Halo: Glasslands

by Traviss, Karen

  And he still hadn’t managed to release the gem at the heart of the spheres yet. He expected better of himself.

  He was down to the third-level sphere and becoming hopeful of success when Buran stepped back from the knot of shipmasters and gave him his opening.

  “So you have a plan for this, do you?” Buran asked. “Getting into the shipyard will be the simple part of the operation. Removing Unflinching Resolve will be more of a challenge.”

  “Why? Who’s going to stop us? More to the point, why would they stop us?” A slow realization was dawning on Jul, that the Sangheili had become so used to the orderly world of command structures that Great Schism or not, the idea of deceiving their own kind seemed almost beyond them. It was another art the Sangheili needed to learn from humans. “I would suggest that we simply assemble a skeleton crew, go to your ship, and then fly her out of the shipyard.”

  “Just like that,” said Buran.

  “Apart from then finding a secure location to hide her, yes. Just like that.”

  Perhaps Buran was persuaded by the fact that Jul had been the shipmaster of a cruiser. In the complex hierarchy of the fleet, commanding a ship with greater firepower tended to give a warrior greater standing in the eyes of his comrades. It was also entirely possible that Buran and his two colleagues were, like so many others, suddenly cast adrift with neither a clear purpose nor the chain of command provided by the San’Shyuum. In a world devoid of ideas, the shipmaster with half a plan was emperor.

  Buran looked to his two comrades as if looking for agreement, and then did a little nod of acceptance. “Very well, I shall contact my most reliable crewmen, and we shall simply take the ship. I shall also pray that I don’t wake up one morning and find myself sitting on a nest and transformed into a Kig-Yar. Because this is how those little vermin operate.”

  “And they’re most successful at it, which should give us all heart,” Jul said. “Contact me through this temple when you’re ready to make a move. My keep may well be enough of a backwater to hide your frigate.”

  Forze hadn’t said a word. He simply stood there at Jul’s side, just as the other two shipmasters flanked Buran, and offered no opinion. Jul didn’t even know the names of Buran’s comrades, but then they hadn’t asked his name, either. It was a promising start. Perhaps, Jul thought, he could teach them to think like the enemy after all. He could teach them to abandon their morals.

  Sometimes the defining characteristics of a culture could be the same ones that proved to be its downfall. Humans prided themselves on their compassion and sense of fair play, despite copious evidence to the contrary, so much so that their very word for it was humane. Sangheili measured themselves by their prowess on the battlefield, and in order to demonstrate that prowess, a warrior had to be seen to fight. Jul understood that reflex. But he also knew just how successful humans had been using the most underhand and dishonest tactics; not just bluff and feint, but the most complex and disgusting deceptions. They were prepared to forfeit the lives of their own people to achieve it, too.

  I think I know where I draw the line, but until I reach that point—I will employ all necessary means.

  Buran and his companions moved away. Forze cornered Jul. “I think we should return home now,” he said quietly. “Theirs is the next move. And I think you’ll have some explaining to do to Raia. I’m still working up sufficient courage to mention the matter to my wife.”

  Jul looked up at the ceiling of the crypt. He’d actually seen very few Forerunner structures, and never from the inside. The quality of the stonework was exquisite. The joints of every ancient block were as precise and perfect as the most modern architecture on Sanghelios. It gave him a sudden urge to explore the building.

  “I want to see the rest of the temple,” he said.

  “Please don’t tell me that you’ve had an attack of piety.”

  “No.” Jul looked around to see if he could find ‘Telcam. “I’m simply curious. Gods or not, we have to at least be respectful of the Forerunners and perhaps discover what became of them.”

  If the Forerunners had been gods, then they would have shown themselves in the Covenant’s greatest hour of need. Gods were supposed to do that kind of thing. But the idea that they were an ancient civilization that had vanished almost without trace except for a few remnants of their technology now intrigued Jul far more than the idea of magical divinity. He headed for ‘Telcam, aware that engaging an enthusiast on his favorite topic was a very good way to build trust.

  “This is how obsessions start,” Forze warned, but Jul ignored him and intercepted the monk.

  “May I see the rest of the temple?” Jul asked. “I’ve never seen an intact artifact before. We only have ruins in my state. But then you already know that.”

  ‘Telcam gestured forward with a sweep of his arm and ushered Jul and Forze through a honeycomb of interconnecting passages, all exquisitely faced with stone blocks so carefully laid that it was impossible to put a blade between them. There were inlaid panels on the walls, filled with swirls and lines that Jul recognized as Forerunner symbols, thrown into sharp relief by the dimmed lights strung overhead. It didn’t look as if any maintenance had been carried out down here for centuries. Jul was intrigued by a side corridor that disappeared into darkness, and began to wander that way.

  ‘Telcam caught his arm. “That’s walled off—a dead end,” he said. “Whatever the Forerunners left down there, we weren’t destined to enter.”

  “Who else comes down here?”

  “Nobody,” ‘Telcam said. “Everyone forgot us generations ago. But we didn’t forget the gods.”

  That only intrigued Jul more, but he did as he was asked and walked on. One panel in particular took his fancy. It appeared to be a list. The symbols were laid out in horizontal rows at the center, with lines radiating from them to individual symbols around the edge of a cartouche. Jul put out his hand involuntarily but his thumbs brushed against a rigid shield like a matte glass screen. He hadn’t even seen it. It seemed to dissolve into the wall.

  ‘Telcam caught his shoulder. “The shield was placed there long before the San’Shyuum arrived,” he said. “The Servants of the day said that touching the symbols produced strange effects. That seemed like a sensible reason not to interfere with it.”

  Jul marveled at the odd blend of self-control and lack of curiosity. “What do you think it is?”

  “Looks like a control panel to me,” Forze muttered.

  “There are those who believe it’s a map,” ‘Telcam said. “Worlds that the gods visited and the locations of the holy rings.”

  Jul counted at least eleven separate rows of symbols. Holy Rings made the Halo Array sound so benign. Was that what this diagram was? He made a note of it.

  “The Forerunners were well traveled,” he said. If he’d been allowed the time to study the panel, he’d have been looking for six or more identical symbols and worrying about them, but he couldn’t begin to make sense of the map—if that was what it was. “And generous. But what do they really want from us?”

  “To wait patiently for their return,” ‘Telcam said. “To trust them.”

  Jul wondered how much trust he was willing to put in gods who would destroy a galaxy to save it. But that was another theological debate he didn’t plan to pursue.

  UNSC PORT STANLEY, 10,000 KILOMETERS OFF VENEZIA.

  If only it hadn’t been Venezia.

  If only.

  If Ariadne had gone down near any other planet, any other colony world, then it would have been just that—a tragic and avoidable loss of life caused by an unhappy conjunction of inadequate maintenance, a colonial bureaucracy mired in safety concerns, and sheer rotten bad luck.

  But it was Venezia, and Venezia had a history.

  Osman stood at the viewscreen, hands in her pockets, staring out into space in the direction of Ariadne’s drifting debris and tried to work out if what she wanted to do now was actually what needed doing.

  I know what Chi
ef Mendez would say. Stick it to the bastards. Make them pay.

  There was a whole generation of UNSC now who didn’t remember the colonial insurrection, and even Osman was too young to recall the detail of the war that shaped her life before the Covenant gave humanity a much bigger problem to worry about. But however bloody the war with the Covenant had been, it was colonial terrorism that shaped her fate. It was the real reason why her life and her parents’ lives had been wrecked by Catherine Halsey. The Spartan program had been Halsey’s personal plan to give the UNSC the upper hand in the insurrection. That fact tended to get forgotten these days.

  That’s the last thing I should be thinking about right now. All hands lost in Ariadne. And those bastards on Venezia could have made a difference, but they didn’t.

  Even when they don’t lift a finger, they’re still killing us.

  BB’s reflection glided into view and floated next to her. “Agent Spenser’s ready, Captain. Phillips has finished extracting every last drop of juice from his brain.”

  “Well, I’m glad he found something to pass the time.” Osman went back to her seat and tapped the console. She liked to see an on-off switch when it came to comms, just in case. “Port Stanley to Monte Cassino, how long do you plan to continue the search?”

  “We’re mapping the outer edge of the debris spread. That’ll take another hour.” Monte Cassino’s executive officer, Cerny, gave her the impression that he felt personally responsible for arriving too late and that he was now busy overcompensating. “We’re ready to transfer your personnel whenever you’re ready. Do you want us to send a shuttle?”

  “Negative, Monte Cassino. There’s not enough room to dock.” And the last thing I need is some matelot nosing around the hangar. “We’ll come to you.”

  There wasn’t a hope in hell that anyone had survived the explosion. Ariadne was only a small patrol vessel with a four-man shuttle. But Monte Cassino insisted on doing it by the book. Occasionally, crew had managed to survive catastrophic accidents when sealed compartments were blown clear and didn’t rupture. The Navy tended to cling to scraps of hope like that.

  Reality wasn’t on their side, though.

  “Monte Cassino to Port Stanley—Venezia’s getting a little grand and warning us that we’re encroaching on their territorial limits. Stand by.”

  Osman gestured to BB. Take us in closer. “What are they planning to do about it? Complain to the Colonial Authority? Too bad they blew up the local CAA bureau.”

  “I’ve reassured them that we have no intention of landing.”

  They need reassuring with a few warheads. “We’ll keep an ear on your channel.”

  Osman debated whether to break cover and pay a visit to whatever passed for an administration on Venezia. But it wasn’t any of her business, much as she wanted it to be, and she had to keep her mind on the main mission. The old problem had suddenly reared its head again: did UNSC turn a blind eye to whatever the colonies did, or did they exact some kind of vengeance and kick off the whole conflict again?

  She’d grown used to thinking of those sorts of policy decisions as being above her pay scale, but very soon they wouldn’t be.

  I’m supposed to be destabilizing Sanghelios. I’m not supposed to be opening up rifts between humans. But God Almighty, somebody needs to put Venezia in its box once and for all.

  She could hear Spenser walking down the passage onto the bridge, muttering with Phillips and Vaz. The word bastards carried a long way. It was all those sibilants.

  “I think this is where I came in,” Spenser said, holding his hand out to her for a final shake. “It’s been good seeing you again, Oz. I suppose the next time we meet, you’ll be convening an ONI star chamber and I’ll be the accused.”

  “Never.” Osman held on to his hand. Spenser might have been buried on Reynes for years at a time, but he still seemed to keep up to speed with the gossip. “Parangosky’s set on staying in post until she reaches her century.”

  “Just don’t get caught up in any Sangheili cross fire, that’s all. The lid’s going to come off that pretty soon.”

  She would have forced a smile if she hadn’t been flying into a cloud of pulverized ship. “Don’t worry, we’ll stand from under,” she said. “You know ONI. Nine lives, all of them deniable.”

  “I’m not going to ask what you’re shipping. But your noisy passenger might.”

  “Tell him we’re selling narcotics to the Unggoy. It’s an idea whose time has come.”

  She let go of his hand and he disappeared in the direction of the top hatch with Phillips, who seemed to be intent on wringing every last scrap of Sangheili cultural trivia out of him.

  Vaz hung back. “Are we getting involved in the Ariadne thing, ma’am?”

  “We can’t,” she said. “Much as I’d love to. That’s Hood’s problem now. He’s the one who’s supposed to be getting touchy-feely with the colonies. We’ll just hang around and see Monte Cassino safely away.”

  Vaz nodded, looking unconvinced, and walked off. For a moment she thought she might have offended him by referring to the colonies so dismissively, but he was from Earth, just like Mal, Devereaux, and Phillips. It hadn’t been a deliberate policy to pick a team of Earth boys. But it didn’t do any harm either.

  Naomi had been taken from a colony world, just like Osman herself. She wondered if Naomi could even remember where she came from. After years of having their past bleached away and replaced with an artificial destiny, it was hard for any Spartan to tell what was a genuine memory and what had been part of the brainwashing process.

  “Persuasion and acclimation—a lifelong training.” What a lovely euphemism. Was that what you called it, Halsey? There were times when Osman wished she’d never been given access to Halsey’s private journal, but she kept going back to the file and staring at the self-serving, self-deluding garbage, driven by that same stomach-churning cocktail of compulsion and revulsion that made humans stare at mangled corpses. Training? You bitch.

  Osman made a conscious effort to forget the journal and checked the security display. Anyone in the ship with a neural interface showed up as a transponder code on the deck plan. Naomi was still messing around in the engineering space where her armor was stored; Vaz and Mal showed up as two small dots moving back and forth around her, as if they were trying to give her a hand and she was telling them she could manage just fine on her own. Phillips had no implants, so Osman needed a little help from BB to locate him walking back to his cabin. The dropship was now on its way to rendezvous with Monte Cassino, and then they’d all be free of the embarrassing complication of passengers who had to be kept away from the incriminating cargo in the hangar.

  Phillips, to his credit, hadn’t been idle. He’d fed all the intercepted Sangheili comms through transcription so that Osman could physically read it while she was listening to something else. BB could have intercepted, recorded, translated, transcribed, and analyzed the whole lot in a matter of seconds, but he could also navigate and fight the ship, too, and she still preferred to do much of that herself. BB—in full control of Port Stanley—only needed humans to shake hands with dignitaries and handle the fiddly close-quarters combat. But he knew that they needed to feel more useful than that to make life worth living.

  She’d never had an AI like him before. He was more than an assistant. He was an intelligence officer in his own right, and he was also her bodyguard. They’d been teamed up for less than a month and she already found herself dreading the day when he wouldn’t be around any longer.

  Damn. That’s depressing. Got to stop that. I’ll be volunteering for a full AI neural interface next.

  Osman kept half her attention on the radio as she let the hours of transcript scroll in front of her on her main CIC screen. The ebb and flow of voice traffic had blended into a white noise of requests for checks as Monte Cassino spiraled slowly out from the center of the explosion, scanning for debris as she went and then working her way back in again. It was only when an abrupt and
unfamiliar voice broke into the circuit that her attention was dragged from the transcript and made to listen.

  “UNSC warship, this is Venezia TC. You are now in sovereign space. Suggest you withdraw.”

  It was like hearing archive material from fifty years ago. There was something oddly distressing about a human voice issuing a hostile challenge to a warship, and Osman could only listen. Venezia couldn’t detect Port Stanley and that was how it had to stay.

  “Venezia TC, this is Monte Cassino. We’re keeping you fully informed of our intended movement. You’re fully aware that we’re searching for possible survivors.”

  “Monte Cassino, unless you turn back we’ll open fire.”

  There was a brief pause, and then Commander Cerny’s tone changed from the flat calm of a few seconds earlier.

  “I suggest you don’t do that, Venezia. Because we will return fire.”

  “You were going to do that anyway. Venezia out.”

  She jerked forward in her seat. Venezia didn’t have the firepower to take out Monte Cassino, but Osman still had a pilot and a dropship out there. BB appeared instantly just above the console and shivered slightly.

  “I think it’s National Foolhardy Day,” he said. “I’ve alerted Devereaux and she’s standing off until this nonsense is over.”

  “Thanks, BB. Flash Monte Cassino discreetly and tell them we’re here for backup if they need us.”

  Port Stanley was close enough to Venezia now for Osman to see the planet and the faint point of light that was the warship. She watched from the viewscreen, waiting for Cerny’s voice over the radio saying that they’d completed the search and were pulling back, but about a minute later she caught a burst of static and the tail end of a warning.