Last Light

by Troy Denning

  “Commander Nelson, if you have a few moments, there are a few things I need to bring to your attention.” A young ONI captain in a pressed khaki BDU, Vartan Gysirian was a blond, squarely built man who looked out of uniform unless he was wearing a communications headset and carrying a datapad. “The protestors around Wendosa spent the night testing Charlie Company’s motion sensors, and—”

  “Thinking!” Murtag snapped. Terrified that the intrusion would cost him the insight working its way to the surface of his mind, he pointed Gysirian toward an overstuffed chair on the far side of the room. “Sit.”

  Gysirian stood his ground. “My apologies, Commander, but you really should—”

  “Sit now, Captain,” Murtag ordered. “And be quiet. Be very quiet.”

  Gysirian’s ivory complexion grew even paler, then he pressed a finger to his headset’s earbud and retreated to the chair.

  Murtag exhaled three times, trying to clear his mind, then turned his attention back to the holograph. “Wendell, give me a top-down view.”

  The holograph tipped toward Murtag, presenting a wide ring of densely snarled passages. Since the Gaos had long since mapped the cave system near the surface, the only blank area was a circle in the middle, where the terrain fell below mapping level. Still, even the local guides had never been able to find any entrances from the interior of the blank area, and that seemed odd.

  Murtag had contemplated this mystery area before and remarked that it made the cave system look like a bird’s nest. But he realized now that the analogy had been misleading him. Had the system truly resembled a nest, there would have been a floor to it, an area at the bottom of the map where the cave passages turned inward. Instead, the blank area seemed to extend downward forever.

  The tickle in the back of his mind began to grow stronger.

  “Very good, Wendell,” he said. “Now, overlay a transparent image of the surface terrain—an actual reconnaissance photo, if you have one that covers the area.”

  “Of course I have one.” Wendell’s voice issued from one of the anteroom’s ceiling speakers. “The operations people insisted on a complete set.”

  An image of the jungle appeared on top of the cave maps. For the most part, it all looked the same—a mottled green blanket laced with gray rivers and yellow gravel roads, flecked here and there by the red-roofed blemishes of a village or minor spa. But in the center of the image, directly over the blank area, sat a circular, cliff-walled basin. According to the map, the locals called it the Well of Echoes.

  The tickle in the back of Murtag’s mind swelled into a full vibration.

  Recalling that the Well of Echoes was only five kilometers from the Montero Vitality Center, Murtag realized it might actually be visible from his current location on the main building’s topmost floor. He leaped off the couch, then began to circle the anteroom and peer out through the glass walls. Down in the Vitality Center’s well-tended courtyards, a trio of ground crews were bustling about a stubby-winged Pelican and a pair of ungainly Falcons, no doubt preparing for the morning patrol.

  Murtag was more interested in a pillow of fog hanging about five kilometers distant. It had been there every morning since the battalion’s arrival, hovering above the Well of Echoes until the day grew warm enough to dispel it, and he had failed to understand its significance. The fog was forming as hot, humid air rose out of the basin into the cool evening atmosphere above the jungle.

  Murtag turned back toward the holographic map and stared into the unmapped circle. “It’s acting like a chimney.”

  “A chimney?” Wendell asked. “I’m afraid you’re not making sense, Commander.”

  Murtag pointed at the circle. “We’ve been looking at this wrong. Give me the side view again.”

  The holograph reoriented itself, presenting a panel of multicolored lines so twisted and snarled that Murtag could not see into the interior of the image. He began to circle the image until he finally found the angle he wanted, a wedge of emptiness flanked by two panels of extensively mapped caverns—one directly beneath the Montero Vitality Center, and one thirty kilometers distant, beneath the village of Wendosa.

  Murtag stepped back to consider the holograph from afar—and felt a thrill flutter through his stomach. When viewed as a whole, the cave system was shaped like a vase with a narrow base and a broad rim, all surrounding a hollow inner core.

  “Wendell, remove all the passages larger than two meters by two meters.”

  About a third of the passages vanished, leaving behind a network of meandering conduits that snaked more or less upward at a gentle slope.

  “There!” Murtag gasped. “I have it!”

  Gysirian rose and came immediately to Murtag’s side. “Sir, if you’ve finished thinking, we have an urgent situation in—”

  “Two minutes!” Murtag snapped. “There is nothing that can’t wait two minutes. Is that clear?”

  “But sir—”

  “It’s a cooling array, Captain Gysirian,” Murtag said, deliberately talking over him. “Do you realize how important that is?”

  “A cooling array, sir?” Gysirian stared at the holograph in bewilderment—or perhaps it was frustration. Murtag had never been good at reading facial expressions. “Is that really something we need to discuss right now?”

  “I think so.” Murtag was so excited now that he chose to overlook the fact that Gysirian had disobeyed his order to remain seated. He began to trace individual routes from the bottom of the map toward the top. “Look at how all of these small passages wind back and forth, but continue to rise at a steady angle. They’re vents, designed to give hot air time to cool as it rises.”

  It was Wendell who objected. “I don’t see that at all, Commander. There’s no evidence to support your theory.”

  “No?” Murtag asked. “Then reverse the filter. Show me only the passages that are consistently larger than two meters by two meters.”

  The holograph flickered as though Wendell were having trouble processing the filter request, then a much less tangled map appeared—one that showed a network of passages meandering upward in a vaguely spiral pattern, more or less evenly spaced, but at varying degrees of steepness and often dead-ending at an underground lake.

  “Okay,” Gysirian said. “Those are service corridors. Can we discuss the—”

  “That’s a premature conclusion,” Wendell objected. “Our teams have mapped only twenty-one-point-two percent of the cave system, so any confirmation is quite—”

  “Wait, Wendell,” Murtag ordered. “How do you know?”

  “Know what, Commander?”

  “That we’ve mapped twenty-one-point-two percent,” Murtag replied. “That’s a very specific figure for a cave system that even the locals admit is ninety percent unexplored. So how can you know that we’ve even mapped that much of it?”

  Again, the holograph flickered, and Wendell took more than a second to reply. “It’s a projection,” the AI said. “Based on a statistical analysis of what we’ve already mapped.”

  “Interesting,” Murtag said. Had Wendell not been an AI, he might have suspected him of fabricating the answer. “We’ll have to discuss your methodology later. But for now, we need to recall the Spartans. I think we can finally give them a solid objective.”

  Gysirian’s expression grew troubled. “Sir, I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  Murtag frowned. “They’re Spartans,” he said. “Just send a runner down. They’ll find him.”

  “Commander, finding them isn’t the problem,” Gysirian said. “We already know where the Spartans are—at least four of them.”

  “And?” Murtag demanded. “Spit it out, Captain.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, sir. Spartans 087, 058, B091, and B292 all returned to Wendosa fifteen minutes ago. They were trying to deliver the Crime Scene India victim to a Pelican transport when they were attacked.”

  “Attacked by whom?” Murtag’s gut knotted. If he lost four Spartans to a bunch
of protestors, there wouldn’t even be a court-martial. Admiral Parangosky would just have him disappeared. “How bad is it?”

  “We don’t know, sir,” Gysirian said. “The attack is ongoing.”

  “Ongoing?!” Murtag boomed. “And you’re just telling me about it now?”

  “Sir, I’ve been trying to tell you about it for . . . it doesn’t matter,” Gysirian said. “I have your attention on the matter.”

  “And you’re saying that a mob of Gaos has kept Charlie Company and four Spartans engaged for a quarter of an hour?”

  “Negative,” Gysirian said. “The hostiles are about twelve hundred meters from Wendosa, using beam rifles, mortars, and even a few small missiles to pound Wendosa. They took out the transport Pelican and a lot of support personnel with their first wave of attacks. Our snipers are reporting a combined enemy force of Jiralhanae, Kig-Yar, and humans.”

  “So we’re being attacked by a force of ex-Covenant?” Murtag asked, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “It’s too early to be certain,” Gysirian said. “But that is the way it’s looking. It’s why I’ve been trying to get your attention, sir.”

  Murtag began to feel hollow inside. The war with the Covenant had been over for months, but he didn’t doubt what he was hearing. This part of the galaxy was rife with ex-Covenant factions who were still determined to take the fight to the UNSC, and they were finding far too many human allies among the former rebels who dreamed of another Insurrection. The 717th had enough strength to hold its own against any force small enough to have gotten that close to it undetected, but if there were Jiralhanae involved, it was going to cost a lot of lives—and he had little doubt where Admiral Parangosky would lay the blame.

  Remembering the aircraft he had seen preparing to launch, Murtag stepped back to the anteroom’s glass wall and looked down into the courtyard. The ground crews were already moving away from the Pelican and the two Falcons, and through the cockpit canopies, he could see the pilots completing their preflight checks. The three craft would reach Wendosa in less than ten minutes.

  “What about force strength?” Murtag’s mind was finally shifting into military mode. He didn’t have personal responsibility for combat operations, but there were a lot of logistical details that he would be expected to oversee—which was why, he supposed, Gysirian had been so determined to interrupt his breakthrough moment. “And enemy disposition?”

  “Strength unknown at this point,” Gysirian said. “But it may be fairly small. They seem happy to stand off and attack from the jungle, and that’s not really Jiralhanae style.”

  “Well, that’s something.” Murtag began to hope that the attack would not be quite the disaster for his career that he had at first feared. Of course, if he recovered the ancilla, Parangosky would forgive him anything—even losing a Spartan or two. “Let’s bring all support units to a combat footing and stand ready to support the fighting companies.” A shrill whine rose from the courtyard as the Pelican pilot activated his auxiliary power unit and the Falcons whirled up their VTOL turbines. It was impossible to tell what the three craft might be carrying in their holds, but judging by the ANVIL II missile pods mounted beneath the Pelican’s wings, their first sortie would be an attack run rather than a troop drop.

  Gysirian mumbled something into his headset, then said, “Sir, Major Wingate is preparing to launch a ground support mission. He wanted you to be informed.”

  “Of course.” Murtag nodded. Wingate was his military commander, overseeing all aspects of combat and security while the battalion was on Gao. Parangosky’s orders had made it clear that Murtag was not to question his decisions, and so far the major had made a point of not giving Murtag the chance. “Tell the major we’re counting on him. I won’t interrupt him now, but we’ll meet shortly to assess the situation.”

  As Gysirian relayed the message, the Pelican and Falcons were already lifting off. They immediately spun toward Wendosa—then seemed to hang there frozen as a flurry of ground-to-air missiles came streaking out of the jungle. In the next instant, the hulls of all three craft began to spray white tongues of flame.

  Murtag remained at the window, watching in speechless horror as the Pelican exploded in midair, spraying shrapnel and burning fuel across a third of the Vitality Center’s compound. He began to feel as though he were not quite awake, as though his breakthrough regarding the Well of Echoes and the attack on Wendosa and the missiles streaking out of the jungle had all been part of a terrible anxiety dream, that he would wake up at any moment and find himself lying in a pool of sweat-soaked sheets.

  But he didn’t awaken, and Murtag was still at the window two seconds later when the first Falcon dropped like a rock, crashing into the Staff Housing Complex and demolishing the dormitory where the Gao investigative team had established its morgue. The second Falcon shrugged off the attack and, smoke pouring from its side door, swung toward the source of the assault. Its chin gun began to spray cannon fire over the heads of the protestors cowering outside the main gate, then the pilot adjusted its aim and began to rip the jungle down.

  Murtag was still standing at the wall, trying to comprehend the catastrophe he had just witnessed, when pieces of glass began to rain down from above.

  “Sniper!” Gysirian yelled.

  Of course. When one was in a combat zone and objects began to burst apart for no apparent reason, it was almost always a sniper. Murtag was just having trouble accepting that he was actually in a combat zone—that not only was his battalion under attack, but he was under attack.

  Murtag turned to dive to the floor, but he was a half second too slow. Gysirian hit him broadside, covering his body and driving him to the floor.

  “Commander, get—”

  That was as far as Gysirian made it before his blood began to pour out over Murtag.

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  * * *

  1930 hours, July 4, 2553 (military calendar)

  Crime Scene India, 504 Meters belowground,

  Montero Cavern System

  Campos Wilderness District, Planet Gao, Cordoba System

  Fred could not see much from the rear of the line, just a halo of light reflecting off the stone around Veta Lopis’s backside as she crawled up the cramped passage ahead of him. Strapped across her shoulders were the telescoping support rails of the emergency evacuation litter in which Olivia rode. The forward end of the litter was strapped to Ash’s back, just above his hips, and occasionally, Fred caught a glimpse of Ash’s helmet as it scraped the passage ceiling. But most of the time, all he saw in front of him was Lopis’s muddy butt. He tried to be a gentleman about it, but there weren’t a lot of other places he could look.

  The Huragok was floating up the passage somewhere ahead of Ash—or at least Fred hoped it was. The thing had long ago severed its leash and started to drift around on its own, but it seemed to be sticking close and keeping a watchful eye on Olivia. Fred hoped that would continue, because he did not look forward to explaining to Margaret Parangosky how he had let a new kind of Huragok wander off.

  Mark was supposed to be on point, but Ash had lost sight of him, and that made Fred nervous. Mark had taken his last Smoother sixteen hours earlier, and he had been growing agitated and contentious for the last hour. The type of Smoother the Gammas of Blue Team were using on this operation were the most common and versatile of several different options; they lasted about twelve hours, then began a steady decrease in effectiveness. In theory, it would be another half day or so before the young Spartan began to suffer fits of temper and physical outbursts. But stress and fatigue could accelerate the unraveling process, and—after an exhausting twelve-hour climb up from the Forerunner base—Fred’s squad had just spent another four hours crawling through the maze of waist-high passages.

  With any luck, they would reach Crime Scene India soon. There Fred expected to rendezvous with the small support squad that should have remained behind
when Kelly, Linda, and the rest of the protection team left to escort the GMoP crime techs back up to Wendosa. Fred would have liked to pause there to grab a few hours of rest, but with all three Gammas bereft of Smoothers, it was out of the question. The squad would down a few rations, then start the twelve-hour climb out. If Lopis held up as well as she had so far, they would be able to cut the trip down to eight. If they could do that, Mark would probably still be rational when they reached the surface.

  The halo of reflected light surrounding Lopis’s butt suddenly dimmed, and the line came to a halt as Ash stopped moving. Fred pressed his helmet to the cavern wall and peered forward. The passage seemed to end about five meters ahead, where Ash’s lamp beam swelled into a diffuse cone and vanished into the darkness of a huge chamber.

  “I think we’re there,” Ash said, speaking over TEAMCOM. “I can see the breakdown pile where India Victim was found.”

  “What about Mark?” Fred would have preferred to be at the front of the line looking for himself. But with his powered Mjolnir armor, he had been the logical choice to drag Halal and Hayes along, and it would have been poor tactics to obstruct the passage by putting a pair of corpses in the middle of the line. “Any sign of him?”

  Ash remained silent for a moment, then said, “Nothing on the motion tracker.” His lamp beam turned and dropped toward the cave floor. “But I have fresh tracks heading off at ten o’clock. They look like Mark’s, and he was moving fast.”

  Fred cursed under his breath. It seemed impossible that Mark had already unraveled into a full paranoid state. But alien environments multiplied other stress factors—and by any definition that counted, the Montero cave system was an alien environment.

  “What about a support squad?” Fred asked.

  “Not that I can see.”

  “No surprise there,” Lopis said, also speaking over TEAMCOM. “We’re how long overdue? More than a day?”