by Troy Denning
“Very good.” John raised his hand to salute, then said, “Colonel Crowther . . . with all due respect, sir, I’d like to make a request.”
“What is it?”
“Please stop calling me son,” John said. “I’ve been a soldier for so long I can’t even remember what my father looked like, but I’m pretty sure you aren’t him.”
Crowther’s eyes went wide—then he nodded. “Very well, Spartan—consider it done.” He raised a hand and returned John’s salute. “I think you’ve earned that much.”
CHAPTER 12
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* * *
Ninth Age of Reclamation
34th Cycle, 41 Units (Covenant Battle Calendar)
Bloodstar Flotilla, Intrusion Corvette Sacred Whisper
Orbital Approach, Third Moon, Planet Borodan, Kyril System
They looked like mulegs leaping from the head of a bald human, those dark specks rising from the surface of the pale moon the humans called Seoba. Silhouetted against the pink disk of the planet Borodan, they rose in singles and pairs and arced away, so tiny and swift that it was easy to think they were a trick of the eye. But after watching five of them vanish into nothingness in as many units, Tel ‘Szatulai knew what he was seeing.
Enemy vessels, departing the site of his rendezvous with the human traitors.
‘Szatulai remained in the forward observation blister, noting how his mandibles had begun to clench and the way his two hearts now pounded in counterpoint. Such responses were unworthy of a First Blade of the Silent Shadow, and he could not even say whether they rose from fear or anger. He would meditate on this failure later, riding the spine of the ship in his contemplation sphere. But for now, it was enough to perceive the reactions and give them their space. That would quell the power of his control-hungry emotions and leave him free to focus.
Which he now felt prepared to do.
Without looking away from the observation blister, ‘Szatulai rattled his mandibles to draw the crew’s attention, then spoke in a gentle tone. “Summon the shipmaster.”
The bridge of the Sacred Whisper quieted. ‘Szatulai heard his order repeated four times as it was passed back to the shipmaster; then a set of footsteps began to click up the deck toward his position. The gait was easy and confident, and ‘Szatulai was troubled by that. Given the failure of the sensor readers to report the five—now six—vessel launches that he had watched with his own eyes, the shipmaster should have been ashamed of his crew’s performance and fearful of the consequences.
Perhaps the fault lay with ‘Szatulai himself. A common—though incorrect—belief held that a member of the Silent Shadow would not kill a fellow Sangheili who had looked into his eyes. Thinking that the crew of his new flagship would perform better if they felt secure in his presence, ‘Szatulai had chosen to play to their superstition by not wearing his helmet aboard the Sacred Whisper. And now here was the shipmaster himself, approaching in complacence despite the shortcomings of his crew.
‘Szatulai hoped it had not been a mistake to put everyone on board at ease. He would meditate on that as well.
The shipmaster paused at the threshold of the observation blister and started a polite mandible-rattle to draw attention to his presence—then let out a hiss of surprise as a seventh speck rose and arced away from Seoba.
“What is that?”
‘Szatulai turned to face the shipmaster. “What does it look like, ‘Budyasee?”
“An enemy vessel.” A stocky, block-faced Sangheili with blunt-ended mandibles, Hulon ‘Budyasee was half-again ‘Szatulai’s sixty years and almost twice his girth. “But there has been no report from the readers.”
“It is good that you perceive the problem,” ‘Szatulai said. “I am not sure your second is ready to assume command.”
‘Budyasee’s eyes bulged, and he turned back toward the bridge. “Summon ‘Gusonee and ‘Terib—”
‘Szatulai silenced ‘Budyasee with a touch. “Will we learn more by bringing the readers to us, or by going to their station?”
“Going to their station,” ‘Budyasee replied. “If the problem is in their equipment, I will see it there.”
“Then let us proceed wisely,” ‘Szatulai said. “I am not some San’Shyuum minister who must be served before our cause.”
‘Budyasee’s mandibles parted in shock, though the way his head canted suggested he was not quite sure whether ‘Szatulai had meant to slur their San’Shyuum leaders or honor them. After a breath, he managed to close his mandibles and turn toward the rear of the bridge.
“As you prefer, Blademaster.”
The shipmaster led the way through a maze of control consoles and equipment stands to the back of the bridge, where a tactical hologram of Seoba’s side of the Borodan planetary system floated above a projection pad surrounded by ten data-collection lecterns. At each lectern stood a reader, his eyes focused on a crystal display screen filled with a melange of alphanumeric codes and vector symbols that they used to plot images on the hologram.
Behind the readers were the two obedientaries who oversaw the plotting operation. Normally they would be standing opposite one another, each supervising a team of five readers, but ‘Budyasee’s aborted summons had brought them together to discuss what kind of trouble they might have fallen into.
‘Budyasee went straight to the obedientaries and began questioning them about unreported vessels fleeing Seoba. ‘Szatulai circled the tactical hologram, occasionally peering over a reader’s shoulder at his display screen, but mostly pondering the thousands of images the hologram did contain.
Borodan itself was surrounded by a shell of orbital traffic—thousands of satellites, hundreds of vessels both military and civilian, dozens of manufacturing stations, and a handful of shipyards. A steady stream of cargo drones moved between the manufacturing stations and the two metal-heavy moons currently on the Whisper’s side of the planet, and several passenger ships were climbing out of its gravity well in preparation for transition to slipspace. But, aside from a shell of reconnaissance boats in ultra-high picket orbits and a few dozen large military vessels waiting in rapid-response geosynchronous orbits, ‘Szatulai saw no sign that the humans were preparing for battle. And he saw nothing moving toward Seoba.
That was to be expected—or at least hoped for. Even the Covenant’s best masking systems were only about 80 percent effective, so there was always the possibility of detection. But ‘Szatulai’s small flotilla of intrusion corvettes had emerged from slipspace well beyond detection range and engaged active camouflage long before approaching the picket orbits, so he saw no reason to believe the situation at Borodan was anything but what it appeared: a world aware that an attack by a superior force might be imminent, but choosing to believe it would not come.
Only the steady stream of vessels rising from Seoba—from the designated rendezvous site—gave him pause. It looked to ‘Szatulai as if they might be reacting to the approach of his flotilla—but they were not turning to engage. And neither were any of the military vessels in the rapid-response orbits above Borodan. It made no sense. Had the humans known about his flotilla, they would be sending a force to meet it.
He needed to know more—something—about the vessels fleeing Seoba. It was the only way to solve this riddle.
When he looked over the reader’s shoulder at the seventh data-collection lectern, ‘Szatulai finally found the display screen that showed Seoba. He could see several data codes creeping along the edge of the screen, where the moon’s bulk did not block the planet’s face, but there were no codes near Seoba itself. Indeed, the moon appeared empty, which was exactly what had been reported by the information harvesters in the Sacred Whisper’s eavesdropping cadre.
“Why is there no data for this moon?” ‘Szatulai asked.
The reader dropped his gaze in a gesture of submission, then replied, “There is data, Blademaster . . . a great deal.”
“Then why does your screen show nothing moving on the moon or away from it?”<
br />
“Because there is nothing to show,” the reader replied. “It has been deserted for a hundred human years, just as the harvesters reported.”
‘Szatulai heard ‘Budyasee hurrying over with the two obedientaries, and without looking away from the lectern, he raised a hand to stop them. Their presence would be intimidating, and in eagerness to please his superiors, the young reader would grow reluctant to speak unpleasant truths.
“Tell me about this data that shows nothing,” ‘Szatulai said. “Tell me how you know it is nothing.”
“As you command.” The reader touched the screen in two places. The moon grew indigo blue, though there was a notch on the horizon where it paled to merely deep blue. “The color shows the ambient temperature on the moon’s surface. The closer to black, the colder.”
‘Szatulai touched a finger to the notch. “And why is it paler there?”
“That is the ice quarry where we are bound,” the reader explained. “The paler hue indicates that it is a few units warmer.”
‘Szatulai sensed a knot of anger forming between his hearts. He took an instant to acknowledge it and rob it of power, then pointed at the tactical holograph in front of them.
“And why did you not think to plot this?”
“It would have been misleading.” The reader’s voice scratched with fear. “The readings suggest the month-old impact of a small comet or asteroid more than they do a vessel, and I found no wave radiation or magnetic readings that supported the possibility of even a small vessel. Ask Utu ‘Gusonee to confirm—”
‘Szatulai raised a hand. “You have nothing to fear. I only wish to know your reasoning, yes?”
The reader relaxed and pointed his mandibles up to the right, indicating he understood.
“You know why we are traveling to the ice quarry?” ‘Szatulai asked. Their exact destination and the purpose of their trip were supposed to remain unknown to the crew, but in the confines of a bridge, it was often difficult not to overhear and still perform one’s duties. “Be truthful.”
“I have heard it is to rendezvous with a human spy.”
Close enough. “And yet you did not consider the possibility that the heat signature was made by the spy’s vessel?”
The reader dropped his mandibles to the left, indicating he had not. “I should not have had that knowledge,” he said. “And even knowing it, the signature does not support such a conclusion. If there is a vessel waiting for us in the quarry, it must be hidden beneath thirty . . .”
Realizing his mistake, the reader let the statement trail off.
“My error, Blademaster.” The reader’s nostrils quivered with fear. “There could be a vessel waiting inside a deep cave system. That would explain the low temperature variation and lack of support readings.”
“One vessel or many?”
“Many, if the cave system was large enough.”
‘Szatulai pointed at the screen again. “What if I were to tell you that at least seven vessels have launched from that moon even as we approach?”
“That is impossible,” the reader said. “The thermal blossom would have been difficult to miss. And, if they were human spacecraft, there would have been magnetic fluctuations and electromagnetic emissions.”
“What if I were to tell you that I witnessed those launches with my own eyes?” ‘Szatulai allowed his voice to sharpen. “And that there is nothing wrong with my eyes?”
The reader’s mandibles fluttered; then he spoke in a dry voice: “I would conclude that the impossible has occurred.”
“How wise you are, for one so young.” ‘Szatulai looked over and motioned ‘Budyasee to approach with the two obedientaries. “Now, let us imagine how the impossible would occur.”
“A cloaking field,” suggested one of the obedientaries, ‘Gusonee. “I know that Mudoat Path Works is attempting to develop an energy barrier for its frigates that conceals as well as protects. Perhaps the humans have an emplaced version—”
“The humans have no manner of energy barrier,” ‘Szatulai interrupted. “And even if they did, a cloaking field does not explain why their vessels are invisible to our readers after they . . .”
Leaving the word launch unspoken, ‘Szatulai turned to the reader.
“If it were the Sacred Whisper rising from the quarry, how bright would the thermal blossom be?”
“Not very bright,” the reader replied. “Our repulsor engines produce only a small amount of heat, so there would be only a red flare that lasted but a moment before vanishing.”
“Brighter than what you are seeing now?”
“Far brighter, Blademaster. If the humans are launching anything, it is but a shadow compared to the Sacred Whisper.”
‘Szatulai was thunderstruck by the sudden realization, and immediately pummeled by a wave of nausea, swift and powerful. It spread through his body like a fever. He found himself warm and almost trembling, his knees and hands and the nostrils beneath his eyes prickling with shock. It was unthinkable that human stealth craft could be superior to those in his flotilla . . . and yet, here it was. The simplest explanation.
The only explanation.
‘Szatulai turned to ‘Budyasee. “We need to take down one of those shadow vessels. Open fire.”
“At this range? We would be lucky to hit the moon, much less a target we cannot even detect.”
“You can identify the ice quarry, can you not?” ‘Szatulai felt his hearts hammering and knew his astonishment was turning to anger, but he did not know how many shadow vessels remained to launch, and time was short. “Target that.”
“If we open fire,” ‘Budyasee said, “we won’t be able to keep our rendezvous with the human traitors. The attack will reveal our presence—”
“The humans already know of our presence,” ‘Szatulai said. “There are no traitors on that moon to welcome us. Perhaps these Spartans they spoke of are not even real. The entire rendezvous is a trap.”
‘Budyasee’s nostrils flared wide. So did those of the obedentaries and the reader. No one moved or spoke.
“I gave an order,” ‘Szatulai said. He allowed his hand to drift toward the energy sword clipped to the waist of his armor. “So if you continue in this defiance . . .”
“Caution is not defiance.” As ‘Budyasee spoke, he refused to let his gaze drop to ‘Szatulai’s sword hand—an act of will that spoke to his courage. He knew that what he said next might cost him his life, yet he would utter it nevertheless—as was his duty. “We are a lightly armed intrusion force, not a battle fleet. If we allow the humans to engage, we will be destroyed.”
“Then the kai’d will have to work fast.” ‘Szatulai moved his hand away from his sword hilt and turned toward the gravity lift at the rear of the bridge. “Do not question me on this again, Shipmaster. Those shadow vessels are a danger to the fleet. And I will have one to examine.”
CHAPTER 13
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* * *
0847 hours, March 19, 2526 (military calendar)
Subsurface Maintenance Grotto 6M430, Seoba Ice Quarry
Moon Seoba, Biko Planetary System, Kolaqoa System
Over the years, John-117 had been paraded before enough admirals and generals to know one when he saw one, and the tall prisoner with the gray shirt and starched collar was definitely a general. The man’s spine was so straight it looked like a Series 99 sniper barrel, and he was surrounded by a half dozen even taller insurrectionists who kept shifting around, trying to shield him from their Mjolnir-armored babysitters. Concealing their leader had been simple enough when the Spartans arrived to find three hundred captives packed into the center of a cold and murky maintenance grotto. But now that the prisoners were being marched up a brightly lit loading ramp into the troop hold of a Banta-class transport that had belonged to the United Rebel Front only hours earlier, their efforts to hide the suspected general were obvious.
The Covenant ETA was ten minutes—barely enough time to get the transport loaded and away. The plan
was to have one of Hector Nyeto’s backup flight crews deliver the insurrectionist prisoners to Biko in one of their own transports, where they would be remanded to the colonial authority for judicial disposition. But John knew his superiors would want a general held back for ONI interrogation.
He stepped to the bottom corner of the loading ramp and spoke through his helmet’s external speakers.
“Prisoners, halt!”
The embarking column shuffled to an uneasy standstill with the imprecision of irregular soldiers everywhere, and the companions of the suspected general left him unshielded for a full second and a half. John took advantage of their sloppiness to store the image of a slender-faced man with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes the color of gun steel. Before the request had actually formed in John’s mind, the Mjolnir’s onboard computer displayed the subject’s identity on the HUD.
FMR MAJOR-GENERAL HARPER GARVIN
UNSC MARINE CORPS DESERTER
SUSPECTED TERRORIST
UNITED REBEL FRONT HIGH COMMAND
TARGET PRIORITY C-NK-2A
The target priority flashed red, telling John that ONI wanted Garvin captured, but not killed—which suggested it was more important to interrogate him than to remove him from the battlefield. It was a common designation for those second- or third-in-command of an insurrectionist organization. The “2A” meant that the general’s capture did not take priority over an ongoing mission. So, Garvin was an important figure in the United Rebel Front—but not the most important. The “2A” designation also meant the operative’s safety was not a consideration in executing a capture attempt. Welcome to special ops.
After the target priority stopped flashing, the general’s file began to scroll down the HUD, listing attributed operations and possible sightings. John wasn’t interested, so the onboard computer advanced the file until it reached Garvin’s most recent post in the UNSC. The general had deserted after receiving a two-year billet teaching logistics at the Corbulo Academy of Military Science on Circinius IV. The assignment had been a humble one for a major general, and there was speculation that he had joined the Insurrection to retaliate. The theory sounded a bit far-fetched to John—but then again, generals didn’t get to be generals by having small egos.
