted to be sure that you really were frontline UNSC and not the Catering Corps.”

  Vaz was pretty sure that neither of them looked like cooks. He indicated the scar along his jaw. “I didn’t get this opening a can of beans.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know.” Gareth held out his hands in mock submission. “We’re just cautious. People try to sneak in here to spy from time to time, but we always suss them in the end. You can always tell if someone handles firearms for a living or if they only use them as a last resort.”

  Vaz wasn’t convinced by the logic, but he wasn’t going to argue with it. They were in; that was all that mattered. Nairn showed them around the barracks and signed them on to the payroll, which obliged them to serve two days a week and be on standby for emergencies. He counted out a pile of bills for both of them and gave them a copy of the duty roster for the next three months, plus personal comms units for militia use only.

  Spenser was doing his night shift now, so they had to make their own way back. Vaz ambled out of the security gate, counting his money. Real physical currency was a novelty. He was still getting used to the idea of handing over actual tokens instead of just being billed via his comms chip. Damn, when had he ever handled money on Earth? His gran had given him three antique silver coins as a kid. They hadn’t been legal currency for centuries, but he’d kept them as a lucky charm, still sealed in an old tobacco tin with the rest of his personal effects in storage in Sydney. They weren’t going to bring him much luck there.

  It was a long walk back to Spenser’s place, unaccustomed exercise that they used to take in their stride. Vaz wondered whether to volunteer to organize some fitness training for the militia just to stop himself from going soft. It was pretty harmless activity that wouldn’t turn the locals into a better fighting force than the UNSC wanted.

  Mal took the power pack out of his comms set and motioned to Vaz. “Better disable these until Spenser gets back and checks them for bugs and stuff. In case they’re doing to us what we’re doing to them.”

  “Humans. Nasty things, aren’t we?”

  “At least we don’t eat our young.”

  “Who does? Sangheili?”

  “Phyllis says they don’t seem to have any weak, sickly kids.”

  “Maybe they’re just a healthy species. If anyone eats their imperfect offspring, it’ll be the Kig-Yar.”

  “I bet they say the same about us. Everyone lies about the enemy.”

  It was a discussion for the bar, and preferably not within the earshot of any resident aliens. But there was a limit to how much time they could devote to slowly killing their livers, so they spent the evening in Spenser’s basement ops center, watching the feed from the remote sats. The cams showed them little activity around Sentzke’s place except a vehicle pulling in and leaving again an hour or so later. Then it got too dark to see anything, and the infrared kicked in. It was the first time Vaz had realized how many small animals were on the prowl on the edges of the city. They showed up as little ghostly shapes wandering around or suddenly running like hell to escape or chase something.

  “That Gareth bloke spotted Naomi right away, didn’t he?” Mal said, eating beans out of a can. He propped his boots on the chair opposite. “But it’s probably better this way.”

  “You think her father would recognize her now?” Vaz kept having doubts. “There’s lots of cases of parents needing a DNA test to confirm if a kid’s theirs when they’ve been separated for a long time.”

  Mal just looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “Gareth made the connection. It doesn’t matter if Staffan doesn’t. We’d still be stuffed.”

  Spenser returned from his shift at 5:00 A.M. and checked the comms units for recording software. “I ran into one of my Kig-Yar chums last night,” he said. “He says Sav Fel’s strutting around all pleased with himself about something, but very tight-lipped. Or tight-beaked. I think he’s sold the ship. Which means I’d bet my pension on Staffan Sentzke being the proud new owner now.”

  Vaz realized he’d still been hoping it was all a misunderstanding, and that Staffan was just an angry old guy with a lot of maps and grudges but no way of delivering on them beyond handing passing insurgents a free rifle and a chart showing Earth’s location. Now he was looking like a very patient man with a plan.

  There’s no law against a colony buying ships. It might just be a precaution.

  As soon as Vaz thought it, he felt like a fool for making excuses and bargaining with himself. Mal went back down to the basement to call Port Stanley on the secure net. Vaz followed him and flopped onto the old sofa to listen in.

  “We’ve taken the militia’s shilling, ma’am,” Mal said. “Any chance of shaking down Adj and Leaks for technical tips on battlecruisers? Spenser says it looks like Fel’s handed over the ship, so we’ve got to assume Sentzke’s got the keys now.”

  “I’ll get BB on it,” Osman said. “Are you listening, BB? Silly question.”

  BB didn’t pass comment on the Sentzke angle. “I’ve got everything you need on the class. What do you want, tire pressures? How to check the oil level?”

  “Things that a Sangheili crew would be aware of. Known problems. What to watch out for when you’re the helmsman. Just in case we need some insider skills to impress people with our knowledge on steering and bombing the shit out of things. We need an invitation to take a look at her. We’ve got to get access to her comms node somehow to let you in via the backdoor, haven’t we?”

  “I’ll see what tips I can extract from our Huragok shipmates.”

  Osman cut back in. “Are you two okay?”

  “Hoofing, ma’am,” Mal said. He looked at Vaz, daring him to say otherwise. “Never better.”

  Mal ended the call and leaned on the back of the sofa, drumming his fingers on the peeling leather.

  “With any luck,” Mal said, “we can nick the ship, nobody gets hurt, and Staffan carries on as before, only a little out of pocket.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ve both said he’s got the right to know about Naomi.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Most things are.”

  “I didn’t say I was enjoying this.”

  “Why do we always have these conversations?” Vaz asked. “I have moral objections, you say it’s the way of world, and I end up agreeing with you, doing nothing, and feeling like shit about it.”

  “Would you feel any better now if you’d shot Halsey when you had the chance?”

  “Yes. And I’d still feel obliged to set things straight for Staffan Sentzke, too.”

  “Except you’d be in jail awaiting a special ONI court martial behind closed doors, the kind where they start with ‘March in the guilty bastard.’ If you got a hearing at all, that is.”

  “Without the ship, he’s not a threat. He’s a nuisance. And if he knows about the Spartan project, so what? Who’s going to care? Who’s he going to tell?”

  “We’ve been down this path about a hundred times, Vaz. Let’s play it by ear.”

  They killed the rest of the day walking around the center of town and being seen, acting like normal guys starting a new life. Spenser had lectured them on how that was the way to succeed at undercover work, to melt into local society instead of hiding behind the shutters all day and prompting neighbors to ask questions. But Va
z found himself checking faces as he watched people going about their business. He noted every man in his thirties who looked vaguely like Staffan’s son—or son-in-law, because he still wasn’t sure—and every woman with a kid who could have been that little blond granddaughter. He caught Mal watching him with a look somewhere between exasperation and sympathy.

  “You’ll know the right thing to do when it happens,” Mal said. “That’s why I never make decisions in advance. I trust my gut. It’s a spur-of-the-moment kind of organ.”

  He had a point. Vaz always thought he knew what he was going to do and then often ended up not doing it. Maybe Mal felt better about himself because he didn’t set himself ultimatums that he later failed to keep.

  They reported for duty at the militia barracks the next day, ready to listen and learn while they set up some training exercises. Clearing buildings was always a good place to start. Mal said it was real enough to look as if they were serious about their new role, but wouldn’t make Venezia a significantly more efficient enemy if push came to shove. Vaz was busy sketching out plans for how they could turn one of the vacant office buildings into a mock-up of a house when he heard the door open behind him. Mal looked up.

  “So you’re our marines, are you?” said a voice.

  Vaz turned around. Staffan Sentzke stood in the doorway, a familiar face that should have been a stranger. Vaz felt his gut tighten. It wasn’t the adrenaline of finding himself at a critical moment in maintaining a lie, but a terrible guilt. There was only one thing he wanted to say, and couldn’t.

  Your daughter isn’t dead. I could tell you that right now. You’ve got a right to know.

  Staffan didn’t look quite as obsessed and dangerous up close as Spenser’s mug shot of him. That had been cropped from a larger picture, probably a wedding photo, and maybe the guy just didn’t like posing for the camera. He had those very pale eyes, just like Naomi.

  “That’s us. Helljumpers.” Vaz looked into Staffan’s face. The need to tell him how sorry he was almost overwhelmed him. “I’m Vaz Desny. This is my buddy, Mal.”