by Troy Denning
‘Szatulai turned to the San’Shyuum. “It would be foolish to underestimate them, Minor Minister,” he said. “Our human spies acquired the schematics of the power armor that helps make the Spartans so ferocious. It is impressive, even by our standards.”
“You have examined these schematics yourself?” Survey demanded. “That could be considered blasphemy. You will turn them over to me at once.”
“At the first opportunity, Your Grace.” ‘Szatulai spoke in a nonchalant tone that suggested the first opportunity would not be coming soon, then turned back to Nizat. “As I said, Fleetmaster, we must meet them at Zhoist.”
Nizat raised his head to indicate agreement, then thought better of it and dropped his gaze to the San’Shyuum. “It is a pity the humans are not as wise as Your Grace,” he said. “But I trust ‘Szatulai’s judgment in this. The humans are not intelligent enough to know that their days are truly numbered.”
CHAPTER 22
* * *
* * *
0626 hours, March 31, 2526 (military calendar)
UNSC Point Blank-class Stealth Cruiser Vanishing Point
Deep Space, Rendezvous Point Sierra-Yama, Polona Sector
To Catherine Halsey, the holographic image above the captured starholo resembled a half-eaten dinner of spaghetti and meatballs that had just entered zero-g and floated up off the plate. In this case, the plate was a silver disk sitting atop the cylindrical, waist-high equipment cabinet Task Force Yama had recovered from the Covenant frigate that the Spartans had downed on Seoba.
The “meatballs” represented gravity wells of various sizes, and the “spaghetti” represented the curvature of space-time around them. Sometimes, the spaghetti would bend so tightly they touched themselves somewhere along the strand, creating connection points that could be used as transit nodes by a slipspace-capable vessel.
With a little luck and a lot of hard work, Catherine hoped to use the starholo to trace the Covenant’s slipspace routes back to the primary supply depot serving their invasion fleet. She had already identified more than twenty transit nodes that opened near gravity wells she believed to be Harvest, Netherop, and Etalan—all planets that the Covenant had attacked and glassed. But only four nodes were also near other nodes that created a slipspace route into Covenant space—or, looking at it another way, out of human-controlled space.
Since it had taken five days for a new supply convoy to arrive after her Spartans destroyed the one at Etalan, she assumed the Covenant supply-depot had to be located somewhere between half and three-quarters of that distance at their slipspace travel rates, which seemed to be several times faster than human rates. Even if the message calling the replacement fleet forward had traveled faster than their vessels could, it would still need some time to traverse such vast distances.
Unfortunately, there were no gravity wells within that range on her short list of likely routes into Covenant space. Clearly, she was making an incorrect assumption somewhere along the line.
Without looking away from the starholo, she said, “Déjà, how certain are you about the size of the logistics base required to support the Covenant fleet? I don’t see any worlds in range.”
There was a pause and an unusual clitch-sound, and then the limited artificial intelligence created to assist Catherine with the SPARTAN-II program answered. “The calculations are correct, Dr. Halsey. The amount of resources required to support and maintain the enemy fleet are immense. The only feasible way to marshal them is from a depot supplied by a habitable planet—and because of the logistics involved in moving such vast amounts of cargo, efficiency dictates that it be a single habitable planet. Gathering supplies from two locations even in the same star system would create inefficiencies that would inevitably result in significant shipping delays.”
“Then where is this planet?”
Catherine waved a hand into the starholo and felt a cold tingle. Startled by the sensation, she quickly realized that sticking her hand into an alien projection field might not be healthy, and removed it. There was so much she didn’t know about Covenant technology, and that grew more apparent every time she used the starholo. Capturing it intact had been the kind of lucky break that could change the course of the war—and, unfortunately, the kind that was unlikely to come along twice. She had to make the most of the opportunity and figure out how to find the depot planet.
She turned toward Déjà’s projection pad. The AI presented herself as Greek goddess with flowing brown hair and brown, almond-shaped eyes.
“Habitable worlds create gravity wells,” Catherine continued, “and there aren’t any—not within four days of the most likely transit nodes.”
“But there is a habitable world within five days of Transit Node Bhadra.” Déjà made the clitching sound again, then paused for a deci-second before continuing, “Perhaps it’s not my calculations that are mistaken, but your assumption.”
“Are you suggesting the Covenant has instantaneous interstellar communications?”
Déjà spread her hands and clitched. “I am suggesting the Covenant has a great deal of . . . clitch . . . technology that we don’t . . . clitch . . . understand.”
Catherine already understood the cause of Déjà’s erratic pauses. She had tracked it down to a sophisticated data miner, which had been slipped into her quarantined lab computer by Hector Nyeto or one of his operatives. She was putting up with it not only because it had already succeeded in stealing her most closely guarded data, but because Catherine didn’t want Nyeto to realize she was onto him until she had decided his usefulness was at an end.
She turned back to the starholo and began to study the likely routes into Covenant space, looking for others with a world in the five-day range. Two had planet-sized wells within six days of Etalan, but the gravity well at Transit Node Bhadra was the only one at five days.
“Very well, Déjà,” Catherine said. “Your theory is the only one that fits the facts. We’ll assume that the Covenant does have instantaneous interstellar communications—and visit Transit Node Bhadra first.”
“A superb choice, Dr. Halsey.” Déjà drained back into her projection pad, saying, “And now I think I should take my leave. Your gentleman caller has arrived.”
“About time.”
Catherine deactivated the starholo, then went to a mirror and ran her fingers through her black hair. Despite being the mother of a one-year-old daughter named Miranda—a daughter who occupied her every non-working thought, who deserved to grow up on a planet that had not been glassed by the Covenant—she still presented a striking figure and didn’t think she would have much trouble convincing her caller to accompany her to her private compartments. She went to the door, then thumbed the control pad and put on a big smile.
“Colonel Crowther, what a delight.”
The colonel stood on the threshold in a rumpled work uniform. His weathered face looked confused and tired. “Your message said you wanted to see me as soon as the rendezvous was complete? For a . . . personal matter?”
“That’s right,” Catherine said. Knowing that she was almost certainly being watched by Hector Nyeto or one of his subordinate spies, she grabbed Crowther by the elbow and drew him into the lab. Then she hooked her arm through his and started across the deck toward her private compartments. “I just couldn’t wait another hour for us to be alone.”
Crowther looked confused, but tried to play along. “I see.”
“I hope so,” Catherine said. They reached the entrance to her private compartments. She placed her thumb on the biometric reader and stared into the retina-scanner, and the door slid aside. “It’s not easy for me, you know.”
“I should imagine not.” Crowther was being a good sport, but Catherine could see that he was a bit flustered by how tightly she was pressing her flank against his. After all, she’d had no secure way to warn him about her intentions. “You’re still a young woman. I can’t understand what you see in a man my age.”
“Experience.” Catherine
pulled him through the door into her little galley area. “You really know how to handle yourself in a clench.”
“Well, I am infantry.” Crowther stood just inside the threshold, surveying the compartment as though looking for snipers. “You’re quite apt yourself.”
Halsey flashed him a warm smile. “Why, thank you, Marmon.”
She thumbed the control pad and waited until the door had snicked closed, then released Crowther’s arm and pointed him to a stool at the breakfast counter.
“It’s safe to talk in here,” she said. “I sweep for eavesdropping devices three times a day. It’s been clean so far.”
Crowther took the stool and continued to study the compartment in silence.
“I can offer you water.” Catherine was starting to wonder if she had picked the right man for this job. “Warm or cold?”
“Cold would be nice.” Crowther smiled and almost looked relieved. “I am feeling a bit flushed.”
Catherine returned his smile. “Sorry for the show, Colonel,” she said. “But we need to talk about how we’re going to handle Hector Nyeto before he tries to kill my Spartans again.”
CHAPTER 23
* * *
* * *
0458 hours, April 14, 2526 (military calendar)
UNSC Point Blank–class Stealth Cruiser Vanishing Point
Covenant Space, Slipspace Transit Node Bhadra, Muruga Sector
Nobody knew what the Covenant called sectors in their part of the galaxy, or what terms they used for slipspace transit nodes, or how they described the vast emptiness that separated one star system from another. But Halima Ascot had named Task Force Yama for the Hindu god of death, so in her honor, Dr. Halsey had chosen Hindu names for the alien territory that Task Force Yama was invading. The transit node, where one slipspace route ended and another began, she had named Bhadra, after the goddess of the hunt. And their current sector she had named Muruga, after the god of war.
They were good references, and John hoped they would prove prophetic.
It had been just under four weeks since Halima Ascot’s death at the Seoba ice quarry, but it felt like months. After observing the arrival of the alien relief convoy at Etalan, Dr. Halsey had used their captured starholo to retrace the convoy’s route into enemy space and identify the likely location of the enemy supply depot. Even with the improved slipspace efficiencies due to Dr. Halsey’s understanding of the alien starholo, it had taken the task force two weeks to arrive at Slipspace Transit Node Bhadra—a pocket of star-flecked space more than two hundred light-years beyond humanity’s farthest known exploration. And now the task force was preparing to launch an attack that would show the Covenant just how mistaken it had been to declare war on humanity.
John would have been confident of success, had it not been for one man: Hector Nyeto.
He was still the task force commander, thanks to Dr. Halsey and Colonel Crowther, who claimed they were using him to mislead the enemy. Maybe that was the truth, or maybe Nyeto was playing them. Either way, John didn’t like it.
He knew from his own interactions just how gutsy and deceptive the commander could be, and Dr. Halsey had made an interesting discovery by researching Nyeto’s personnel records. Early in his career, he had apparently spent a lot of time on missions with the infamous traitor Robert Watts, whom Blue Team had captured on their very first mission. It wasn’t much of a stretch to think that one of them had radicalized the other, and that Nyeto was aware of the part the Spartans had played in his old friend’s apprehension.
And right now, Nyeto was standing across the hangar, waiting at the foot of the Ghost Song’s boarding ramp while John received some last-minute guidance from Crowther and Johnson. It was hard to concentrate, because John was about 90 percent certain that Nyeto was going to sabotage the mission in an effort to get all of Task Force Yama’s Spartans killed—and never mind who else died, or how much it set back humanity’s fight against the aliens.
“Smile.” Avery Johnson’s voice was low enough to avoid carrying across the fifty meters of deck that separated Nyeto’s Ghost Song from the Black Widow, which John would soon be boarding. “Wave.”
“Why do I have to smile?” John raised his hand and waved. “I’m wearing a helmet.”
“Body therapy,” Johnson said. Like John, he was wearing his assault armor, but his helmet and weapons had already been stowed aboard the Ghost Song. “You’re so damn mad that even your armor looks tense. Smiling will relax you.”
John attempted to do so inside his helmet. Meanwhile, Nyeto raised his hand back to John and smiled as well.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” John said. “Can’t I just kill him now?”
“And alienate every prowler crew in the task force?” Crowther shook his head. “I wish you could, especially given how many Black Daggers his treason cost us at Seoba and Biko. But Nyeto is a very popular commander. You kill him, you have to kill his people.”
“So you’re saying it’s a bad idea?”
Crowther chuckled. Apparently, he had grown accustomed to John’s dry sense of humor over the past week of clandestine planning sessions. More importantly, it had become apparent that Avery Johnson had not been exaggerating when he told John that Crowther had experienced a change of heart about the Spartans and no longer seemed to consider their age a detriment.
The colonel had hardly apologized about his earlier treatment of John and his squad—far from it. But he had been careful to consult John about every aspect of the upcoming mission, and had even designed much of it to take advantage of Spartan capabilities.
And John too had done some reevaluating. He had come to recognize that the colonel’s original reticence had been warranted, that the Spartans’ relative lack of field experience was a weakness that needed correcting before they could be expected to survive as many special ops missions as had Crowther’s oldest Black Daggers. John was actually feeling guilty for the motivations he had recently attributed to the colonel.
It had been a strange week, for certain.
Crowther said, “I’m saying we can’t fly those prowlers ourselves.” He pointed up the ramp behind John toward the boarding vestibule of the Black Widow, which would be serving as Sierra Force’s command vessel on this mission. “Let’s talk in private for a minute. There’s something I need to do, and I don’t want a lot of eyes on us.”
“Of course, sir.” John led Crowther and Avery up the ramp into the small vestibule, then turned and said, “Before we begin, I’d like to apologize for how I reacted to your reservations about our age and experience.”
Crowther waved him off. “Never apologize for making yourself clear, John. I don’t.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “I have something for you, but first I want to make something clear. After what you did at Seoba and Etalan, you deserve these—and you deserve the full ceremony, on the bridge of the largest ship in the fleet. But . . . that’s not what you’re getting. There are going to be some very experienced Black Daggers in your group wondering why you’re in command and they aren’t, so we need to act now. This will remind them it’s because I said so.”
He extended his hand and displayed a metal armor insignia with three chevrons capped by a rocker. The UNSC eagle was perched atop the rocker, and above each of the eagle’s upraised wingtips was a star.
John wasn’t sure he understood. “Sir . . . that’s the rank insignia of a master chief petty officer.”
Crowther smiled. “I’m aware of that, John.” He used a thumb to tap the down-turned dagger that sat between the chevrons and the rocker. “I couldn’t find anything without a space assault rating, but what the heck . . . we’re all special ops.”
John still did not take the insignia. “That’s a four rank jump, sir.”
“And I’m going to catch ten kinds of hell for it from FLEETCOM,” Crowther said. “Maybe even from Admiral Cole. But he’s the one who told me to do whatever’s needed . . . and this is needed.”
“Colonel, I . . . I can
’t accept that.”
“Not your choice,” Avery Johnson said. “Colonel Crowther and I talked this over at length. We decided it’s the best thing for the mission.”
“Exactly,” Crowther said. “Consider yourself under orders.”
Crowther reached up and affixed the insignia high on John’s chest plate, over the left collarbone where ODSTs wore their rank when under armor. “You’re now going to be leading two companies of my Black Daggers in Sierra Force. That means two captains and a fistful of lieutenants who outrank you, and a bunch of gunnery sergeants who think they do. All of them are older than you, most nearly twice your age . . . and a handful three times.”
He jammed a finger against the insignia, then continued, “That’s the only reason they’re going to listen to you. A four-rank bump is unheard-of, so you better believe they’ll know I’m standing behind you. Are we clear on that, Master Chief?”
“Yes, sir,” John said. “I understand.”
“Good. I was starting to think it was a mistake to put you in charge.”
“It isn’t. Sierra Force will get the job done.” John paused, then said, “But I worry about the risks that you and Sergeant Johnson are taking with Dagger Force. I wish there was another way.”
“There’s always another way,” Crowther said. “But not always more time or resources. Especially now. We’re at war. And we work with what we have.”
John nodded. “All the same, I wish I could trade places with you and Sergeant Johnson today.”
Crowther chuckled. “So do I.” He let his gaze drift to the insignia on John’s armor, then grew more serious. “John, there’s something that goes with that rank that you still don’t have—and you need to get it straight, and fast.”
John’s stomach tightened. “I’m listening, sir.”
“You should know that you earned a lot of respect at Seoba, and not just from me.”
