Last Light

by Troy Denning

  Linda’s voice sounded inside Fred’s helmet. “Lieutenant, I have a Third Squad runner here,” she said. “Private Hayes. He says they’ve found another body.”

  “Another one?” Fred did not bother to speak quietly or hide his irritation. They were on TEAMCOM, an encrypted tight-beam channel currently open only to Spartans . . . and to Wendell, of course. As Battalion AI, Wendell kept a small presence everywhere, residing in anything that had a gigabyte of memory to spare. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Afraid not,” Linda said. “Hayes says this one looks pretty fresh. And it’s at Bivouac Site Tango.”

  “What?” Bivouac Site Tango was deep in the caverns, a full day’s descent below the paved paths customarily used by tourists. A fresh body down that far would have to be a spelunker or a local guide deliberately challenging the UNSC’s no-access order. “Say again?”

  “Bivouac Site Tango.”

  Fred allowed himself the luxury of an unvoiced curse. Another body meant another day escorting Lopis and her team. And on a mission like this one, that was a problem. The 717th was here to nab an ancient Forerunner ancilla, one that could turn out to be the most sophisticated and powerful AI ever captured by the UNSC. It was the kind of operation that could make or break careers—especially that of the mission’s brash young commander, Murtag Nelson.

  Eighty military-standard days ago—on April 14, 2553, to be exact—Nelson had been a field analyst at an ONI listening post when a pirate in a Covenant battle cruiser glassed some Forerunner ruins on Shaps III. Following the bombardment, a strange pattern of transmissions had begun to emanate from the Montero Cave System on Gao, and Nelson had hypothesized that a Forerunner ancilla was responding to the attack. How he had persuaded his superiors of his theory, Fred could not even guess. But there could be little doubt he had. The chief of ONI herself, Admiral Margaret Parangosky, had given Nelson command of the 717th Xeno-Materials Exploitation Battalion, then attached Blue Team to the unit and tasked them with helping Nelson capture the ancilla.

  But the damn thing was slippery. As an AI, the ancilla could reside in any electronic device “smart” enough to host it. And it could “jump” between devices, which made trying to locate the thing akin to hunting a ghost. Worse yet, it was a couple of magnitudes smarter than any human AI—and about a thousand times smarter than Fred—so capturing it was far from certain. In fact, Blue Team and the 717th had been chasing the ancilla for a month now, and they had nothing to show for their efforts except the casualties inflicted by its complement of Sentinel drones.

  Fred had explained all that when Halal demanded an escort of Spartan-IIs, and he had taken pains to point out that every hour the squad spent on “security detail” was an hour the ancilla used against them. But Fred’s protests had been ignored. With political agitators already making noise about the “invasion” of Gao, FLEETCOM brass had been worried that some hard-liner would try to spark the second coming of the Insurrection by attacking the Gao investigators and pinning it on the 717th. And Fred couldn’t say he blamed them. That was how a lot of wars started—with some nutjob kicking a hornet’s nest at just the wrong moment.

  “Lieutenant?” Linda asked.

  “Sorry, just assessing,” Fred said. “What’s the sitrep at the new scene?”

  A short silence followed while Linda asked for the situation report. Fred could have switched channels and spoken to Hayes directly, but he preferred to keep his communications to the Spartans’ encrypted channel for now. There was too much coincidence in these murders, too much that served to pull the 717th off mission. Had Fred been in charge of the investigation, he wouldn’t be looking for a renegade Spartan or a full-on psycho. He would be on the hunt for some Gao radical trying to frame the Spartans and make the UNSC look bad . . . someone who wanted to pressure the local government into declaring a war it could not possibly win.

  But what did Fred know? He was just boots on the ground.

  After a moment, Linda said, “Hayes reports that Mark and the rest of the Spartan-IIIs are still working with the mapping team.”

  “Good,” Fred said. “What about the crime scene? Is that secure?”

  “Corporal Phaetus is there with Third Squad,” Linda answered. “It’s only ten klicks from here, but Hayes says a lot of the trip is belly-crawling and ear-scraping.”

  “Very well. Tell Private Hayes to await orders,” Fred said. Phaetus and his marines were seasoned recon scouts; they wouldn’t have any trouble securing the area. But it was hard to imagine Lopis squeezing through a series of passages even tighter than the crawlway in front of them. “Is there an easier approach to the kill site? One that can be accessed without crawling?”

  Linda consulted the runner, then said, “Only the usual route, through Whiskey Victor Seven-Seven.”

  Fred felt his jaw clench. That would be Entrance 77, located in Wendosa Village, about thirty kilometers across jungle roads from their current location beneath the Montero Vitality Clinic.

  “Sounds like we’ll be splitting up, then,” Kelly-087 said, joining the encrypted conversation. Fred’s unofficial second-in-command, Kelly was posted at the opposite end of the gallery from Linda, watching their back trail. “If you can get Lopis to limit the advance team to two people, Hayes and I should be able to get them to Tango in one piece.”

  “Affirmative, Kelly,” Fred said. “Thanks for—”

  “Negative,” Wendell interrupted. “You and the Spartans will carry on here, without informing Inspector Lopis or her team of the new body. Major Halal will accompany Private Hayes to the crime scene alone.”

  “Alone?” Fred asked. “Please clarify.”

  “You have your orders,” Wendell replied. “Clarification is unnecessary.”

  “It is necessary if you expect me to cooperate,” Fred said. “Blue Team reports to Commander Nelson, not to you or Major Halal.”

  Wendell remained silent nearly a half second, then said, “As you wish, Lieutenant. Major Halal needs access to the crime scene ahead of Inspector Lopis and her team.”

  Fred did not care for the explanation at all. “That’s a bad idea,” he said. “These GMoP people aren’t stupid. They’ll know if Major Halal tries to hide something.”

  Fred was surprised to hear the major join the conversation directly—no doubt patched in by Wendell. “I have no intention of tampering with evidence, Lieutenant. But I am here to make certain Inspector Lopis and her team don’t malign us unfairly.”

  Fred glanced back toward the main cavern and saw the major ambling past the vent area, pretending to work the tacpad strapped to his wrist as he spoke into its microphone. There were no Gaos within thirty feet of him.

  “To do that,” Halal continued, “I need to document the crime scene before the Ministry of Protection inspectors have an opportunity to plant false evidence. Does that meet with your approval, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir, yes, it does,” Fred said. A normal lieutenant would have been intimidated by Halal’s tone, but the day a Spartan let himself be cowed by a key-tapper was the day that Spartan needed to turn in his Mjolnir armor. “Thanks for asking.”

  Halal stopped and looked in Fred’s direction. “I didn’t know Spartans came equipped with a sense of humor. Does that cost extra?”

  “No, sir,” Fred said. “It’s more of an operational bug.”

  “Then let’s hope it’s the only one you have,” Halal said. “Now, you will do as requested. Yes?”

  “Affirmative,” Fred said. “What about the rest of the crime scene tours?”

  “The special inspector is obviously someone who prefers to draw her own conclusions,” Halal said. “But I gave her an encrypted datapad with a copy of my full report and current notes. I believe she left it on the Weasel. Anything else?”

  “No, sir. That covers it,” Fred said. “Linda, before Hayes leaves with the major, make sure you get a map of their route.”

  Linda’s status light flashed green on Fred’s HUD. He turned back t
o the passage, where Veta Lopis’s people had finished zipping the corpse into its body bag and were now carefully hauling it toward the entrance. Given the tight quarters, all Fred could see of the operation were the grimy soles and backside of the trace evidence specialist.

  Still standing next to Fred, Lopis turned and looked back into the main cavern. “Where is Major Halal going?”

  “We’ve been down here a long time, ma’am,” Fred said. “He probably needs to use the restroom.”

  “Does he always consult you first?” Lopis asked. “I saw you looking back toward him. It seemed like you were in communication.”

  “This cavern is considered a conflict zone,” Fred said. “And Major Halal was unfamiliar with the protocol.”

  “You have a protocol for peeing in caves?” Lopis asked.

  “The UNSC has protocols for everything, ma’am,” Fred said. “How much longer are we going to be down here?”

  “Why? You have someplace else to be?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Fred said. “I have a mission to complete.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Classified, ma’am.” It had not escaped Fred’s notice that Lopis was peppering him with mostly innocuous questions, just to get him in the habit of answering. “With all due respect.”

  “Sorry,” Lopis said, looking completely unapologetic. “I wouldn’t want you to give away any UNSC secrets.”

  “I appreciate your concern, ma’am,” Fred said. “Now, about that time estimate?”

  “It depends on the victim.” Lopis looked back into the crawlway, which remained obscured by the trace evidence specialist’s rear end. She paused a moment, then said, “I hope you don’t mind another question, Spartan, but it’s pretty clear you couldn’t fit inside that little passage—at least not in your armor. So, if something were to happen, how exactly would you protect my people?”

  “I probably couldn’t,” Fred admitted. “But if something were to happen, you can be sure I wouldn’t let it happen to anyone else.”

  Lopis raised her brow. “So this something . . . it’s that dangerous?”

  Fred hesitated, realizing that he had just walked into a verbal ambush. He couldn’t admit that he was protecting Lopis and her team from Forerunner Sentinels without telling her about the ancilla that controlled them, and any mention of either Forerunners or the ancilla was strictly prohibited under directive Foxtrot Tango Angel 7012. According to the mission briefing, the people of Gao—like most humans—knew just enough about the Forerunners to understand that the Covenant’s worship of them had been a driving force behind the war on humanity. But few civilians understood just how advanced the Forerunners had been, how miraculous and powerful their technology really was, and the Office of Naval Intelligence was determined to keep it that way—at least until the UNSC had cornered the market on Forerunner artifacts.

  “Come now, Lieutenant,” Lopis pressed. “You wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t something dangerous to deal with. If there’s any chance it could be who we’re after—”

  “Then this would officially be a military matter,” Fred said, “and you wouldn’t be here at all.”

  “And you expect me to just accept that?”

  “I don’t have any expectations about what you accept or don’t accept, ma’am,” Fred said. “I’m simply stating the situation. Anything I’m here to protect you from doesn’t kill with close-range brute force. That’s all I can tell you. Don’t ask again.”

  Lopis narrowed her eyes. “Or what . . . Fred?”

  “Or you’ll be wasting your time.” Fred liked her nerve. She was about half his height and a third his mass even without armor, with high cheekbones and large, dark eyes that made her look more like a fashion model than a homicide investigator. And yet here she was, trying to intimidate a Spartan. “Ma’am.”

  “My time is my own to waste, Fred,” Lopis said. Interesting that she was now referring to him by his first name, and not Spartan. “And, until Commander Nelson says otherwise, so is yours. Are we clear?”

  “Clear enough.” Fred glanced back toward the primary crime scene, where two pale figures in hooded coveralls were crossing the cavern floor in a grid search. “Does that mean I should have someone prepare a defensible bivouac position?”

  Lopis studied the evidence search for a moment, then shook her head. “No. They should be finished in a couple of hours.”

  “They?” Fred asked. “You aren’t staying?”

  “My medical examiner will want to start on this body as soon as possible, and I want to see how Commander Nelson is coming along with our facilities. I have a feeling we’re going to need a good-size morgue.”

  “Very well.” Fred was just relieved that it would not be necessary to think up another explanation for Halal’s absence. “The Tunnel Weasel can return us to the lift.”

  “You don’t need to come,” Lopis said. “I’m sure the Weasel driver can find the way on his own.”

  “I’m not worried about you losing your way,” Fred said. “FLEETCOM would have my armor if I let someone take out the GMoP lead investigator.”

  Lopis’s eyes flashed with anger. “I can take care of myself, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m sure you can, against threats you understand,” Fred said. When Lopis’s expression showed no sign of softening, he added, “Look at it this way, Inspector. On the way back, you’ll have plenty of time to rule me out as a suspect.”

  “What makes you think you’re a suspect?” Lopis asked.

  “The assignment briefing,” Fred replied. “The first thing Major Halal said was ‘everyone will be a suspect.’ ”

  This drew a wry grin from Lopis. “Okay, but no dodging questions. I ask, you give an honest answer. Deal?”

  “Affirmative,” Fred said. “And you don’t even have to advise me of my rights.”

  “This is Gao, Fred. You have no rights.” Lopis looked toward the darkness at the far end of the gallery, where Linda stood watching for the enemy. “Let’s start with Major Halal. Where did he go?”

  “I’m under orders not to reveal that, ma’am.” Fred dipped his helmet toward her. “And that is an honest answer.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the third car had been unhitched from the Tunnel Weasel and left behind so the investigative team would have access to its equipment while the tram was away. The bagged body was riding alone in the second car, and Veta and Fred were riding separately on the tractor unit’s two passenger benches, Fred keeping watch while Veta studied Halal’s report on the military datapad he had left for her.

  The major’s work was good, if preliminary. He had created a timeline of confirmed deaths, including who had discovered the bodies and when the victims had been found, last seen alive, and expected to return. He had carefully noted each victim’s injuries, highlighting those that suggested a pattern. And he had started a table of suspects, with columns for means, motive, and opportunity. It was basic stuff, but the foundation of any good murder investigation.

  Atop the list of suspects was UNKNOWN GAO RADICAL(S). Veta thought the motive listed—apply political pressure—was probably sound, but the means seemed unlikely. Because the victims had suffered tremendous physical trauma, Halal had entered INDUSTRIAL EXOSKELETON? PNEUMATIC TOOLS? Veta couldn’t rule out either possibility until she inspected the access routes to the murder scenes, but it seemed a bit far-fetched to think anyone could sneak such heavy equipment into the cavern without being noticed or leaving an obvious trail of impression evidence.

  Next on Halal’s list was UNKNOWN UNSC PERSONNEL. The entries were similar to those for an unknown Gao radical, except the motive was listed as possible psychological problems, with a note to have Wendell check the battalion’s personnel files. Veta suspected a soldier might have access to a weapon or piece of equipment capable of crushing femurs and disjoining limbs, but again there would be the problem of sneaking it into the cavern unnoticed—and common marines were seldom granted the amount of privacy it would
have taken to stalk and kill so many victims in less than two weeks. It would bear checking into, but Veta would need an additional reason to make this a high priority.

  Halal’s most detailed notes were for the SPARTAN-IIS: FRED-104, LINDA-058, and KELLY-087. Clearly, the major felt—as Veta did—that with their Mjolnir power-armor, the three Spartan-IIs had the most convenient means to commit the murders. But he had asked Wendell to cross-reference each of their known locations with the timeline of the killings, and while there was quite a bit of play in some of the estimated times of death, it was clear that no single Spartan-II had the opportunity to commit every murder. They had all been accounted for at the time of at least two deaths.

  The last item read simply REDACTED. Opportunity and means were both listed as question marks, and motive read DIVERSION?

  Veta reached over the back of her seat and showed the datapad to Fred, placing a finger beneath the redacted entry. “Can you tell me what that would be, Lieutenant?”

  “Certainly, ma’am,” Fred replied. “Classified.”

  Veta scowled. “That answer is starting to get old, Fred.”

  “My apologies, Inspector,” Fred said. “I’ll try to think of a more entertaining way to say it.”

  Veta sighed in frustration. “Not necessary,” she said. “But whatever this redacted thing is—”

  “We could designate it ‘Target Alpha,’ ” Fred suggested. “That way we can be clear what we aren’t talking about.”

  “Fine,” Veta said. “What is Target Alpha?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “What would Target Alpha gain by causing a diversion?”

  “You’d have to ask Target Alpha,” Fred said. “Or Major Halal. He’s the one who made the note.”

  “But this Target Alpha, redacted, whatever it is, could be responsible for these killings?”

  “Major Halal seems to think it’s a possibility.” Fred paused, clearly thinking it over, then said, “And I can’t say for sure that it isn’t.”