by Troy Denning
“John?” Johnson’s tone was worried. “John, what the hell are you doing?”
John kept his gaze on his ETA readout. He couldn’t afford to blow the timing. Thirty-six seconds.
“Son, listen to me,” Johnson said. “Don’t be a goddamn hero.”
John really wished the staff sergeant would shut up so he could concentrate.
The ETA readout reached thirty-one seconds. He initiated the Havok countdown and felt a thrill of satisfaction as it flashed thirty in the same instant as his ETA readout.
Below him, the air-skimmer had swelled to the size of a Mongoose ATV. The gossamer scoop in front had retracted so far into the vessel’s bow that it looked more like a cup than a cone, and the bloated hull was undulating like a soft-sided bag filled with liquid. A kilometer or two above the hull, John could see the teardrop shapes of the remaining escort fighters sweeping up in an ever-widening search pattern. Clearly they had been warned to expect his approach. If they could see him from their position, he might look like a small insect falling into the open maw of an enormous fish—except, by the time the fish reached him, he’d be long past it and there would be a surprise there instead.
John detached the Havok from its magmount and let it float free. The device was on the same interception vector he was, so even if the enemy fighters took him out, the Havok was likely to destroy the target.
John checked the ETA on his HUD. In fact, he could almost guarantee it would.
“Damn it, answer me, John!”
“I’m here, Sergeant.” John activated his primary thruster and shot past the air-skimmer, barely seven kilometers above its dorsal hull. “But, Sarge, with all due respect . . . you really need to stop treating me like a kid.”
Whatever Johnson replied, it was lost to blast static.
Space flashed white everywhere but in front of John, and his HUD showed the Mjolnir armor’s shell temperature climbing way above the danger level.
Priorities, though. As long as his HUD was still functioning, he was still alive.
CHAPTER 21
* * *
* * *
Ninth Age of Reclamation, First Annual, Second Month
34th Cycle, 208 Units (Covenant Battle Calendar)
Fleet of Inexorable Obedience, Assault Carrier Pious Rampage
Middle Equatorial Orbit, Planet Borodan, Kyril System
Nizat ‘Kvarosee had not expected the planet’s atmosphere to combust when he ordered mass plasma strikes on the capital city, but the result—a blanket of flame that had spread across an entire world—caused him no horror or remorse. The human defenders had stalled his advance with their stubborn resistance, harrying the Fleet of Inexorable Obedience for five of Borodan’s days, destroying five of his cruisers and all of the orbital shipbuilding stations that he had hoped to capture for the use of his own flotilla. Even more infuriating, they had used the battle to hold his attention while a smaller force slipped away to decimate the supply convoy he had left at the site of his last victory, the world E’gini, which humans called Etalan. Was it any wonder that when Nizat looked down on the terror and suffering that his word was laying on the world below, he felt nothing but satisfaction? The humans had brought his advance to an ignominious halt, and they had shamed him in the eyes of the Prophets. Now he could not kill them fast enough.
It did not escape Nizat that his path on the Great Journey seemed to be darkening with every step, but there were some things that even a Sangheili fleetmaster could not change. His path had been chosen for him by the Hierarchs themselves, and he could not turn from it without renouncing the possibility of his own divine transcendence.
“This time you have outdone yourself.”
The Minor Minister of Artifact Survey was floating next to Nizat, his serpentine neck fully extended as he watched the mangled torus of a human shipbuilding station drift past in low equatorial orbit. The station’s much-perforated hull was still white with heat dissipation, and its rotation was a lopsided gyre that would soon send it spiraling into the flame clouds below.
“I shall inform the Hierarchs of your efficiency when next I visit High Charity.”
High Charity was the moon-size space station that served as the Covenant’s sacred capital city. Nizat doubted that Survey would be returning there anytime soon—or that the San’Shyuum would ever mention Nizat to the Hierarchs in terms that were not vaguely derogatory and self-aggrandizing—but he clacked his mandibles in acknowledgment.
“I am honored by the thought, Your Grace.”
Survey flicked a tri-digit hand. “Think nothing of it,” he said. “But I wonder how wise it is to continue the cleansing of this planet with our supply of carrier gas running so low. How many survivors can there be, when the air itself is aflame?”
“The firestorm looks more fearsome than it is,” Nizat explained. “If we do not keep feeding it more plasma, it will burn itself out. And the flames alone are not hot enough to fuse the ground. Without the bombardment, there will still be fertile soil and foundations that can be used to rebuild.”
“Forgive me if I am wrong,” said a voice behind them, “but I believe the Minor Minister is concerned about a human counterattack.”
Nizat turned to see Tel ‘Szatulai gliding into the observation blister as quietly as a breath—at least, he assumed it was ‘Szatulai. As always, the first blade was encased in the indigo armor of the Silent Shadow, complete with closed helmet and a total absence of identifying emblems. A few steps behind him, Nizat’s abashed steward, Tam ‘Lakosee, was scurrying to catch up.
Nizat sent ‘Lakosee off with a motion, then fixed his gaze on ‘Szatulai and took a moment to swallow his anger. He was furious with the first blade for allowing part of the human prowler force to slip away earlier and devastate his logistics train at E’gini. Only the agricultural ships and a couple of medical vessels had survived, and they had been stranded there for five of the humans’ days, waiting to break orbit until a properly protected convoy could be organized.
But Nizat also recognized how ‘Szatulai’s intelligence sources had saved him—and perhaps prevented the destruction of the entire Fleet of Inexorable Obedience. Had the first blade’s spies not warned them about the human boarding strategy, Nizat’s shipmasters would have sent their fighters forward to strike the enemy fleet instead of holding them in close escort, and the human prowlers would have been able to deploy their boarding parties practically unopposed.
Nizat allowed his eyes to narrow, then finally asked, “Are the Minor Minister’s concerns warranted? Should I be expecting a counterattack?”
“Why would you trust his answer?” As Survey spoke, he made a point of keeping his antigravity chair turned toward the front of the blister. “The blademaster’s guidance has proven nothing but incorrect.”
‘Szatulai stopped next to the San’Shyuum’s chair and tipped his helmet sideways, as though he was glaring down on the top of the Minor Minister’s head. It was a gesture that made Nizat wonder if a member of the Silent Shadow had ever been ordered to execute a San’Shyuum—and whether ‘Szatulai would accept such an order from Nizat.
It was a dangerous thought to entertain—even as a fantasy. The Silent Shadow lived by a code known only to them, but Nizat suspected that it would include eliminating anyone who posed a danger to any member of the Covenant’s San’Shyuum leadership caste.
After ridding himself of such a blasphemous impulse, Nizat turned to face Survey head-on. “Without the intelligence supplied by First Blade ‘Szatulai, we might have lost fifty ships instead of five.”
“But his assignment is to kill these so-called Spartans,” Survey said, now apparently oblivious to the threat of a counterattack he had mentioned just a dozen breaths earlier. “If they actually exist. I am beginning to suspect they are phantasms created to frighten us.”
“They are real,” ‘Szatulai said.
“Then you have killed one?” Survey’s tone suggested he already knew the answer. “You have provided
a body for the Minister of Infidels to contemplate?”
“No,” said ‘Szatulai. “But we have learned their names—at least, the names of twelve assigned to what they designate as Task Force Yama.”
Nizat had not heard this before—perhaps it was the news ‘Szatulai had come to report. “How?”
“From the Blacksuits we captured aboard the Purifying Flame,” ‘Szatulai said. “Castor and Orsun have been making progress.”
Survey whirled his chair around. “You are allowing Jiralhanae to interrogate the prisoners? Are you that stupid?”
‘Szatulai tipped his helmet toward the Minor Minister and did not speak.
“How many have they killed?”
‘Szatulai ignored Survey and turned to Nizat. “The Blacksuits call themselves ‘Black Daggers.’ They are part of a military force that the humans refer to as Orbital Drop Shock Troopers, though this battalion specializes in space assault. They have been so well trained in resisting interrogation that even the mind melters failed.”
“But your battle chiefs succeeded?” Nizat asked.
“The Jiralhanae have a game called ‘tossers,’ ” ‘Szatulai said. “And humans do not like the sight of their companions’ limbs being torn off. There are some who will reveal anything after helping a disabled companion eat, drink, and eliminate for a day.”
“That is a start,” Nizat said. “But if that is all you have learned thus far, you may run out of prisoners before they reveal something useful.”
“We have run out.”
“And you expect the fleetmaster to sacrifice more ships in an attempt to capture new prisoners?” Survey glanced up at Nizat, an invitation in his bulbous eyes that made the fleetmaster want to gouge them out with his thumbs. “You will have enough to answer for in High Charity as it is.”
A strange sound, perhaps some kind of amusement, came from inside ‘Szatulai’s helmet. “There is no need to sacrifice ships on purpose. We will no doubt lose some to battle . . . and there will be ample opportunity to take more prisoners.”
“That sounds . . . unfortunate,” Nizat said.
“It has been a mistake to judge the humans by their vessels,” ‘Szatulai said. “If they cannot fight us on our terms, then they are determined to fight us on theirs.”
“They sound like followers of the Silent Shadow.” Survey’s tone suggested he was not offering a compliment. He shot Nizat a sideways glance. “That may make it difficult for the fleetmaster to explain his failures to the Hierarchs.”
“If the task were simple, I would not have assigned it to the Silent Shadow,” Nizat said. Clearly, Survey was trying to draw him into some kind of blame-passing—and Nizat had no intention of participating. “We are fighting a war out here, not maneuvering for a seat on the High Council.”
Survey rocked back in his antigravity chair and stared at Nizat with a trembling throat wattle. “I see. . . .” he said. “This is not going to end well—not for you.”
“Nevertheless, I will hear the blademaster’s report,” Nizat said. “Uninterrupted.”
Survey’s eyes narrowed. “As you request.”
Nizat turned back to ‘Szatulai. “Tell me the rest.”
“All we learned from the prisoners, I have already spoken of.” ‘Szatulai glanced toward Survey. “But the human traitors have confirmed what we guessed—the attacks on the Fleet of Inexorable Obedience here were meant to distract us while the Spartans destroyed our logistics train at E’gini.”
“Did I not say that?” Survey asked.
“We all said that—after the fact.” Nizat looked back to ‘Szatulai. “Why did the traitors not warn us beforehand?”
“They claim their spy was misled—that he was told the Spartans were holding here in the Kolaqoa system,” ‘Szatulai said. “They claim he didn’t know the truth until after Task Force Yama rendezvoused with the Spartan detachment.”
“And you do not believe this story?” Nizat asked.
“The traitors are using us to rid themselves of the Spartans,” ‘Szatulai replied. “Everything I have seen tells me that is so.”
“And yet?”
“And yet . . . this is the second time that believing the traitors’ story has brought catastrophe,” ‘Szatulai said. “The humans may be even more cunning than we believe.”
“Or they know their task force has a spy,” Survey said. “And they have been using that human to lead us into traps.”
‘Szatulai paused, then said, “It seems possible.”
“It seems certain,” Survey insisted. “Where is Task Force Yama now?”
“Unknown,” ‘Szatulai said. “The spy reported the rendezvous, but the traitors have not heard from him since.”
A ripple ran up Survey’s long neck, and he turned to Nizat. “Stop the cleansing right away. We need to conserve our plasma.”
Nizat understood Survey’s sudden fear—that the humans were about to attack the Fleet of Inexorable Obedience while it was low on munitions—but what the San’Shyuum knew about fleet warfare would fit into the bottom of his throat wattle.
“Doing that would reveal our dependence on the bladder ships,” Nizat said. “The humans would know we are low on carrier gas and be more likely to attack in force. It is better to make them believe our supplies remain ample.”
“Until the cleansing stops because you have run out completely,” Survey replied.
“That will not happen,” Nizat said. “I have called a new logistics flotilla forward. It is already at E’gini, gathering the vessels that survived the Spartan attack. They will join us here in fifty units.”
“What?” ‘Szatulai was aghast.
Nizat tipped his head to the side. “Fifty units,” he repeated. “The humans will never know we are low on carrier gas.”
“Because they are not in the Kolaqoa system,” ‘Szatulai said. “The new logistics flotilla stopped at E’gini?”
“Did I not say just that?” Nizat asked. The Silent Shadow did not frighten easily, so he was troubled by what he heard in ‘Szatulai’s voice. “What is your fear?”
‘Szatulai looked down and hesitated, a clear indication that he was not eager to reply. Yet the Silent Shadow prided themselves on their integrity and courage, and their code of honor demanded the same conduct whether they were standing on the battlefield or in the presence of a superior. He raised his helmet again.
“I beg your forgiveness, Fleetmaster, but I did not think this important until now.” As ‘Szatulai spoke, he was careful to avoid looking in Survey’s direction—though, of course, that only caused the San’Shyuum to tip his chair forward and pay closer attention. “I sent a demolitions band to find and destroy the wrecks we lost on Seoba. Unfortunately, they were not the first group to arrive.”
Nizat felt a hollow forming between his hearts. “What did the humans obtain?”
“From what we can tell, only a palmful of things,” ‘Szatulai said. “But after hearing about the logistics flotilla that you called to E’gini, the one that concerns me most is the kelguid from the bridge of the Worthy Silence.”
Nizat hissed in a breath. A knowledgeable reader would be able to use a kelguid—the interactive star map that Covenant navigators used to plot journeys through slipspace—to lay bare the Fleet of Inexorable Obedience’s supply network and identify its critical support nodes.
“You are certain they have it?”
“The floor mounts had been neatly cut,” ‘Szatulai said. “They have it.”
“That does not mean they can operate it,” Nizat said. “A kelguid is a complicated device, far beyond their technological capabilities.”
“We did not believe they would be able to pilot Banshees either,” ‘Szatulai said. “We were not even aware that they had captured any.”
“What are you fools saying?!” Survey nearly shouted. “They are preparing to attack High Charity?!”
“Not High Charity,” ‘Szatulai said. “Zhoist. That would make the most sense to the humans.”
>
“You have a poor record of predicting what the humans will do,” Survey said. “We have no choice but to return to High Charity at once. They will need the Fleet of Inexorable Obedience there to aid in its defense.”
“And leave Zhoist on its own?” Nizat splayed his mandibles, then clacked them closed again. “High Charity has a home fleet a dozen times our size. Zhoist has only a rapid-response flotilla that would be hard-pressed to stop a human attack.”
“Have you learned nothing from your defeats?!” Survey was livid, his voice warbling with rage. “Every time you think the humans are doing one thing, they do another! We must go to High Charity’s defense, if only because you think the humans will go to Zhoist!”
“Your Grace,” ‘Szatulai said, “why would the humans attack High Charity? If they know of it at all, they also know they will find nothing there but death.”
“What does death matter to a doomed species?!” Survey’s voice was pitched high in panic, although Nizat felt certain that had less to do with High Charity’s safety than with Survey missing a chance to present himself to the Hierarchs as the savior of the sacred city. “The humans will go to High Charity because they are soon to perish, and they thirst for vengeance!”
‘Szatulai raised his helmet toward the overhead, and Nizat thought perhaps he would find out after all whether a member of the Silent Shadow would dare kill a San’Shyuum. A part of him hoped that was true, and that he would not be wandering too far off his own dark path if he offered to conceal the blasphemy.
But when ‘Szatulai lowered his gaze again, his gloved hands remained at his sides, and he addressed Nizat over the top of the San’Shyuum’s head.
“The humans do not thirst for vengeance, because they refuse to believe they are doomed,” he said. “They will go to Zhoist because attacking our supply chain buys them time—time to study us and learn our weaknesses, time to develop weapons that are the equal of our own.”
“Weapons equal to the Covenant’s?” Survey warbled in incredulity. “Impossible.”
