Halo: Glasslands

by Traviss, Karen

Osman could have relied on burst transmissions via the Bacchante node to stay in touch with Spenser, but it was time to assess how easily she could infiltrate the colony and maybe do a few discreet checks to see if any more tagged weapons had found their way there.

  And Spenser had asked. He wasn’t the asking kind.

  Port Stanley dropped out of slipspace a couple of hours from Venezia and took up station at a hundred thousand kilometers. Venezia might have had good tracking systems for a backwater colony, but a stealth corvette was still far beyond its detection capabilities. They wouldn’t know she was there until it was too late, or maybe never, depending on what Osman decided to do if the colony pissed her off again.

  CINCONI. That’ll be me before too long. Damn, all this is my decision now, isn’t it? Welcome to ONI command.

  “Kilo-Three-Nine, this is Port Stanley.” BB established a link with Spenser while checking on Phillips and projecting the stored feed from Ontom onto a bulkhead screen. “There, I feel better for getting all my bits back together again. Phillips looks like he’s having fun.”

  Osman, one ear on the radio, tried to make sense of the Phillips-view of Sanghelios. She’d review the footage later, but she seemed to have lost a day of his activities in slipspace and he was now bouncing around a huge tower that gave him a thirty-kilometer view in all directions. Maybe he liked the spectacular scenery, but maybe he’d also absorbed all those tips on how to make the most of surveillance and his occasional excited comments under his breath to BB were all part of the show. Osman decided not to distract him. She could see he’d never be satisfied with a quiet life in academia now.

  Got him. Let’s hope it’s a long career.

  “Port Stanley, this is Kilo-Three-Nine.” Spenser sounded chirpy for a change. “I’ve put the kettle on. Want some coordinates?”

  VENEZIA: THIRTY KILOMETERS OUTSIDE NEW TYNE.

  It was dress-down Friday as far as Mal was concerned. He held out his arms and stood in front of Devereaux in the crew bay of the dropship, waiting for an opinion.

  “Do I look like an ODST on his day off?” he asked. “Because I’m not removing any more body armor.”

  Vaz squeezed through the hatch and inspected him as well. Devereaux cocked her head on one side.

  “It’s not your color,” she said, tugging at the sleeve of the battered jacket. “But you’ve got the failed militia look down to a T. Half of them are wearing warry-looking stuff like that.”

  With a day’s stubble, Vaz looked like a gangland enforcer. It was mainly his expression, but the scar helped a lot.

  “You’ll do.” He leaned forward and straightened the back of Mal’s collar. “Can you see this, Naomi?”

  Her voice drifted over the intercom. “I still say you need me down there.”

  “You’re a two-meter blonde, and then some,” Mal said. “It’ll take more than a scruffy pair of pants to disguise that in town.”

  Spartans were great assets, but they weren’t made for plainclothes work. But Mal had never worked undercover before either, and neither had Vaz, so there was a certain amount of anxiety about how out of place they’d look.

  “They used to say that a good SAS man could speak twenty languages while disguised as a bottle of Guinness,” Vaz said. “And don’t ask me what Guinness was, Devereaux. I think it was beer.”

  “I love your little history lessons.” She took a carbine out of the locker. There was now a handwritten sign on the bulkhead that said UNSC TART-CART. “They’re always so incomplete. Now if you’ll excuse me, gents, I’m going to do my nails while you’re gone.”

  She loaded the carbine and went back into the cockpit. Tart-Cart, as she’d named the dropship, was hidden in a deep gorge lined with pines, and even if nobody was going to stroll by casually this was still Venezia. The risks were high. But Devereaux could look after herself.

  Mal and Vaz sat in the shadow of the port wing, staring down the river toward New Tyne. Spenser had said he’d be approaching from that direction and would appreciate not being shot at.

  “Remind me, is he supposed to know now that we’re arming hinge-heads or not?” Mal asked.

  Vaz patted the canvas kitbag on his lap, full of odd bits of kit that Spenser needed. “He has to, or we can’t get him to check for tagged weapons.”

  “Hope we don’t run into our Kig-Yar fans.”

  “It’s a big galaxy. And we all look the same to them.”

  “Yeah.” The sound of a vehicle engine wafted in and out on the breeze. Mal pressed his earpiece. “Dev, can you see what that is?”

  There was a few seconds’ pause. “Looks like Spenser’s pickup on the scan,” she said. “Wait one … yes, here he comes.”

  Mal still had his rifle ready just in case. It was easier dealing with the Covenant, because everything that wasn’t human had been out to kill him and probably still was. In the colonies, though, the enemy looked, spoke, and thought just like he did. They even carried the same weapons.

  A wispy plume of dust marked the pickup’s progress. Then its dull red roof broke the line of the bushes and it bounced over a few boulders to come to a halt in the cover of some trees. It was a very old civilian variant of the Warthog, heavily patched and modified. Spenser climbed down from the front seat and beckoned.

  “Well, don’t you two look the part,” Spenser said as they clambered in. He looked Vaz over. “And you, Ivan—no getting into fights with the local Kig-Yar, hear? We can’t afford to draw attention.”

  “I’ll be good,” Vaz murmured.

  Mal checked out the vehicle pass taped to the windshield, surprised that Venezia had rules and regulations, but he supposed that even a bunch of terrorist scumbags had to keep a town running smoothly. The name said AMBERLEY, MIKE and the next line said SITE CONTRACTOR.

  “I’m an electrician,” Spenser said. “Great cover. You should see my brand-new criminal record.”

  “You’ve been telling fibs to these good people.”

  “Not entirely.” Spenser aimed the Warthog at the road, trundling over rocks and logs to drop a meter onto the smooth black surface. It wasn’t a backwater road at all, but a proper highway. “I can do basic electrical stuff. Real repairs. The bit about my being anxious to avoid contact with the CAA et al. because I skipped town with some cash from the defense forces—that’s mainly embroidery.”

  “They check your references?”

  “Of course. This is organized crime, not anarchic crime. Although we’ve got some of them, too.”

  Mal noted the use of we and put it down to the spookish requirement to fit in. New Tyne loomed ahead of them, looking like a smaller-scale, low-rise version of Sydney, only in a much better state of repair. Why had he expected it to look like a shanty out of the GlobeWar doomsday movies that Vaz insisted on watching over and over again? These tossers had a thriving business, they hadn’t had a visit from the Covenant, and they’d been here a very long time. No wonder they had a proper infrastructure.

  They were a couple of kilometers out of town now. A vehicle passed them heading the other way with a Kig-Yar driving. He didn’t even glance at them.

  “Very cosmopolitan,” Vaz said.

  “You’ve had my last sitrep, yes?”

  “No, we’re a little behind with the paperwork. We’ve been busy.”

  “Ah, yes, you busted Halsey. We’re going to need an awfully big carpet to sweep her under.”

  Mal’s natural reaction would have been to ask Spenser if he’d heard about Infinity and mutter about the injustice of Halsey just being whisked away instead of being shoved out the airlock. But then he remembered that he didn’t know what Spenser needed to know, what he needed not to know, and what he actually knew. It all went beyond opsec into a world where Mal never knew which word or syllable would be the fatal one. It was starting to permeate everything he said.

  But that’s the idea, right?

  Vaz, who’d been slouching on the backseat with his hands deep in his pockets, came to life and leaned forw
ard to prod Mal in the shoulder.

  “Look at that,” he said. “A Scythe.”

  New Tyne’s skyline didn’t just have a couple of modest skyscrapers and a fancy spire. To the west, perched on one of the slopes, it had a gun battery. No, it had four nestled among the trees: two were recognizably M-71s, but the other two were Covenant kit, one of them a T-38. That was what they’d used to take a pop at Monte Cassino.

  “You really haven’t read my sitrep thoroughly, have you?” Spenser said. “This place is like a bazaar. They’ve got every conceivable kind of hardware you can imagine, and more comes in every day. We’ve got a Kig-Yar enclave here, Brutes, Grunts, every damn thing, and even I haven’t worked out whose side each is on yet. It’s Dissident Central.”

  “This is a joke, right?”

  “I wish. You know when Earth-based terrorists used to all hang out together, and arm and train one another? Well, here we go again. It won’t be long before some chancer shows up with a Sangheili capital ship and hires it out for glassing runs.”

  Mal turned slowly in his seat and gave Vaz a look, but he had his head down, keeping an eye on a small scanner. Mal had no idea where he could take this conversation and where it would shift from exchanging intel to talking out of turn. He’d go back and talk to Osman about that so that he had better ground rules next time out.

  “You know what we’re here for, don’t you, Mike?” he asked.

  “I know what I’m here for,” Spenser said, not taking his eyes off the road. They were in pretty busy traffic now, crossing a bridge with toll booths. It was so normal. “And that’s to head these bastards off at the pass. I realize you’ve got other bastards on your list.”

  “Okay, so we both know what we’re talking about.”

  “I think so. And if we manage to kill both bastards with one stone, that would be terrific.”

  Mel just nodded. On the right, to one side of a grocery store—normal, normal, normal—there was a long road where the buildings gradually thinned out and he could see a big, wire-fenced, forbidding place like a military installation.

  Spenser took one hand off the steering wheel and gestured toward it, eyes not leaving the road ahead for a second. The traffic was at a standstill. “That’s where I work at the moment. The Home Guard, you could call it. Handy, isn’t it?”

  What a way to spend your life. Always being someone else, always among the enemy, never among your mates. Mal could see how spook personalities got bent out of shape. I’ll settle for being a tourist in this game.

  Vaz grunted. Mal looked back at him again. His gaze was fixed on the tag scanner, a small palm-sized handset that could have passed for any kind of personal comms. Vaz caught Mal looking and held it out so that he could see it.

  A discreet green trace blipped rhythmically on the screen. Vaz angled the device this way and that, doing a good impersonation of casually checking his comms signal rather than what he was actually doing—picking up microtransponders embedded in ONI-supplied Sangheili weapons.

  “What setting have you got that on?” Mal murmured.

  “Short range.” Vaz turned very slowly and ran his gaze over the vehicles around them as if he was just bored with the traffic jam. “My bet’s on the truck.”

  “What is?” Spenser asked.

  “Just checking.” Mal couldn’t believe that an old spook like Spenser would be troubled by gun running. “Is there some armaments clearing house here?”

  “What, like Death Mart or something? Of course not. This place is porous in trade terms, shall we say, but they don’t exactly have an ordnance supermarket.”

  “Oh well. Maybe you can take us on a guided tour of the hot spots.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You just tracking stuff, or have you lost something important?”

  So he knew. Mal breathed again. “Tracking now.”

  “See, it’s always easier if we pool intel, but I understand.”

  Mal decided that Vaz’s strategy was probably the wisest: silence. He sat back and just took in the rest of the ride. Spenser’s Hog pickup blended into the workday traffic and as it wound its way through town, the sight of assorted ex-Covenant species going about their business started to become as routine as a mixed neighborhood anywhere on Earth.

  There was no guaranteeing that any of them had ever been loyal to the Covenant, of course, least of all the Kig-Yar. There were a lot of them here.

  “Okay, this is Chateau Spenser,” Spenser said, turning left down a ramp and into what looked like a derelict industrial estate. “I’ll bring you up to speed with what I’ve been monitoring since I got here. And stick the carbine under your jacket before you get out, will you? Neighbors.”

  He turned into the short concrete driveway of a single-story house that looked like every other one in the road. Mal glanced over his shoulder as he got out of the vehicle, but there were no lace curtains twitching. Inside, a long dimly lit passage led through to a back door with a single glass panel, with rooms to either side. Spenser led them into the kitchen.

  “Down here,” he said, opening the pantry door. “Long winters here, apparently. Everyone’s got a store cellar.”

  But not everyone had ONI’s latest surveillance kit stored where their pickles should have been. Spenser threw off his coat and motioned them to sit down.

  “I’ll get the coffee on,” he said. “You can amuse yourselves looking through these. They’re all congenitally paranoid about outsiders here, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been able to build up profiles pretty fast.” Spenser took out an old chip from his pocket, forced it into an adapter, and inserted it into his datapad. “I’ve been around a long time, so I’ve still got files from the colonial insurgency. Still a few old faces around, too. And some new ones. Look.” Pictures began scrolling across the small screen, some clearly from recent surveillance, others old mug shots. “Moritz … Lanto … damn, I remember shooting this jerk’s dad. I should have done that before the bastard bred. That’d be before your time, though.”

  Vaz took the pad, sat on the water-stained sofa, and began thumbing through the files. While Spenser rattled mugs and poured coffee, Mal leaned over the back of the sofa to see what kind of rogues’ gallery the agent had assembled. The names meant nothing to him: it really had been long before his time, mostly while he was in short pants. There was a whole world of hostility out here that he’d never really known about.

  So this was why they needed Spartans, was it?

  All the files had names on them, sometimes incomplete, but that seemed to be what Spenser was doing for the time being: observing, collating, working out who associated with whom and what that association was with off-planet activity.

  The Covenant was gone. These tossers could move around as they pleased now.

  “Yes, it’s a real models’ portfolio, isn’t it?” Spenser said, slapping the coffee down on an upturned crate. “Stunned you into silence with their beauty, obviously.”

  “We’re on receive,” Mal said. “Teach us, spook-master.”

  Spenser chuckled. “Okay, think of this bunch as divided into two species,” he said. “The career terrorist, who’s in it for the money, and the ideologue, who has a political mission.”

  He joined Mal leaning over Vaz. If there was anything Vaz hated, it was having someone reading over his shoulder, but he seemed oblivious right then. He didn’t even hunch his shoulders in protest. His gaze was glued to the datapad. He’d ground to a halt at one particular file.

  “Oh, yeah,” Spenser said. “Now, if you saw that guy on the bus, you’d move to another seat, wouldn’t you? He’s got nutter written all over him. The eyes don’t help. Boiled. Know what I mean?”

  “I’m guessing that he’s political, judging by the technical term nutter,” Mal said.

  Vaz didn’t seem to be paying attention to the conversation. Spenser leaned right over him and magnified the image, and still got no reaction.

  “This guy’s been ar
ound awhile. Just hates Earth. If the Sangheili hadn’t shot humans on sight, I swear he would have enlisted with the Arbiter. He’s definitely in the market for nukes, maybe as dirty bombs, maybe as ordnance, and he’s not going to be using them to rob banks.”

  “But he needs transport if he wants to pull a Mamore-type bombing on Earth.”

  “He’ll get it. The Kig-Yar are getting all kinds of craft from the Brutes in exchange for arms.” Spenser flicked the screen again. “Lots of hardware floating around postwar, nobody keeping tabs on it, and suddenly our terrorists are back with more firepower than they had during the Insurrection. Weird bastard, isn’t he?”

  The picture looked like it was cropped from a wedding snap or something, with the man in question in a relatively tidy jacket. Mal couldn’t work out from the fragment of shoulder to one side of him whether it was a bride or just a woman in a light dress, but it was a moment from a normal life. He was white-haired, maybe blond. No, Mal wouldn’t have started a casual conversation him. It was those eyes.

  “You still awake, Vaz?” Mal asked.

  Vaz didn’t move for a moment, and Mal dipped down to check he really was conscious. His eyes were shut. Then he opened them and stared at the pad for a while, not happy at all.

  “I know him,” Vaz said. “Or at least I know who he is.”

  “Shit, don’t tell me you owe him money.”

  Vaz held the pad up for Mal, not looking at it. “We know his daughter. Check the name.”

  Mal tilted his head. He didn’t know anyone by that name, least of all a woman. “Is she hot? Give me a clue.”

  Vaz turned around and even for a bloke who didn’t smile much at the best of times, he looked devastated. Mal decided to cut the jokes. Spenser just straightened up and watched in silence.

  “Sentzke,” Vaz said quietly. “The file says Staffan Sentzke. His daughter’s called Naomi.”

  ONTOM, SANGHELIOS: MARCH 2553.

  BB was still undecided whether Phillips was a brilliant actor or genuinely thrilled to be allowed to wander around the ruins of Ontom.