Last Light

by Troy Denning

  Finally, Veta shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But—”

  “There is one thing you should know before you make up your mind, Inspector.”

  “My other option is a bullet?”

  The admiral looked hurt. “We’re a bit more original than that.” She pointed across the cabin toward the Gammas, then said, “Actually, it’s about those three Spartans.”

  “What about them?” It was Fred who asked this, and there was more than a touch of protectiveness in his tone. “They’re on my team. And they’re fine Spartans. The best.”

  “They’re also KIA,” Osman said. She craned her neck to look past Veta toward Fred. “I’m afraid it happened on this mission. You can decide how, Lieutenant.”

  “What?” Ash burst out. “No way that’s happening!”

  Olivia was a bit more restrained. “Oh, man,” she said. “What did we do?”

  “It’s the Smoother problem.” Osman’s voice was matter-of-fact, completely devoid of apology or sympathy. “If it ever went public, it could destroy the whole Spartan branch. So they’ve decided to disappear you.”

  Every faceplate in the passenger cabin was turned toward Osman, and Lucy’s hand had gone to the hilt of her combat knife. Veta decided that Osman was either a lot braver than she looked—or a hell of a lot dumber.

  Of course, it was Fred who finally asked the question on every Spartan’s mind. “Who decided?”

  “You know who. You have a problem with it, you can take it up with her.” Osman turned back to the Gammas. “I’m sorry, but it scared too many people when you ran out of Smoothers. If something like that went bad again and things took a turn for the worse, there would be investigations until the Forerunners return.”

  “So you’re going to terminate them?” It was Tom who demanded this, speaking from his seat next to Lucy at the far end of the cabin. “That’s some thanks.”

  “Relax, will you?” Osman raised her palms to calm everyone down. “Once the Gammas hear what I have in mind, they might even like being dead.”

  “Right,” Mark said. “You can join us, you know.”

  “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible.” Osman looked almost regretful. “I’m not qualified.”

  “Are . . . we?” Lucy asked. She didn’t speak much, and when she did, her words tended to be slow and considered. “You are not sending them out—”

  “Without some experience on the team,” Tom finished. He tipped his helmet so that he was looking down the row toward the Gammas. “No offense, guys.”

  “None taken,” Ash said. “They’d never ship us out alone, anyway.”

  “Not at your age,” Osman confirmed. She looked over at Lucy. “But it can’t be you, either.”

  “So it has to be Lopis?” Fred asked.

  “That’s right,” Osman said. “If the inspector declines our generous offer, Ash, Olivia, and Mark will be joining the rest of Gamma Company.”

  “In doing what?” Tom demanded.

  “Something that will mitigate the risk, but—to be honest—we’re still working out the details,” Osman replied. “And when we do, you won’t be told. Are we clear on that?”

  Tom’s helmet snapped to dead center. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “And I will say it sucks, ma’am.”

  Veta couldn’t help smiling, and she did not bother hiding her grin when she looked over at Osman again. “There are more Gammas?” she asked. “How many?”

  Osman met Veta’s smile with one of her own. “That information would be classified,” she said. “And since you’re not—”

  “Okay,” Veta said, raising a hand. “I’m curious. What’s your plan?”

  Osman’s face brightened. “So you’re in?”

  “I’m listening,” Veta corrected. “And stop trying to run games on me, Ms. Classified. You’re really not very good at it.”

  “I’ve gotten you this far, haven’t I?” A sly gleam came to Osman’s eye, then she grew more solemn. “Basically, we need a team of Ferrets.”

  “Ferrets? What’s that?” Veta asked.

  “Investigators with teeth,” Osman said. “You slip into a hole, find the rats, and—”

  “And kill them?” Mark asked.

  Osman frowned. “Sometimes,” she said. “But I was going to say, ‘fix the problem.’ Sometimes, that might mean rescuing people instead of killing them. Can you live with that, Spartan?”

  Mark nodded. “Sure,” he said. “What do you think I am?”

  “And you want me to do what, exactly?” Veta asked. “Play the den mother?”

  “Hell, no,” Osman said. “Well . . . maybe sometimes. But what we really want you to do is lead the team and run the investigations.”

  Veta looked at the three Gammas sitting across from her. “And they would be my team?”

  Osman nodded. “All you have to do is say yes.” She glanced toward Tom, then added in a sarcastic tone, “Assuming that meets with your approval, of course.”

  Tom turned to Lucy and crooked a thumb, the Spartan signal for a question mark. Lucy remained silent for moment, then gave a single curt nod.

  Osman feigned a sigh of relief, then turned back to Veta. “Well, now that we have the Betas’ permission, do we have a deal?”

  Veta paused, though there really wasn’t much for her to consider. There was nothing left for her on Gao. All she really had in her life right now was her skill as an investigator and the affection she had come to feel for these three Gammas. Viewed in that light, accepting Osman’s offer made a lot of sense. Of course, it meant Veta would be working for the great oppressor—the same entity that she had grown up hating—but even that view had changed. Over the last few days, she had learned that tyrants came in all sizes. Things were much more gray than she had realized, especially when it came to the UNSC. Ultimately, she was being offered her old GMoP job, but on a much grander scale. Her jurisdiction wouldn’t be limited to criminal activity on Gao—it would span the entirety of human-occupied space. Osman was offering Veta a new way to serve her fellow man—a chance to stand with Fred and the Gammas and all of the millions of other brave men and women who had stepped up to defend humanity.

  How could she say no?

  Without looking away from the Gammas, Veta asked, “Fred, it’s your team being raided. What do you think?”

  “I think Blue Team will miss them,” Fred said. “But nothing I say will change that . . . and the four of you would make a damn good Ferret team.”

  “We’re going to make a great Ferret team,” Olivia said, as though the matter had already been decided. “Right, Ash?”

  “Yeah. Right. I’m in.”

  “What about you, Mark?” Veta asked. Of the three Gammas, Mark was the one she was most worried about—the one who seemed most troubled, and the one she had openly suspected of being a serial killer. If he couldn’t look past her honest mistake, her Ferret team wouldn’t last long enough to earn its name. “Do you think this can work?”

  Mark tipped his helmet and looked away, then said, “Sure, Mom. Why not?”

  Epilogue

  * * *

  * * *

  1558 hours, July 6, 2553 (military calendar)

  Singing Grottos, Vermilion River Valley, Montero Jungle

  Campos Wilderness District, Planet Gao, Cordoba System

  Though he was still walking—barely, and with help—Castor would not be leaving the jungle alive. He knew this not by his trail of blood, nor by his infected wounds, nor even by the anguish that came from hobbling kilometer after kilometer on a shattered knee. He knew he was dying by the song he heard, an eerie wordless melody that seemed to echo through the lush foliage and drown out his own dark thoughts. It was the song of the Oracle, sent to comfort him in his final hour, to assure him that all who fail are not lost, that those who strive with pure hearts will attain the One Freedom as surely as those who win great victories.

  What else could it be?

  Castor stopped and took his arm from the shoul
ders of his loyal companion, Orsun. A mere handful of Castor’s followers had survived the slaughter near Wendosa, and Orsun was the only one who had made a point of searching for his Dokab after the UNSC troops had withdrawn from the valley of death.

  “Orsun, there is no honor in dying here with me.” Castor stood on his one good leg, swaying and struggling to speak. “Go on alone, or you will miss the rendezvous.”

  Orsun said nothing and pulled Castor’s arm back over his shoulder, then continued forward one slow step at a time. Orsun had not suffered any serious wounds during the fighting, but he had been supporting—and at times actually carrying—Castor for dozens of kilometers. And now a jungle fire was advancing up the valley behind them, sweeping in from the direction of a thermonuclear detonation less than an hour before.

  Castor was still astonished that the UNSC had done such a thing. Even for infidels, using a nuclear device to end a battle that had already run its course was an unbelievable atrocity—a depraved act of pointless retaliation.

  And it would be just as pointless for Castor to let his friend die with him. In fact, it had been selfish to let Orsun stay with him as long as he had. He reached up and slipped the water bladder off his shoulder.

  “Orsun, take this. As your Dokab—”

  Orsun stopped and raised a fist for silence, then pulled his Spiker from its mount and began to creep forward alone, toward a thicket of rustling ferns. Castor would have drawn his own Spiker, except his weapon hand was a mangled mass of flesh and bones, and he was so dizzy and weak that if he attempted to use his or her hand, he feared he would strike Orsun.

  Orsun stepped into a thicket of ferns, where the Oracle’s song seemed slightly louder, then snorted in amusement and lowered his weapon. “Come, Dokab,” he said. “See what has been calling to us.”

  “You heard it, too?”

  Orsun nodded. “I thought I was imagining it.” He pointed at the ground on the other side of the thicket. “But it was only this.”

  Castor hobbled up next to him and saw Orsun’s hand pointing at a hole in the ground no larger than a fist. A warm wind was billowing out of the cavity, stirring the ferns and filling the air with an eerie whistle.

  Castor chuckled. “And here I thought I was dying.”

  “And I thought I had gone mad.” Orsun let out a booming laugh. “But it was only a singing cave.”

  Castor began to laugh as well, a deep belly-shaking guffaw that rumbled through the jungle and set birds to squawking and amphibians to croaking. They stood like that for a few minutes, side by side and lost in a hysteria that was more relief than mirth, just elated to be with a friend for whatever life remained to them both. Only one thing was lacking to make Castor’s end a good one, and that was being able to repay Arlo Casille’s treachery before he died. But even a Dokab could not depart with every wish fulfilled.

  Finally, the smell of smoke reminded Castor of the danger they faced from the advancing jungle fire. He turned to point with his good arm up the valley toward the Road of Wonders, where a Keeper infiltrator was already waiting to sneak them off Gao. But before Castor could pass the water bladder to Orsun and tell him to proceed on his own, something small and green floated out of the jungle in front of them.

  “Dokab,” Orsun said. “Do you see—”

  “Yes. A Huragok,” Castor confirmed. “Like the one we saw with the infidels in Wendosa.”

  “The same one?” Orsun asked.

  “A good question,” Castor replied. “I will let you know when I learn how to ask.”

  The Huragok drifted over to Castor and began to run its tentacles over his injured hand. He watched in quiet bewilderment as it probed the immense hole where his middle two fingers once connected to his palm—then he gasped aloud as the tentacles suddenly sank beneath the flesh and began to dig around inside the wound. An instant later, he felt several bones pop into place, and the fiery throbbing suddenly began to recede.

  Castor looked up at the Huragok. “What are you?”

  The Huragok responded with a series of blinks, then withdrew its tentacles from his hand and gently floated into his chest, pressing against Castor until he dropped into a seated position. It quickly floated down the length of Castor’s leg, undoing the splint bindings as it went, and sank its green tentacles into the bulbous red mass of his swollen knee.

  Watching in obvious horror, Orsun asked, “Dokab, are you—”

  “Have no worry, Orsun,” Castor replied, wincing but calm. “I believe it is mending me.”

  “But how can that be?” Orsun asked. “You are no machine.”

  “I don’t know.” Castor managed a laugh, then said, “Perhaps I am more of a machine than we realized.”

  Castor grunted as bone and cartilage began to heal inside his knee, then egg-shaped bubbles rose through the tentacles as the Huragok drew pus from the infected wound. It continued to work for another few minutes, and the pain began to subside. Soon Castor began to feel like he could bend his knee again.

  Then, suddenly, the Huragok withdrew its tentacles, wrapped two around Castor’s wrists, and pulled him to his feet.

  Javelins of pain shot through Castor’s entire body, but, to his amazement, he could put weight on the knee. The Huragok tipped its head-stalk, then floated three meters backward. Castor took the hint and stepped forward. When he did not fall on his face, he took another step.

  “It is a miracle,” Castor said. “I may be able to make the rendezvous in time, after all.”

  The Huragok blinked all six of its eyes in sequence, then turned and began to float away into the jungle.

  Orsun’s hand lashed out and caught it by the neck.

  “Orsun, stop!” Castor ordered. “What are you doing?”

  “Think, Dokab,” Orsun said. “This is a Huragok that heals injuries. Consider how rare this is, how valuable. We cannot leave it to the infidels.”

  Castor looked at the Huragok, which had—most likely—just saved his life. But, clearly, it did not intend to accompany the Jiralhanae. Its only wish now was to return to the jungle.

  “Let it go,” Castor commanded.

  Orsun frowned. “Are you mad? Surely, this Huragok is a gift from the Oracle!”

  “No. The gift is what it just did.” Castor reached over and pulled his friend’s hand from the Huragok’s neck. “Let it go, Orsun. It is not for us to decide the fate of angels.”

  Acknowledgments

  * * *

  * * *

  TROY DENNING

  Many people contributed to this book in ways large and small. I would like to thank them all, especially the following: my first reader, Andria Hayday, for her invaluable suggestions and story support; Jeff Grubb for the Halo heads-up; high school classmate and Cave Researcher Cyndi Mosch for making a caver out of a spelunker all those years ago; Ed Schlesinger for his enthusiasm, patience, and general editorial excellence; Jeremy Patenaude for being such a prompt and thorough Halo go-to guy, and for brainstorming the “Gamma Solution” with me; Tiffany O’Brien for the warm welcome to the Halo universe and keeping me in the loop on art and media; Kory Hubbell for the cover art—wow; Tom Pitoniak for the skillful copyediting; and everyone at 343 Industries and Gallery Books who made my first mission in the Halo universe such a blast.

  343 INDUSTRIES

  343 Industries would like to thank Scott Dell’Osso, Troy Denning, Kory Hubbell, Bonnie Ross-Ziegler, Ed Schlesinger, Rob Semsey, Matt Skelton, Phil Spencer, Kiki Wolfkill, Carla Woo, and Jennifer Yi.

  None of this would have been possible without the amazing efforts of the Halo Franchise Team, the Halo Consumer Products Team, Jeff Easterling, Scott Jobe, Tiffany O’Brien, Kenneth Peters, and Sparth, with special thanks to Jeremy Patenaude.

  About the Author

  * * *

  * * *

  Troy Denning is the New York Times bestselling author of thirty-five novels, including a dozen Star Wars novels, the Dark Sun Prism Pentad, and many bestselling Forgotten Realms novels. Last Light is
his first Halo novel. A former game designer and editor, he lives in western Wisconsin.

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