Amid all this incredible alien technology, the one thing she could rely on was a simple, seven-hundred-year-old system of on-off signals that almost everybody else had forgotten.
She stood and looked down at the Engineer for a few moments. She’d never killed anyone she hadn’t wanted and intended to. She was wondering what to do with the body when she heard that leather belt sound again.
Several leather belts, in fact. Shadows flickered in her peripheral vision.
Engineers were harmless—weren’t they?
HANGAR BAY, UNSC PORT STANLEY: FIFTEEN THOUSAND KILOMETERS OFF NEW LLANELLI, BRUNEL SYSTEM.
“Aren’t you going to help Naomi into her Mjolnir?” Mal said, stuffing a magazine of armor-piercing rounds into his belt. “You two were getting on so well.”
Vaz looked over his shoulder with some difficulty as he eased himself into his new armor. It didn’t smell familiar. Maybe that was just as well. He swung his arms to get a feel for the extra range of movement in his shoulders and wondered if it was worth the trade-off against shoulder plates.
“She’s too old and too scary,” he said. “And she needs a technician for that.”
“If you’re still pining for Chrissie, I’ll thump you. She didn’t stand by you, mate.”
“And you think that being crushed by a Spartan with bigger biceps than me is going to make me feel better.”
“No, but I almost made you smile, didn’t I?”
BB popped up in front of them. “Oh, you’re matchmaking. How adorable. Are we ready to move, gentlemen?”
“We?” Vaz asked. “I thought you were staying here with Naomi.”
“I’ll split off some of my dumb processes.” BB projected a second box, a small, battered, peeling thing. Vaz was starting to understand AI humor. “I can’t afford to fall into enemy hands. And don’t get Phillips killed. Too much paperwork.”
“I’m here, you know,” Phillips said. He stuck his head out of the dropship’s door. “ONI said I’d get some weapons training.”
“They lied, Prof,” Mal said. “It’s what they do. Don’t worry, we’ll show you how it’s done.”
Vaz secured his helmet, looking at BB through a filter of boot-up icons and status displays. He tapped Mal on the back. “Helmet check.” A few moments later, the view from Mal’s helmet cam, inset on one side of the HUD, blinked from idle to a head-on close-up of Vaz’s mirrored visor with Mal’s faceplate reflected in it.
“Well, I’m fabulous,” Mal said, brushing off imaginary dust from his shoulder. “Let’s go wow the hinge-heads.”
Devereaux’s helmet cam feed flickered, then became a tilted view of the cockpit and Osman’s leg in regular infantry armor as she reached out to press a control. “Got you, Staff. Starting drives.”
The dropship was packed to the deckhead. Between the Warthog, a small forklift, and the trailer full of crates, there was barely enough room for Vaz to find a space to lean his backside against, let alone sit down. The airtight bulkhead sealed behind them and the ship maneuvered toward the ramp, then slipped through the parting doors into the black silence.
Osman’s voice crackled over the comms speaker. “BB, keep the intercepted channels patched through to Phillips. Naomi, where are they now?”
“One Tarasque still in low orbit, one’s landed approximately five kilometers from the RV point, and the boarding craft’s where you expect to be.”
“Okay. Devereaux, set us down behind that ridge.” Osman sounded as if she was looking at a chart on the nav display. She didn’t have a helmet on, so Vaz couldn’t see her viewpoint. “As soon as we’re done, we’re going to extract Spenser and transfer him.”
“You still need someone to man the listening station on Reynes?” Phillips asked.
“If you’re volunteering,” Osman said, “the answer’s no. You’re not trained for undercover work, let alone anything remote.”
“But you could catch up on lots of reading,” Mal said. “Never mind.”
Phillips, wedged in a gap between two coolant housings, looked disappointed. At least he didn’t lack guts. Vaz leaned forward and tightened the strap on his body armor for him. The guy was still getting the hang of unfamiliar kit.
“Don’t leave any gaps,” Vaz said. If the Elites turned an energy weapon on Phillips, then a few pieces of upper body armor wouldn’t do him much good. But they had projectile weapons as well, including looted MA5Bs. “You’d be amazed where rounds can penetrate.”
Phillips gave him a thumbs-up, right hand pressed to his ear as he listened in on the hinge-head frequencies.
“Wonder what happened to Ariadne?” Mal asked.
“Can BB hear us?”
“Of course I can,” said the voice in Vaz’s audio. “Ariadne is still undergoing emergency repairs. Monte Cassino’s been diverted to take off her nonessential crew. Sounds like they might have to abandon her.”
“And no help from Venezia.”
“No. They won’t be getting a Christmas card from the Admiral this year.”
Mal made one of his annoyed fffft sounds but didn’t offer a comment. They approached New Llanelli in silence, leaving Vaz with nothing to distract him from the fact that he was about to hand over weapons and ordnance to the enemy. No matter how he cut it, no matter how much sense it made, it stuck in his throat. It stuck in a hell of a lot deeper when he caught a glimpse of what he thought was a river in the hull cam repeater. It resolved into glittering patches of vitrified soil.
Shit, it’s all glasslands. How many colony worlds look just like this?
It wasn’t about the millions of humans who’d been slaughtered. The scale was so far beyond what he could feel that he didn’t get instinctively angry about it: he just knew it was terrible in a theoretical kind of way. No, what gripped his guts was the smaller-scale stuff, all the buddies he’d lost trying to save places like this, and that was all any one man could really feel. Anyone who cried for some general mass of humanity they didn’t even know was crying for themselves, just wallowing in the idea of it. So how did the surviving colonies feel? Hood was kidding himself if he thought he could sign a peace deal and get anyone who was left out here to stick to it.
Yeah, I’d want revenge too. Can’t blame them for that.
Mal reached over and rapped sharply on his helmet, jerking him out of it. “Don’t,” he whispered.
“I wasn’t thinking about her.” Actually, he hadn’t brooded about Chrissie for quite a while. He’d moved into the blank phase where he’d get angry about it if someone reminded him, but it didn’t keep him awake at night now. “Just wondering if we’re going to be back here in a year enforcing a cease-fire.”
They were all on an open channel. Osman couldn’t have missed that, but she didn’t pass any comment.
Devereaux landed north of an escarpment that sloped down to an ice rink of vitrified soil, and shut down the drives. “They must have heard us coming in,” she said. “But they can’t get a lock on us. Okay, everybody out.”
Mal scrambled up to the ridge clutching his sniper rifle and lay flat to scope through the landscape. The Elites wouldn’t pick him up on infrared or EM in the recon armor, but they might be able to spot him the old-fashioned way. Did it matter? Vaz thought it would have been better to rock up with as many people visible as possible, but Osman seemed to know what she was doing. If anything went wrong, then at least Mal was in the best overwatch position to pick off ‘Telcam.
“What have we got, Staff?” Osman asked over the radio. She was wearing just a black UNSCN flight suit and light armor, no helmet, possibly trying to look less confrontational to a jumpy hinge-head. To her credit, she rolled up her sleeves and helped Devereaux hitch the trailer of crates to the Warthog. “See them yet?”
“One Elite in gold armor, plus sidekick and a couple of Brutes. Plasma rifles only. Nothing else on infrared. No idea how many more there might be in the dropship. But even I can slot them at this distance.”
“He’s kept his word, then,�
� Osman said, sounding surprised. “Phillips, I’ll drive. Corporal, you’re top cover.”
Vaz settled behind the gun and hung on as Osman bounced the Hog over every dip and boulder. The heavy trailer didn’t help its handling at all. At three hundred meters, with a bit of help from his visor’s optics, Vaz could see ‘Telcam’s face. Bastard. Well, at least he didn’t have to smile at the thing.
Osman brought the Warthog to a bumpy halt thirty meters from the welcoming committee and glanced over her shoulder at Vaz. “Give him a bit more latitude than you usually would before blowing his head off.”
Vaz hadn’t quite worked out the line between Osman’s humor and her sarcasm yet. It mattered. “How much more, ma’am? Seriously.”
“Whatever happens, let him get away with the weapons.” She was definitely serious now. “That’s what matters. Stoke the fire. You hear that, Staff?”
Mal sounded a little reluctant on the radio, but the captain had spoken. “Understood, ma’am.”
Phillips didn’t say a word. Maybe he was used to taking risks with Elites now, but the meaning was still clear: even if the hinge-head gutted Phillips—and her—then Vaz and Mal had to hold fire, or at least not slot all the Elites.
That was a lot to ask of him, and even more to ask of a civvie.
Phillips volunteered. Look at him. He loves it. But even so …
Osman climbed out of the Warthog and started walking slowly toward ‘Telcam, but the Elites appeared to be on an intercept heading anyway. She stopped. Vaz tilted the gun slowly, making his target clear, just to give the hinge-heads something to think about. When he checked Mal’s icon he found he was looking at the feed from the 99-D’s optics. Mal had the crosshairs steady on ‘Telcam’s head.
“He wouldn’t dare.” Mal’s voice was just a breath in Vaz’s earpiece. “He’s not in a rush to meet his gods.”
‘Telcam stalked over to the Warthog with his bagman in tow and wandered around the back to the trailer. He didn’t seem to take the slightest notice of Vaz, but at least Osman had the grace not to offer a handshake. Vaz pivoted the gun slowly so that it was facing the trailer. He couldn’t turn his back on ‘Telcam. The last time he’d been this close to anything in Covenant uniform, it had almost severed his jaw and only a quick-thinking combat medic had stopped him from choking on his own blood.
“I suppose you’ll want to check out the consignment,” Osman said. “Rifles, assorted grenades, and antipersonnel mines.”
‘Telcam tilted his head back and forth as he surveyed the crates. Then he gestured and his sidekick ripped the lid off one of the crates like paper.
He reached in and pulled out a plasma rifle. Vaz held his breath as ‘Telcam spent far too long examining it. Could he spot the tag? Vaz had grown up believing that the Covenant was technologically invincible. They weren’t, or at least ‘Telcam wasn’t. He either didn’t know or didn’t care, just like Naomi had said.
“You’re most generous, Captain.” It was hard to tell if ‘Telcam was sneering or not. “And most frugal of you to retrieve Sangheili weapons. I have adherents in many keeps, and more join us every day.”
“If you’re asking if there’s more to come, there is,” Osman said. “If there’s anything specific, I’ll see what else I can do.”
‘Telcam looked down his snout at her. “You cannot procure warships for me.”
“Yes, I realize that lending you a carrier would be embarrassing for both of us.”
“I shall distribute the arms, then, and see how much progress we make.”
“I’ll be around.”
“Yet we see no ship, Captain.”
“Nor will you. This is still hostile space in too many ways.”
Phillips seemed to be listening intently, but then Vaz realized from the man’s shifting focus that he was actually concentrating on his audio channel. He was getting the intercepted voice traffic from the Elites. Had he heard something that worried him? Vaz glanced at Mal’s icon to check he still had a shot on ‘Telcam. He did. Vaz leaned back casually and made sure the Warthog’s gun was at just the right angle to take out the Elite’s bagman.
Just in case.
Osman suddenly got a dawning realization look on her face. “Do you really need a ship?”
“Probably not,” ‘Telcam said. “The initial target is the Arbiter, seeing as he’s foolish enough to be visiting each state to put his case for peace. Once I kill him, then any fighting will be keep by keep. Not the kind of battles fought by capital ships. Unless an entire colony world decides to stand by him.”
Osman just gave him a nod. But Vaz could see the cogs grinding behind her eyes. There was no such thing as a careless word from her, and ‘Telcam didn’t seem the kind to announce his plans just to be sociable.
“Very well, have your people transfer these crates, then.” Osman obviously didn’t want him anywhere near Port Stanley, and they needed the trailer back. High-tech wars often foundered on small, dull detail. “I’ll have more for you in a week.”
She was drip-feeding him. Vaz thought of Naomi going all zen about knowing how much fuel to pour on a fire. A couple of Brutes emerged from the Elite dropship and began moving the crates, lumbering back and forth until the trailer was cleared. It felt like a shady drugs deal in a back alley. ‘Telcam gave Osman a polite bow of the head and loped back to his ship.
Osman waited for it to take off before she moved a muscle.
“So he’s waiting to see if I’m going to warn the Arbiter,” she said. “Fine.”
“Correct.” Phillips climbed back into the Warthog and nearly brained himself on the gun. “The chatter from the fighters was all about what your actual game plan was.”
“Ah well, he’ll get his proof, so no harm done,” she said. “And I’ll find out where the arms actually end up. Win-win. Okay, let’s bang out of here.”
“Want me to drive, ma’am?” Vaz asked. “I’m used to Hogs.”
Osman almost smiled. She climbed into the gun seat. “Okay. If it makes you feel safer.”
Vaz started the engine. He wasn’t taking any notice of Mal’s HUD feed now, so he expected to be back in the dropship and off this rock in a few minutes. But then rapid movement in the icon caught his peripheral vision and he stopped to check it out.
“Jesus Christ,” Mal said. “Where the hell did he come from?”
“Mal?” Vaz could see the jerking, rolling viewpoint of someone running down a steep slope, and then the horizon bounced everywhere for a few moments before the cam corrected for movement. Mal was running. “What is it, Mal?”
“Contact. Human. Wait one.”
“What is it?” Osman asked. The pivot on the gun made a grinding noise. She was getting ready to fire. “What’s he spotted?”
Vaz slammed his foot down and the Warthog shot off. “He’s seen a human.”
“Can’t be. The Covenant glassed this place years ago.”
Phillips hung on to the dashboard with both hands as Vaz raced for the escarpment. When the Warthog came around the edge of the slope and Vaz got a clear view of the plain beyond, he saw Mal jogging toward a heap of rags among the boulders and scrubby vegetation that had somehow found the will to grow again in the fissures.
Then the rags stood up and became a man.
“Oh, great,” Osman said wearily. “That’s all we need.”
Vaz wasn’t sure how to take that. He let Mal reach the guy first, just in case the sight of a Warthog bearing down on him made him panic, and came to a halt a few meters away.
The man was ragged and emaciated—about fifty, straggly gray hair and beard, clutching a wood ax—but he looked pretty alert.
“I saw the ships.” He had a strong accent, and he sounded stunned. “I saw the dropship. I didn’t think the Navy gave a damn about us. What’s the Covenant doing back here? What are you doing here?”
“The fighting’s stopped.” Mal tried to check him over. “Are you alone, mate? Have you been here all the time?”
“S
ince they glassed the place. I’m the only one left. But what’s going on? What’s the Covenant doing here?”
Vaz looked at Osman. This wasn’t convenient at all. It was written all over her face. They really didn’t need a passenger, least of all one who’d seen things he couldn’t explain. Vaz had the feeling that a lone witness didn’t have much of a life expectancy under the circumstances.
Mal took off his helmet and caught Vaz’s eye. They’d served together so long that there was a kind of telepathy at moments like this. Something had to be said.
Vaz steered Osman away discreetly and they stood with their backs to Mal. “We can’t leave him here, ma’am,” Vaz whispered. Dead or alive. “Let’s take him back and drop him off at the next bus stop.”
She looked as if she was in two minds about it. Vaz reminded himself that she was still ONI, and he hardly knew her, even if his instinct told him she was okay. Parangosky would have just shot the guy and moved on, he decided. It would have saved a lot of trouble. But Osman seemed to be weighing something up.
And Phillips had that rabbit-in-the-headlights look again. He’d never make a poker player.
“You’re right,” Osman said at last, lips hardly moving. “But we’ll have to lock him up. I don’t want a civvie loose on board, least of all on this mission. Quarantine him. Whatever excuse to stop him blabbing when we hand him on.”
She turned and nodded at Mal, all reluctance. He nodded back, one thumb raised, and led the guy to the Warthog.
“We’ll take you to the nearest UNSC base, mate,” Mal said. “No luggage, I assume. What’s your name?”
“Muir,” he said. “Tom Muir. Are you evacuating me?”
Vaz gave him a hand up. “That’s the idea.”
“Then you’re seven damn years too late,” Muir said. “Where were you bastards when we really needed you?”
“You’re welcome,” said Vaz.
BEKAN KEEP, MDAMA, SANGHELIOS.
Halo: Glasslands Page 12
