Vaz didn’t offer an opinion. Maybe he thought that Mal was being too helpful, but what these cruisers could do was bloody obvious to anyone who’d watched even a few seconds of news in the last thirty years.
The elevator doors opened, spilling them out onto a deck that was probably the CIC suite. So they were now midships, then, because that was where hinge-heads put their CIC, in a citadel like any sensible navy did. Mal had never fought his way quite this far through a Covenant cruiser. The sight of it almost distracted him from his current task.
“Hinge-heads haven’t got any taste, have they?” he said, hands in pockets as he gazed around, trying to look a lot less interested than he was. “It’s like a tacky nightclub. Purple, purple, purple. All they need is a mirror ball in the deckhead and they can rent this out for downmarket corporate functions.”
This was a ghost ship. The emptiness was overwhelming. But it was a ghost ship with all its main systems running, and that meant that it had a nav display somewhere, something that would tell Mal exactly where they were, with a comms node for BB.
And now I know exactly what information I should have asked BB to get. Ah well. We’ll just have to improvise again.
Vaz jumped down from the platform and walked across the deck, inspecting the various workstations. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to press anything,” he murmured. “Just fascinated. A little … sobering to see the world as they saw it. The bastards.” He leaned over a display and peered closely at it. “Is this nav display off? You don’t want it calling home.”
Edvin rushed down the ramp from the platform and went to fiddle with the display. “We’re still working through the manual, kind of. But I think that’s off.”
“Sure?” Vaz prodded it a few times. Mal leaned on the rail and watched the display switch between scales. “What’s this, then?”
“Venezia.”
“Sure it’s not Sanghelios?”
“No, look.” Edvin toggled between the scales, zooming through tens of light-years at a time. “Because that’s Korfo. I read enough Covenant script to recognize that.”
Vaz was taking his time over it, frowning. Memorizing. Or maybe he’s got a minicam running. The crafty little sod was reading off the ship’s coordinates from the projection. One problem down, one to go. Sorted. If the transponder didn’t work, they still had a good idea of where the ship was. Mal was impressed to see that Mr. Earnest’n’Honest could be sneaky when he needed to be.
“Let’s ask the expert,” Staffan said. “Sinks? Come here, Sinks.”
Staffan clapped his hands and looked around like he’d lost someone. It didn’t occur to Mal that Sinks wouldn’t be human or Kig-Yar. It was only when a blur of pink and violet light flashed in the corner of his eye that he turned and saw an Engineer drifting in their direction.
“This is Sometimes Sinks,” Staffan said. “A Huragok. Have you come across them before?”
“Oh yeah.” He’d have all the ship’s data in his brain. But if BB got into the system, Sinks would be all over him, too. “Well, that solves most of your problems.”
“I don’t need to explain them to you, then.”
“No, we’ve met a few.”
Vaz beckoned to Sinks. The creature’s mum must have warned him not to talk to strange Russians, because he gave Vaz a wide berth and drifted up to the command platform. “You’re lucky to find one these days. Most of them disappeared when the Covenant fell.”
“The Kig-Yar who supplied the ship said they found Sinks in a wreck. He’s not part of the original complement.” Staffan pointed to the nav display. “Sinks, is that nav system transmitting any signal to the Sangheili?”
Sinks drifted down to the deck level and examined the display with fluttering tentacles.
“Thanks, Sinks.”
“You mean Vaz? It’s okay. Vaz works for us. So does Mal here. They’re not going to destroy anything.”
“Don’t worry about us, Sinks,” Mal said. “We’ll behave.”
Engineers all had their funny little ways. Sinks’s lights were flicking on and off, the Huragok equivalent of getting a bit red in the face. He definitely wasn’t a happy jellyfish.
“Is he always like that?” Mal asked.
“I’m getting used to him,” Staffan said. Sinks rose from the deck and circled Mal, head jerking back and forth suspiciously, then moved in to hang next to Staffan as if he was hiding behind him. “He understands me fine, but I’m not sure I always understand him.”
“They’re not going to destroy anything, Sinks. It’s okay.”
“It’s okay.” Staffan gave Mal and Vaz a look as if he was making excuses for a dotty old aunt who’d started rambling. “The Kig-Yar glassed a Forerunner site as a demo. You know about the Forerunners?”
Mal was starting to realize how much knowledge he took for granted that the civilian world didn’t have or regarded as an amazing novelty. “Got the T-shirt,” he said. “I’ve even got a mate who can read their language.”
“Oh. We’re a little behind the curve, then.”
“It’s what the whole war was about.”
“Really?”
“Don’t worry, someone will write it all up one day and you’ll be able to watch endless documentaries on it.” Mal had Staffan’s attention now. “Anyway, you’re right, Huragok are very touchy about damage to Forerunner artifacts.”
“He got pretty upset. He keeps going on about it.”
“Yeah, they don’t like anyone doing that,” Mal said. Shit. The ventral beams still work, then. “They’re very protective of anything the Forerunners left behind. Bit sad, really. Have you told him they’re never coming back?”
“I think you just did.”
“Oops.” Mal looked at Sinks. “Sorry, mate. I’ve got a mouth like the dockyard gates.”
“Do they eat? Do they recharge or something?”
“Didn’t the Kig-Yar tell you?” Mal decided to score a few points, hoping that his dismay about the ventral beam didn’t show. “They can recharge, but they like a nutrient sludge. It’s a mix of nutritional yeast protein, sugars, and fat. I can help you make some.”
“Oh God, he must be starving.” Staffan looked mortified and patted his pockets, a real granddad’s gesture, and pulled out a handful of brightly wrapped sweets. “I’m sorry, Sinks. I didn’t understand. Here. Have this while we get something fixed for you.”
Mal wished Staffan hadn’t done that. It was hard to see a man as a threat to civilization when he was distracted by a creature in distress. Staffan unwrapped a sweet and held it out to Sinks, who fondled it in a blur of cilia for a moment, probably checking its chemical composition. Then his tongue shot out and he started licking it.
“They like sweet stuff,” Vaz said. “You’ve got a friend for life now.”
Edvin was leaning on the rail at the edge of the command platform, shaking his head and smiling. “That’s so cute. Better not let Kerstin see it. She’ll want one.”
“Granddaughter,” Staffan said. “She’ll love the pink lights, too.”
Sinks seemed to be demolishing the chunk of hard-boiled sugar pretty fast, a pretty impressive feat without any teeth. His rasping tongue dissolved it down to the last sliver. Then he licked his tentacles and waited patiently.
Staffan gave him another unwrapped sweet. “Just look after the place while I find something else for you to repair. Protect the ship in case anyone shows up and tries to seize it. Got that?”
Sinks slurped happily. The poor little bugger was probably just knackered and in need of a sugar boost.
“Well, avoid using the weapons except as a last resort. Just keep intruders out. And remember the drill. If we miss a scheduled signal to you, you know what to do.”
Do what? Glass Sydney? Call the militia? Bloody hell.
Mal had never thought of giving Engineers access to weapons systems. But they were like an AI in their way, and if they could rebuild systems, then they could almost certainly use them, and there was bugger all you could do to keep a Huragok out of a system anyway. It was a scary thought. Mal had taken their quiet obedience for granted.
But Sinks obviously liked Staffan. It seemed to be mutual. Maybe it was some kind of bond between mechanics, or just a response to a bit of kindness from a grieving man who’d never set out to be an arms dealer.
“There doesn’t seem to be anything he can’t do,” Staffan said, almost proud. “He’s like a fantastically clever kid.”
That really stung. Mal caught Vaz’s eye and got a faint hint of a reaction. It was tempting to jump to some amateur psychological conclusion about Sinks filling a gap that another very smart kid had left in Staffan’s life. On the other hand, maybe he was just stating the obvious.
Venezia now had the use of a battlecruiser, and a man with a grudge had control of it, but how that all slotted together into a threat Mal could define was still a mystery.
“I said I’d explain to you about my daughter,” Staffan said suddenly. “In case the UNSC told all you boys that the colonies were hotbeds of terrorism for no good reason. My little girl was abducted, and I think some Earth authority was responsible. I’ve spent my life looking for truth.”
Mal searched for exactly the right words, scared that he wouldn’t find them. He had one shot at getting this right and gaining Staffan’s trust so he could get a comms channel set up to backdoor BB onto the ship. It was a knife-edge moment.
“If you find out, what will you do?” he asked.
Staffan gave Sinks another sweet. The Huragok slurped at it, watching Mal with six suspicious, beady black eyes.
“The guilty will be punished,” Staffan said. “I’ll have my revenge.”
Mal opted for a silent nod. This definitely wasn’t the time to tell Staffan Sentzke that what had been done to his daughter was probably worse than he could have imagined.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
IS ONI ONE HAPPY FAMILY? OH, PLEASE. WE’VE GOT FOUR DIVISIONS, OFFICIALLY, AND ONLY ONE OF THEM KNOWS THAT WE’VE ACTUALLY GOT MORE THAN THAT. THERE’S SECTION TWO—MADE UP OF PSYOPS AND PR, WHO EACH KID THEMSELVES THEY’RE NOT LIKE THE OTHER AT ALL—WHICH TELLS THE LIES; SECTION ZERO, WHICH THINKS IT SPIES ON EVERYONE ELSE, TELLS LIES TO SECTION TWO, AND THINKS IT TELLS LIES TO SECTIONS ONE AND THREE; SECTION ONE DOES STUFF WE CAN ALMOST TALK ABOUT, THE INTERFACE WITH OTHER BRANCHES; AND SECTION THREE DOES THE STUFF WE CAN’T TALK ABOUT OR ELSE IT WOULD HAVE TO KILL EVERYONE IN FASCINATING AND GROUNDBREAKING NEW WAYS. TECHNICALLY, YOU’RE NOT A NUMBERED SECTION AT ALL. YOU’RE THE PRAETORIAN GUARD FOR CINCONI, IN A WAY, AND WE JUST CALL CINCONI’S STAFF CORE FOUR, ALTHOUGH IT’S ACTUALLY IN CORE FIVE OF BRAVO-6, AND DCS REPORTS DIRECTLY TO IT. YOU’LL NOTE I DIDN’T MENTION HIGHCOM, AND THAT’S BECAUSE ALL ONI SECTIONS LIE TO HIGHCOM AND TELL IT THAT IT’S THE MOST POWERFUL BODY ON EARTH, WHICH GENERALLY WORKS WELL AT KEEPING THE OLD BUFFERS CONVINCED THAT THEY MAKE THE DECISIONS. NOW, ARE YOU CONFUSED? I CERTAINLY HOPE SO, BECAUSE THAT’S MY MISSION.
—BB, EXPLAINING THE PERCEIVED STRUCTURE OF ONI TO THE REST OF KILO-FIVE, AND ONLY PARTLY JOKING
CAPTAIN’S DAY CABIN, UNSC PORT STANLEY: OFF VENEZIA, FOUR HOURS AFTER LAST SCHEDULED RADIO CHECK
Mal and Vaz had now missed two radio checks.
Osman wouldn’t have worried about one going adrift, but two was cause for concern. If it went to three, she’d have to mount a rescue operation. First, though, there was still Mike Spenser to ask for enlightenment. She checked the local time to see if she’d get an instant response.
Damn. The analog clock display set in the bulkhead read 1830, and it was Wednesday. He’d be at work. Secure calls went to his house because he couldn’t risk carrying personal comms that might compromise him if he was searched, so the best she could do was leave a message. It hardly seemed the stuff that espionage was made of.
“What do they do in Undercover when this happens, BB?” she asked.
BB popped up on the desk and nestled between The Admiralty Manual of Seamanship Vol. II and the spill-proof coffeepot. “Well, their secret agents always rush out of restaurants without paying, never use the bathroom, and have shootouts in the street in front of passersby who never seem to take their picture and splash it all over the public net. So are you sure you want to use the worlds’ worst TV drama as a training manual for real-world intelligence work?”
“I see you’re not a fan.”
“People believe it all, you know.”
“I was actually planning to call Spenser and check before going to action stations.”
“I’m sure Devereaux can punch her way through a locked door, and Phillips would throw himself into it with endearing but inappropriate courage, but you’d still have to send in Naomi in the end.”
“If we need to pull out Mal and Vaz, then our cover’s blown anyway. And Spenser’s.”
“This is why I should go on all missions.”
“It didn’t help on Sanghelios, did it?”
“Hardware problem. We were doing fine otherwise.”
“Whatever medium we put you in, it’ll be subject to damage that could disable you.”
Osman knew she was capable of doing this herself. She’d been a field agent for a few years, and not just operating against the Covenant. In every war, long or short, there’d always been humans who undermined their own war effort, not by being active traitors but doing their own special damage through profiteering, corruption, strikes, and all the other shitty little antisocial things that made life unnecessarily tough for everyone else. A species under threat of extinction should have been too public-spirited to stab itself in the back. But it wasn’t. She still hated those human assholes even more than she hated the Covenant. They should have known better, done better.
If I could cope with working undercover in the arms industry or trade unions, I can handle Venezia.
“I’ve been keeping an ear on the comms chatter,” BB said. “But there really isn’t much coming out of New Tyne. Just their ATC clearing freighters. They’ve learned to be tight lipped.”
“Or maybe they’ve got some snazzy tech.”
“No, I suspect they’re just good at keeping their mouths shut. No technology can crack silence. Not even me.”
“Okay.” Osman slapped her palms on her thighs. “I’ll leave a message for Spenser on the spook-o-phone, and if we don’t get an OPSNORMAL from Mal and Vaz at their next scheduled check, we start search and retrieval.”
She keyed in Spenser’s secure code and call sign—Kilo-Three-Nine—and waited for the system to handshake. BB’s box dimmed and darkened for a moment as if he was fading.
“Mike? It’s Oz. No calls from the lads today. Is everything all right? Let me know.” Even on a secure channel, Osman was happier keeping things short and vague. She ended the call and looked for something to keep her busy while she waited for the next window. “So how are we doing with the extra dropship?”
“Fleet Auxiliary’s dropping off a Pelican and an old Calypso drive at Anchor Ten tomorrow by eighteen hundred,” BB said. “I’d suggest that Devereaux and Naomi go to pick it up and take Adj with them. Then he can fit and upgrade the slipspace drive and Naomi can fly it back. Better than taking Stanley off station to collect it.”
“Okay. Naomi’s happy with that, is she?”
“I’ve offered to have my fragment ride shotgun in her neural implant if she doubts her piloting skills.”
“So we ha
ve to write off those two for twenty-four hours.”
“Subject to Mal and Vaz not needing extraction.”
“Fine. We’ll decide that after the next radio check.”
Waiting for that was worse than watching paint dry. Osman killed some time by reading Phillips’s transcripts of the intercepted voice chatter and watching the live feed from the Sanghelios remotes. The feed was a little miracle she was rapidly starting to take for granted, and without Halsey, they wouldn’t have had it. If the bitch hadn’t pulled that stunt to hide out on Onyx, then ONI would never have discovered the Forerunner technology stored there, like the precision slipspace navigation, the improved propulsion, and the instant FTL comms, plus a team of original Huragok to incorporate the refinements into UNSC hardware.
So even a stopped clock is right twice a day. That doesn’t vindicate her.
Just thinking about Halsey made Osman bristle. The woman was phenomenally productive, but as Vaz had pointed out, that was a bit like saying the war opened up lots of opportunities for new architectural talent, what with all those bombed cities to replace.
When I’m CINCONI, will I have the sense to put a bullet through her head, or will I go on being too scared of losing her skills? She’s not the only genius in the world. And one day, she’ll be dead anyway. We’ll learn to live without her.
Yes, Halsey had played the you-can’t-afford-to-lose-me card once too often. The Huragok could do pretty much everything that she could, they were team players, and kidnapping, illegal experimentation, and fraud would never have crossed their minds. They were better company, too. They could even bake cakes.
Damn, how much longer was this going to take? Osman switched to the ship schematic to see where everyone was. Naomi and Devereaux showed up as moving blue dots in the hangar bay, located by their neural implants. Three other icons wandered around the hangar as well, the green dot of Phillips’s comms unit and the two yellow dots of the Huragok translation devices. Assigning them different colors had helped. It had been hard to tell Phillips from the Huragok until one of the lights drifted up a shaft between decks.
Halo®: Mortal Dictata Page 19
