by Troy Denning
“No worries,” Fred said. “I’m wearing three layers of armor. Those man-droppers in your clip would just flatten themselves against my chest.”
Lopis flashed an enigmatic smile. “You might be surprised.”
“By you, maybe. But not by your weapon.” The specs appeared on his HUD even before he finished speaking, and he began to read them off. “With a one-forty-grain armor-piercing round, the SAS-10 has an effective range of sixty-two meters. Even at five meters, the round’s velocity would only be three hundred and eighty-nine meters per second. You wouldn’t even scratch my outer shell.”
Lopis raised her brow. “Well, then . . . maybe I need a bigger pistol.” She moved her hand away from her sidearm, then asked, “Now, why are you over here contaminating my crime scene?”
“I’m not contaminating much,” Fred said. “You’re preparing to leave.”
“Nothing gets past you, does it?” Veta nodded. “Yeah, we’re about done here. Why? You have someplace else to be?”
“I’d like to hear your assessment of this killing,” Fred said, ignoring her jibe. “Did you notice anything different about it?”
“Like what?” Lopis asked, growing even more reserved. “It was no accident, if that’s what you’re asking. Cause of death was most likely extreme physical trauma, like the others.”
“But this scene isn’t the same as the others,” Fred said. “The other bodies were all found up in the tourist galleries. We’re down deep.”
“True.” Lopis was staring at Fred’s faceplate, watching him carefully. “But we still haven’t identified the victim. Could she be one of yours? Maybe she became separated from her unit?”
“She was wearing walking shoes, not combat boots.” Fred felt sure Lopis had already observed that for herself, so he suspected she was just trying to gauge his reaction to an unlikely suggestion. It was the same technique he would have used to establish a baseline pattern at the beginning of an interrogation. “And UNSC duty fatigues don’t normally come in floral prints.”
“So maybe she was off duty.”
“Down here? Inspector, I understand you have a job to do. But we both know that woman was no soldier, and we’re in a combat zone. Now, I’d appreciate a straight answer. What’s your take on the crime scene?”
Lopis studied him for a moment, then said, “You’re right, this scene is different. It’s a body dump.”
“And?”
“And, judging by all the boot tracks and bivouac sites in here, the killer wanted your people to find the body.”
“Why us?” Fred had his own suspicions, of course, but he wanted to see if Lopis offered another explanation—one that might explain why there had been no attack on his own men yet. “Any theories?”
Lopis thought for a moment, then turned back toward the breakdown pile. “What exactly are you looking for down here, Spartan?”
“That’s classified.”
“I thought we were in a combat zone,” Lopis said. “I thought you were asking for my help.”
“We are, and I am,” Fred said. “The mission, however, is still classified.”
That enigmatic smile crept across Lopis’s lips again, and it occurred to Fred that she had tricked him again. He had just confirmed that the battalion wasn’t simply exploring this area—it was, indeed, searching for something. Granted, that had probably been fairly obvious from the start. But now it was a confirmed fact.
“Careful, Inspector,” Fred said. “There are things you shouldn’t know.”
“Who says I know anything?” Lopis mocked. “But let’s say you are looking for something. You must be getting pretty close.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you’ve now provoked a reaction,” Lopis said. “The body dump could be meant as a warning or a distraction . . . but I think it’s a taunt. You’ve proved yourself worthy of notice. Now you’re being hunted. That’s what this corpse is telling us.”
“That’s a pretty specific message.” Fred didn’t know whether the ancilla was indeed trying to taunt him, but he certainly agreed with Lopis about his men being a target here. His instincts told him the same thing. “Did you find a note or something?”
“More like, ‘or something,’ ” Lopis said. “The killer thinks he’s smarter than we are—that’s almost universal with these guys. And he feels compelled to prove it, even if it’s only to himself.”
Fred started to tell her that the murderer was smarter than they were, then realized what that suggested—that the ancilla was the real killer. He took a single step back.
“Sorry, Inspector. But the—” Fred caught himself before he said ancilla, then continued, “the target I’m looking for can’t be your killer.”
“Really?” Lopis put one hand on her hip and waved the other around the gallery. “Look at where we are. Do you want to hear my take on all this? Either our suspect is whatever you’re down here looking for, or it’s someone from your own battalion. Probably a Spartan.”
“Or my target is using the real killer for cover.” Fred wasn’t sure he believed that, but the one thing he had been explicitly ordered not to reveal was the ancilla. He turned back toward the breakdown pile, where Cirilo and his partner were already zipping the new corpse into the body bag. “Can you be sure this victim was killed by the same person who dumped her?”
“I can’t,” Lopis admitted. The swiftness of her reply suggested she had already considered the possibility. “That’s something we won’t be able to confirm unless we find trace evidence suggesting a second subject handled the body. Until Dr. Rolan does the autopsy, I won’t even know the likelihood that she was killed by the same perpetrator as the others.”
“So, maybe my target came across the body somewhere closer to the surface—and then brought it down here for us to find.”
“Maybe.” Lopis scowled, then asked, “And how exactly do you think the target would do that?”
Fred began to have an uneasy feeling. “I’m not sure what you mean, Inspector.”
“It’s a simple question, Fred.” Lopis’s voice assumed a sharp, pressing edge. “How would your target get the body here? Would he—or they, or whatever it is—carry the body? Drag it? Haul it down in a cart?”
“I couldn’t say, ma’am.”
“No?” Lopis looked back toward the main part of the gallery. “Me neither, Fred. Because the only tracks we found down here were boot prints—prints with two kinds of tread: standard UNSC issue and Spartan issue.”
“Are you sure?” It was the only reply Fred could think of. “What about your own tracks?”
Lopis shook her head. “Not until after we began work,” she said. “After we send out the trace evidence spiders, tracks are the first thing we document. We use an alternate light source to scan and record the ground ahead of every step we take. And the really interesting part? There weren’t any tracks in the breakdown pile around the body, either. None.”
“And the body couldn’t have been dropped from the dome,” Fred said, anticipating Lopis’s next point. He glanced up into the darkness. “Not from that height. It didn’t take enough damage.”
“So you see my problem,” Lopis said. “How did the corpse get into the middle of the breakdown pile? Was it thrown? Was it teleported? Because we absolutely know that it was not carried, dragged, or dropped here.”
Fred sighed, wondering whether there was any detail Lopis failed to catch, then said, “It was probably floated.”
“By your target?”
Fred hesitated, knowing that an honest answer would confirm a link between his target and the Sentinels—and therefore, the Forerunners. But Nelson had suggested that the Gaos probably knew about the Forerunner link already, and it was growing clear that Lopis might actually prove useful in figuring out what the ancilla was up to—even if he couldn’t tell her exactly what the ancilla was.
“I don’t know whether my target would be able to move a body,” Fred said. “But the Sentinels would.”
“And these Sentinels—they would be the same Sentinels that can’t possibly be our prime suspect because they attack only with particle beams?”
“Affirmative,” Fred said. “They have a pair of utility arms with small manipulators at the ends. They could feasibly transport a corpse.”
Lopis, of course, kept pressing. “But not beat someone to death?”
“Not likely,” Fred said. “And even if they could, they wouldn’t bother—not when they have particle beams.”
“But they float?” Lopis asked. “Like jungaloons?”
“Close enough,” Fred said. Jungaloons, he knew, were clam-shaped gasbags that used a bell-shaped proboscis to suck flying insects out of Gao’s humid air. “But faster—much, much faster.”
“Then your target could have placed the body here?” Lopis asked. “Or had it placed here by a Sentinel?”
“Yes,” Fred said. “That makes the most sense.”
“Maybe for you,” Lopis said. “I still don’t see why a military target would taunt you like that. It seems counterproductive.”
Fred remained silent for a moment, trying to decide how much of his own theory to disclose. It seemed clear that Lopis knew more about his mission than she was admitting, which meant that anything he told her could reveal more than he intended. On the other hand, holding back details she had already guessed would only add to the mistrust between them—and with the ancilla out there laying traps, that was the kind of complication that would end up getting people killed.
Finally, Fred said, “I don’t think this crime scene is a taunt. I think it’s bait.”
“For what?”
“An ambush.”
Lopis’s frown of confusion lasted only an instant, then she said, “Lieutenant, we’ve been here for hours already. If that corpse were bait, surely we would have been attacked by now.”
“Not if the target is smarter than I am,” Fred said. “My countermeasures may have been too obvious.”
“Countermeasures?” Veta’s eyes lit with comprehension. “You mean, no gathering in groups larger than three? Taking meals and rest in sheltered positions? That’s not just standard UNSC protocol?”
“Afraid not,” Fred admitted. “And I do have my entire team posted in surrounding passages.”
“Since when?”
“Since I realized we were walking into a trap.”
“And you didn’t bother to tell us?”
“Sorry,” Fred said. “I was afraid you’d discourage the attack.”
“And that would have been a bad thing?” Lopis’s expression went from angry to surprised to resentful. “So you were using us as bait, too?”
“That might be the wrong way to look at it.”
“And what would be the right way to look at it?”
“That I’m trying to eliminate the threat under controlled circumstances,” Fred said. “That hitting the enemy here is better than getting hit on the way out.”
Lopis was silent for a moment, then the anger finally drained from her face. “Okay, I can see that.” Her voice assumed a demanding edge. “Anything else you should have told me?”
“Yes,” Fred said. “But, actually, it’s more of a request.”
“Let me guess,” Lopis said. “You’d like me to wander off alone to draw out your target?”
Fred paused, trying to decide whether the idea had merit—whether he would be able to protect her, whether the ancilla would send its Sentinels after a lone civilian.
Finally, he asked, “You’d do that?”
“Sure . . . I’d even yell for help.” Lopis’s expression hardened into a glare. “Right after you tell me what you’re looking for down here.”
Fred ran two fingers across his faceplate, signaling a smile. “Funny, ma’am,” he said. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to take our chances.”
Lopis shrugged. “Your choice,” she said. “So what’s your request?”
“I need you to slow things down,” Fred said. “Just look busy and buy us another few hours here.”
“We can always take breaks and do more evidence sweeps,” Lopis said. “But if the enemy hasn’t taken the bait by now—”
“It’s not to draw them out,” Fred said. “I need to send a team to recover Major Halal and Private Hayes, and I’d rather keep the enemy’s attention focused here while they’re gone.”
Lopis did not reply at once, and when she did, there was calculation in her eyes. “You think Halal’s dead?”
“And Hayes, too, I expect,” Fred said. “Otherwise, they would have been back by now. Their route was clearly mapped.”
“All right, I’ll tell Senola to keep busy here,” Lopis said. “Cirilo and I will accompany the recovery team.”
Fred made a chopping motion across his chest. “Negative,” he said. “The UNSC does not require your assistance retrieving—”
“I don’t particularly care what the UNSC requires, Lieutenant,” Lopis said. “If two men are dead, that’s a fresh crime scene—very fresh—and it’s my best chance to figure out who’s killing people around here.”
“Ma’am, with all due respect,” Fred said. “The route gets pretty tight along the way.”
“So?”
“So I’m not blind. I was watching you back at Crime Scene Charlie. You have a problem with confined spaces.”
“And you’re worried I’ll freeze up?” Lopis asked. “That you’ll have to drag me along by my hair or something?”
“I’d probably go for a wrist.”
“You’re a real comedian, Fred. But I can handle any crawlway that you can squeeze into wearing that armor of yours—and I’m not asking your permission.”
Fred considered her demand, weighing the possibility of having to pull her through a few cramped spots against the likelihood of her actually obeying an order to remain behind. All in all, it was probably safer to take her along than risk having her try to follow on her own.
At last, Fred nodded. “As you wish, Inspector,” he said. “Just remember—you asked for this.”
CHAPTER 7
* * *
* * *
1318 hours, July 3, 2553 (military calendar)
Unidentified passage, 406 Meters belowground,
Montero Cavern System
Campos Wilderness District, Planet Gao, Cordoba System
The recovery detail had been traveling for more than an hour, crawling through a maze of hot, gloomy passages, when Veta finally caught the scent of death. It wasn’t the sulfur-tinged reek of a bloating corpse or even the cloying rancidness of stage-three decomposition. It was a sour, metallic odor she recognized as congealed blood. And, mixed in with the mustiness of the cave, she caught a hint of something harsher and more caustic—scorched flesh, perhaps.
Veta stopped crawling and glanced back at Cirilo, who was about two meters behind. Like Veta herself, he was wearing UNSC combat gear, including a helmet with an integrated lamp and an equipment vest with an M7 submachine gun strapped across the chest. Their own equipment had been relegated to waterproof packs, which they were currently dragging through the mud behind them.
“We’re getting close,” Veta whispered. She was careful to point her helmet lamp away from his eyes. “You smell that?”
“Oh yeah,” Cirilo said. “A lot of blood this time. Almost makes you sorry for the poor bastards.”
Veta nodded. “Especially for Hayes,” she said. “If Halal hadn’t wanted to hold out on us, he’d probably be sitting on a patio at the Vitality Center by now.”
She craned her neck around a little bit more, shining her lamp past Cirilo down a slick-walled passage so long and perfectly round that it felt like she was crawling up the interior of some giant intestine. There was supposed to be a trio of Spartan-IIIs back there, providing a rear guard and stringing a comm line so the recovery detail could stay in touch with Crime Scene India. But the Spartans were keeping their distance, moving so quietly it was hard to believe they were actually still there.
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Veta felt Cirilo’s hand squeeze her calf.
“Hey, Veta?” he asked. “You doing okay?”
“I’m fine, Cee,” Veta said. She feigned a smile. “It’s just the light down here. It makes me look tired.”
Cirilo grinned. “You always look sharp to me, boss.” He jerked his thumb toward the limestone ceiling a half meter above their heads. “But crawling through this place . . . it makes my chest go tight.”
“I’m okay. Really.”
And so far, that was true. There had been a couple of narrow spots where it had felt like she had crawled into a grave and the walls had closed in around her. But with Cirilo staying close and a submachine gun across her torso, she had managed to remain calm, to remind herself that this was not the hidden cellar where a seventeen-year-old girl had learned that monsters were real. This was a hunting ground—Veta’s hunting ground—and she was not the one who needed to be afraid, now or ever again.
Veta turned forward, then continued to follow Fred up the passage. In his armor, the Spartan was too big to crawl on his hands and knees. Instead, he had to worm his way on his belly, an awkward process that Fred made look as effortless and natural as walking. Often, it was a struggle for Veta and Cirilo to keep pace—and they made a lot more noise doing it.
The scent of blood continued to grow stronger, and finally Fred signaled a halt by raising a clenched fist. Veta and Cirilo stopped instantly, then watched in silence as the Spartan disappeared into the darkness beyond their lamp beams. Fred did not activate his own lamp, no doubt relying on his imaging systems instead.
Cirilo came up close to Veta, a hand resting on her hip as he eased himself along the wall beside her. She didn’t mind the familiarity. He was the closest thing she had to a lover, a trusted friend and colleague who shared her passion for catching killers. With his black hair and slender features, he was certainly handsome enough. Under different circumstances? She might have responded to his steady flirtations. But even if Cirilo hadn’t been her subordinate, she wasn’t sure she could trust anyone that much anymore. She had lost that ability long ago in that cellar, when a monster had chained her to the wall and begun to feed on her pain and fear and humiliation.
